' PS 
 
 An 2.N^ == 
 
 ^^'^ MERCHANTS 
 
 offhe 
 
 MORNING 
 SAMUEL McCOY 
 
X 
 
 
 
 Class. 
 Book. 
 
 "PO ';, 
 
 i / :- 
 
 Copyright N 
 
 JO 
 
 Mj- 
 
 ^ I b 
 
 CiSPXRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 SAMUEL McCOY 
 
MERCHANTS 
 
 OF THE MORNING 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL McCOY 
 
 NEW ^^IBjr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
^^'^y\^ 
 
 
 \^ 
 
 Copyright, 1919, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 ©CI.A530811 
 
To the publishers of the various periodicals and 
 journals in which these poems first appeared: 
 The Atlantic Monthly, Scrihners Magazine, Har- 
 per s, McClure's, Contemporary Verse, The Masses, 
 Metropolitan, Poetry, Jinslee's, The North Ameri- 
 can Review, The Bookman, and others, grateful 
 acknowledgment of their permission to reprint 
 under new copyright is here made. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE OLD TAVERN I3 
 
 BRIDAL SONG 16 
 
 VOYAGEURS' SONG 1 8 
 
 THE ARGONAUTS 20 
 
 OUR WORD 22 
 
 AN OLD MOTHER , 23 
 
 AN OLD MINISTER 24 
 
 THE BRIGHT DAY 25 
 
 seaman's KNELL 28 
 
 THE FLEET 29 
 
 dirge: FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL 35 
 
 THE GARDENER OF THE SEA 38 
 
 THE OFF-SHORE WIND 4I 
 
 AIR CURRENTS 43 
 
 THE HOBBY-HORSE 44 
 
 THOMPSON STREET 47 
 
 THE MOTHER 49 
 
 THE BONDWOMAN 50 
 
 vii 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 FLOWER-GIRL 52 
 
 NURSERY JINGLE 54 
 
 INDEPENDENCE HALL: I915 56 
 
 DREAMERS 58 
 
 THE DRUM 59 
 
 EASTER, I917 62 
 
 VICTORY? 64 
 
 to-morrow's WAR 66 
 
 THE HOLY WAR 68 
 
 SARRAN 72 
 
 REVEILLE 74 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
MERCHANTS 
 OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE OLD TAVERN 
 
 To the oldest inn they knew of 
 
 The rogue made the townsmen lead him; 
 Down he sat and bade his crew of 
 
 Gentlemen adventurers heed him: — 
 "This," he said, "Is that old Tavern 
 
 Where that olden Poet led me; 
 Here, in this oak-ribbed cavern, 
 
 Here, on golden songs he fed me I" 
 
 And the townsmen, gaping, winking. 
 And his men, their spurred heels clinking. 
 Laughed, each one within him thinking, 
 "Sottas are no one'3 eating, drinking I" 
 
 But the rogue, whose heart was hidden 
 
 Underneath his Iron vesture, 
 Drove them out, so that forbidden 
 
 Were they, by his kingly gesture. 
 13 
 
14 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE OLD TAVERN (Continued) 
 
 "This," he mused, "is that old Tavern 
 Where that olden Poet led me; 
 
 Here, in this oak-ribbed cavern, 
 Here, on his own songs he fed me I'* 
 
 And the shadows, now retreating. 
 Now advancing, seemed repeating 
 To themselves in whispers fleeting, 
 "Songs are this man's drinking, eating I" 
 
 And the children, shyly coming 
 
 To him where he sat at table, 
 Climbed his mail-clad knees, and humming 
 
 Those songs, begged of him their fable. 
 "Ah," he smiled, "though sorely troubled, 
 
 Here he drank of that rich, ruddy 
 Wine that from his own heart bubbled, 
 
 So his very lip seemed bloody 1" 
 
 Then the shadows fled to dusty 
 Corners of that chamber musty, 
 As they used when life was lusty, 
 And his throat was not so rusty I 
 
 "Inn," he said, "thou shalt outlast me 
 Year on year, while youth and maiden 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 15 
 I i 
 
 THE OLD TAVERN (Continued) 
 
 One by one go singing past thee, 
 For with memories art thou laden; 
 
 Stand thou then, thou ancient Tavern, 
 Where thy olden Captain led me; 
 
 Stand, thou dark, oak-ribbed cavern 
 Where on golden songs he fed me I" 
 
 Therefore that kind roof, upholden 
 By the mellowed timbers olden, 
 Like shy hearts good wines embolden, 
 Shall hear newer songs and golden I 
 
16 MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 BRIDAL SONG 
 
 In a dark garden of the West, 
 
 Where the rich robing of the slumb'rous summer 
 
 Cast shadow, splendid shadow, on the garden's 
 
 breast, 
 (For the bright moon was late, a tardy comer) 
 In the soft shadow of the night of dreams. 
 He walked with one who bore within her hands 
 The gift of princes of the Orient lands, 
 A woven spendour, woven without seams, 
 A living garment, fashioned out of fire, 
 A garment lit with soft and slumb'rous fire. 
 Bright burning with its passion unconfessed, 
 Which he had given her in mastery; 
 For this was that proud garment of the breast, 
 Fashioned from all his worship of the best. 
 Fashioned from many a night of sleepless misery, 
 From many a day of splendid ecstasy. 
 From his dear father's name. 
 From his mother's holy flame, 
 From all his heritage of manliness; 
 (And who shall name the greater or the less 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 17 
 
 BRIDAL SONG (Continued) 
 
 Among the fires within that magic dress?) 
 And this she bore within her happy hands; 
 And the bright globe, 
 
 The moon, that rises tardy over garden lands, 
 Arose at last and saw the glimmering robe, 
 Shimmering with secret fire within her happy 
 hands. 
 
 At last he folded her upon his breast, 
 
 Wore her like a warm jewel on his breast, 
 
 Bore her, the purest and the best, 
 
 Like a bright jewel, breathing on his breast; 
 
 And when the night was holy 
 
 And odorous breezes lowly 
 
 Whispered among the leaves. 
 
 And the bright moon rose higher, 
 
 Dropping its heavenly fire 
 
 Where the dark water weaves 
 
 Its answering glory, 
 
 He told her all his worship unconfessed; 
 
 All the proud, piteous story 
 
 Of the soft fire within the breast. 
 
 And she, like a warm jewel breathing. 
 
 Feeling his passion wreathing 
 
 Its piteous, proud splendour round her breast. 
 
 Listened, and was at rest. 
 
18 MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 VOYAGEURS' SONG 
 
 But ivhat v:as before us ive know not. 
 And fwe know not ivhat shall succeed. 
 
 — Mattheiu Arnold. 
 
 Drift, brothers, drift I 
 Down the long shallow reaches floating, floating I 
 Our voices lift 
 Songs of another home, another year. 
 O hark! the hidden singer answers clear — 
 The thrush pours out his golden-tlmbred throat- 
 ing I 
 
 Fast, brothers, fast, 
 Down the swift rapids our canoes are flying, fly- 
 ing I 
 The bend is passed, 
 Where long-leafed willows rest upon the stream 
 And hide the eddy with its breast agleam, 
 And last the River, in his broad strength lying I 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE 3I0RNING 19 
 
 I . = 
 
 VOYAGEURS' SONG (Continued) 
 
 Soon sets the sun; 
 From the dark ripples fast the light Is flowing, 
 flowing I 
 See, one by one, 
 Bright in the swirling flood, the stars gleam 
 
 out; 
 Now friendly voices raise their answering 
 shout; 
 See, on the farther shore, the camp-fire glowing I 
 
20 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE ARGONAUTS 
 
 O SING to US of home I 
 
 Of true and simple things I 
 
 Till hearts no longer roam, 
 
 But fold their wild, wild wings I 
 
 For wanderers are we 
 
 Upon the wide-stretched earth — 
 
 Strange was the farther sea 
 
 And finer was its mirth 1 
 
 We set our hopeful sails, 
 
 We voyaged through the years : 
 
 Say, now the sunset pales. 
 
 Found we more mirth than tears? 
 
 What argosies aflame 
 
 We launched to unknown coasts I 
 
 Say, won they not the same, 
 
 Who smiled to hear our boasts? 
 
 Let us go back! to those 
 
 Who wiselier kept the old: 
 
 Their steadier star arose 
 
 Above their own hearth's goldl 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 21 
 
 I — — 
 
 THE ARGONAUTS (Continued) 
 
 O sing to us of home, 
 And true and simple things I 
 No longer would we roam, 
 But fold our tired wings I 
 
22 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 OUR WORD 
 
 There is a word in your loved native tongue, 
 Closer and dearer and than all more sweet, 
 Which wanderers in their wistful dreams repeat: 
 Name of the happy house which love has hung 
 With all high gentlenesses; where has clung 
 Truth; honour; quiet joys; warm charity; 
 That fireside sprite, frank hospitality; 
 Place where our best-loved songs are sung; 
 Where world-bewildered children find the warm 
 Enfolding refuge of their mother's breast 
 And take the blessing of the hallowed tome; 
 Walled garden; harbour sheltered from all storm; 
 Safe sanctuary; by the world's unrest 
 Inviolate; the love-locked haven — "Home I" 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 23 
 
 AN OLD MOTHER 
 
 Dear mother, standing as a much-loved queen, 
 Leaving her throne to rest a while, might stand, 
 At the low lintel of your kitchen door . . . 
 
 Let me be laureate in your loved demesne, 
 The singer of your peaceful, wondrous land: 
 For no land has deserved men's worship more. 
 
 Tired eyes, tired hands, worn body, worn for 
 
 mine I 
 Your white hair, mother, makes your only crown, 
 And calico, work-stained, your common dress . . . 
 
 But O, upon your face what peace divine I 
 What jollity that will not be cast down, 
 And love that covereth all with loveliness! 
 
U MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 'AN OLD MINISTER 
 
 ", . . for the prize of the hiffh calling of God'* 
 
 In hours when I review that one dear life, 
 The life of that one man whom most I owe, 
 And ponder whether rich or vain his strife. 
 His toll repaid with bitter wage or no; 
 If piteous harvest before winter snow; 
 His head unlaurelled though his long race run; 
 By no strong son led where still waters flow; 
 Day hardly softened, though it be near done, — 
 
 I cry In pity; yet the westering sun, 
 With glory not of earth, lights up his face. 
 And Heaven hallows him, as who has won 
 His earthly fight; far beyond power to trace 
 My helpless love; and peace rests In his eyes, 
 And God's high calling Is his matchless prize. 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 65 
 
 THE BRIGHT DAY 
 
 // is vain for you to rise up early. 
 
 To sit up late, 
 
 To eat the bread of sorro<ws: 
 
 For so he giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 — Psalm cxxvii. 
 
 After a little space, 
 
 Mary, his dearest daughter, covered up his face 
 
 And stayed her tears. 
 
 For her own task it was, she knew, to face the 
 
 years. 
 And live life through as he had always led — 
 The life whose every thread 
 Made part of the plain cloak called Sacrifice ; 
 A coat without device. 
 
 But one which many, many hearts have blessed 
 For its warm love, and pressed 
 Its rough folds to their lips and wept. 
 For she rememBered how her hand he kept 
 Within his own, and with her walked afield 
 And watched the sunset its last glory yield. 
 All this came back to her: 
 All little things that were ; 
 
26 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 ^■^^^■■^— — ■™^^^^^^^^^— ^^— — — ^^^"^—^^^^^^^^■^— iii> 
 
 THE BRIGHT DAY (Continued) 
 
 And every dear remembrance on her heart 
 Laid its rich sorrow and its mortal smart, 
 Too exquisite bereavement to be borne. 
 
 Yet, after the long night, the austere morn, 
 Smiling upon her, said with gentleness: — 
 
 / am the living, and I am no less 
 
 The dead. For they have entered into me: 
 
 To-day, not yesterday, is their eternity. 
 
 Your past must die with him you loved so much; 
 
 He is a part of me; and you must touch 
 
 My hand with the warm love of a young child. 
 
 For I, the living world, am reconciled 
 
 To God's unpitying plan ; and all my hours. 
 
 My tasks, my needs imperative, and my bright 
 
 flowers, 
 Are fashioned from the souls of those who wor- 
 ship God. 
 Nothing God made is underneath the sod I 
 I am To-day, my daughter, and I need your love I 
 Look up above — 
 
 The sky is leaden, and the cheerless rain 
 Makes its own misery and pain; 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 27 
 
 I 
 
 THE BRIGHT DAY (Continued) 
 
 But you and I can only bear to hear, 
 Deep in our hearts, the joyous, clear, 
 Brave music of the soul that sings 
 Of coming day and living things 1 
 
28 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 SEAMAN'S KNELE 
 
 Where the Atlantic runneth free, 
 Where the Sea hath sovereignty, 
 Where the Sun's unsheathed glaive 
 Hath answer from the flashing wave, 
 
 There thou sinkest, 
 
 There thou drinkest 
 
 Of the draught from which thou shrinkest, 
 
 There thou sinkest. 
 
 And the deeps go over thee. 
 
 Thing, where sea-things feed and die, 
 Canst thou turn thy sightless eye 
 Upward? through the cold, cold sea, 
 Know what deeps go over thee? 
 
 Thou art older. 
 
 Thou art colder, 
 
 Than the wave that weights thy shoulder, 
 
 Naught can moulder 
 
 In the grave where thou dost lie 1 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 29 
 
 THE FLEET 
 
 OFF THE COAST OF VIRGINIA 
 
 "Seeing honour is our lives' ambition, and our ambition after 
 death to have an honourable memory of our life." — Captain 
 John Smith. 
 
 In the darkness before dawn 
 I awoke from out my sleep, 
 Where I slept upon the land, 
 And I knew that sleep was gone; 
 For I heard the restless deep 
 Run swift along the sand, 
 Ebb, and return once more; 
 And I felt the cool, soft breeze 
 Blowing upon my face 
 And I rose and sought the shore, 
 kWhere the recurrent seas, 
 Like horses, ran their race; 
 The grey robes of the fog 
 Heaved with the heaving swells, 
 And darkness lay around; 
 But I heard some old sea-dog, 
 
30 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 I 
 
 THE FLEET (Continued) 
 
 Close in-shore, call, "Six bells 1" 
 
 And I heard the muffled sound 
 
 Of oars, and, farther out, 
 
 A rattling anchor chain 
 
 And the wash against some hulk, 
 
 And, fainter still, a shout . . . 
 
 And the Fleet slept again. 
 
 But a grey, shadowy bulk, 
 A phantom from the wrack, 
 Which broke to let it through. 
 Took sudden shape and came 
 Upon the ground-swell's back 
 Straight toward me, and I knew, 
 Like a familiar name. 
 The pinnace I English-built, 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 Her banked oars rose and dipped 
 (To an ancient, deep-sea lilt) 
 As a boat-crew used to row! 
 And like one the oars were shipped 
 As they ran her on the beach; 
 And I saw the leathern skin 
 And the earrings and the queues 
 Of the tars who manned her — each 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE 3I0RNING 31 
 
 f ==3 
 
 THE FLEET (Continued) 
 
 Hailing me as of their kin; 
 And I knew what mighty cruise 
 .These rough mates were landing from; 
 And my blood rushed to my cheek 
 And I blessed them on my knees; 
 As a soldier at the drum 
 .Thrills, I thrilled at sight of these 
 And I wept, and could not speak I 
 
 'Do you ask me whence they camef. 
 And American you too? 
 They the men of Sunken Fleets^ 
 Men that swept the seas like flame, 
 English-brave and English-true! 
 From the cliffs where Cornwall meets 
 The Atlantic's endless foam, 
 From the old sea^towns of Devon 
 And the shifting sands of Dee, 
 Where the petrel has her home, 
 And the storm cloud splits with levin. 
 Came these bullies of the sea! 
 
 And they passed me close at hand, 
 And their captains, whom at first 
 Had been hidden from my view, 
 
32 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 I — 
 
 THE FLEET (Continued) 
 
 Paced along the wet sea-sand 
 
 Arm in arm, with many a burst 
 
 Of laughter which the salt breeze blew 
 
 Toward me, from their bearded throats. 
 
 (Never more shall be such gain 
 
 As I count this, to have seen 
 
 All the captains of the boats 
 
 First to dare the unmapped main, 
 
 And court danger like a queen I) 
 
 Do you ask me who they were? 
 
 And American you too? 
 
 These were they who laughed at death 
 
 And laid their lives for her, 
 
 Greatest England ever knew, 
 
 Maiden queen, Elizabeth! 
 
 And they named the land they found 
 
 For the virgin queen, good Bess, 
 
 Great Virginia, the proud! 
 
 Slight indeed or risk or wound 
 
 For such lands and loveliness! 
 
 First of all among the train, 
 Named like a trumpet-call to charge, 
 Was Sir Walter Raleigh, knight, 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 83 
 
 THE FLEET (Continued) 
 
 "Shepherd of the ocean plain," 
 First to crave the sandy marge 
 Of Virginia, first whose sight 
 Foretold the great state to be; 
 And his fine hands rested on 
 Two friends' shoulders — ^two whose deeds 
 Shall be sung unceasingly: 
 Drake, who struck th' Armada downl 
 Grenville, whose great sea-fight leads 
 All the fights on sea or shore I 
 These the three great admirals 
 (Laughing like three clear-eyed boys) 
 Who shall live forevermore I 
 On whose names the sailor calls 
 In the gale or battle-noise I 
 
 And there passed among the van 
 
 Old Sir Thomas Gates, the dam 
 
 Of the foundling colony; 
 
 Sir George Somers — gentleman, 
 
 Who was on the shore a lamb, 
 
 But a lion on the sea; 
 
 Robert Hunt, the old sea-saint; 
 
 Tanned with each sea wind that blows, 
 
 Mate Bartholomew Gosnold — 
 
34. MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 3 
 
 THE FLEET (Continued) 
 
 Sailormen without a taint, 
 
 Better held as friends than foes — 
 
 God gave them the sea to hold I 
 
 Last of all th' Atlantic's brood, 
 Came from out the sea-fog's pall, 
 Voyager and fighting-man, 
 Captain John Smith, plain and rude; 
 Last and greatest of them all — 
 First and true American I 
 
 So, before the fog had fled 
 
 At the dawn, they passed from sight 
 
 And their bold staves died away, 
 
 But still rang within my head 
 
 Each adventure and sea fight 
 
 That shall never pass away! 
 
 "Be of good cheer," one had said 
 
 As he bade his men good-bye, 
 
 "Heaven's as near by sea as landl" 
 
 And the old fire is not dead, 
 And the brave shall never die. 
 While the land they found shall standi 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 35 
 
 DIRGE: FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL 
 
 What woman but would be 
 Rid of thy mastery, 
 Jhou bully of the sea? 
 
 No more the grey sea's breast 
 Need answer thy behest; 
 No more thy sullen gun 
 Shall greet the risen sun, 
 Where the great dreadnaughts ride 
 The breast of thy cold bride; 
 Thou hast fulfilled thy fate : 
 Need trade no more with hate I 
 
 Nay, but I celebrate 
 Thy long-to-be lorn mate, 
 Thy mistress and her state, 
 Thy lady sea's lorn state. 
 She hath her empery 
 Not only .over the^ 
 
36 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 DIRGE: FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL (Continued)^ 
 
 But o'er our misery, — 
 
 Hark, doth she mourn for thee? 
 
 Nay, what hath she of grief? 
 She knoweth not the leaf 
 That on her bosom falls, 
 Thou last of admirals! 
 
 Under the winter moon 
 She singeth that fierce tune, 
 Her immemorial rune; 
 Knoweth not, late or soon, 
 Careth not 
 Any jot 
 
 For her withholden boon 
 To all thy spirit's pleas 
 For infinite surcease I 
 
 If, on this winter night, 
 
 O thou great admiral 
 
 That in thy sombre pall 
 
 Liest upon the land, 
 
 Thy soul should take his flight 
 
 And leave the frozen sand 
 
 And yearn above the surge^ 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 37 
 
 I — T 
 
 DIRGE: FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL (Continued), 
 
 Think'st thou that any dirge, 
 Grief inarticulate 
 From thy bereaved mate, 
 Would answer to thy soul 
 Where the waste waters roll? 
 
 Nay, thou hast need of none 1 
 Thy long love-watch is done I 
 Go, weary lover, pass 
 To that bright gulf of glass 
 Where thou shalt ever be 
 Fain of an endless seal 
 
38 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE GARDENER OF THE SEA 
 
 Do you remember that long-vanished night, 
 Master, upon the lake of Galilee, 
 When the rude, boist'rous waves did sore affright 
 Matthieu and Marc and stronger men than me? 
 Then, in the fourth watch, when all hope was 
 
 gone, 
 A radiance and a quiet 'round them grew. 
 And, like a gardener on some still, smooth lawn, 
 A Spirit walked the waves — ah, Lord, 'twas you I 
 And some there were who cried out at that wraith 
 (That seemed) that trod the murderous sea. 
 But Peter (who am I) said in his faith: 
 "Lord, if it be thou, bid me come to thee !" 
 Yea, of that Garden, to keep watch and ward, 
 Make me your under-gardener, O Lord I 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 39 
 
 THE GARDENER OF THE SEA (Continued) 
 
 II 
 
 As a bird (flying 
 
 While night comes on 
 And the light, dying, 
 
 Foretells no dawn) 
 
 Wearily searches. 
 
 Haven to find, 
 Seeks, never perches, 
 
 Through terror blind: 
 
 So, over surges 
 
 Of all despair, 
 My soul He scourges 
 
 Till I grasp prayer. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At evening, vi^hen the sky's rich tapestries 
 Of Tyrian blue grow thick with golden globes. 
 The Gardener of the Sea with heavenly shoon 
 Walks to and fro within its several bounds. 
 As one with sandals wet by twilight dews 
 Might move in quiet in his garden paths. 
 
40 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE GARDENER OF THE SEA (Continued) 
 
 Unquiet Garden 1 that with lifeless life 
 
 Doth crawl and lick the Gardener's pierced feetl 
 
 Forever sterile, though forever sown 
 
 With seed of ships and stars and crumbling lands; 
 
 Forever sterile, yet forever bright 
 
 With the white flashing bloom of breaking seas; 
 
 Aceldama of nations, that entombs 
 
 The nameless legions of antiquity; 
 
 Only the Gardener dare furrow thee, 
 
 Thou field as restless as a caged beast, 
 
 And thee He plougheth with His four great winds, 
 
 And harrows thee with whirlpool and with storm. 
 
 Evening, with silver-studded blue arras 
 
 Arching above this cloister, and the house 
 
 Of night enclose the Gatden's heaving floor; 
 
 A million stars are drowned, not too deep 
 
 To ride and flash like silver lanterns, there; 
 
 And the night breeze sweeps cool, and yet more 
 
 cool 
 Across the Garden and its dark, swift hills, 
 And lo ! upon the moving waters' face. 
 The Gardener walking, veiled in majesty I 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 41 
 
 THE OFF-SHORE WIND 
 
 The skies are sown with stars to-night, 
 
 The sea is sown with light, 
 
 The hollows of the heaving floor 
 
 Gleam deep with light once more. 
 
 The racing ebb-tide flashes past 
 
 And seeks the vacant vast, 
 
 A wind steals from a world asleep 
 
 And walks the restless deep. 
 
 It walks the deep in ecstasy. 
 
 It lives I and loves to free 
 
 Its spirit to the silent night, 
 
 And breathes deep in delight; 
 
 Above the sea that knows no coast. 
 
 Beneath the starry host. 
 
 The wind walks like the souls of men 
 
 Who walk with God again. 
 
 The souls of men who walk with God I 
 With faith's firm sandals shod, 
 A lambent passion, body-free, 
 
42 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE OFF-SHORE WIND (Continued) 
 
 Fain for eternity 1 
 O spirit born of human sighs, 
 Set loose 'twixt sea and skies, 
 Be thou an Angel of mankind. 
 Thou night-unfettered wind I 
 
 Bear thou the dreams of weary earth. 
 Bear thou To-morrow's birth; 
 Take all our longings up to Him 
 Until His stars grow dim; 
 A moving anchorage of prayer, 
 Thou cool and healing air, 
 Heading off-shore till shoreless dawn 
 Breaks fair and night is gone. 
 
MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 43 
 
 AIR CURRENTS 
 
 Far overhead, in untried air, 
 
 A lonely eagle sails, 
 And, soaring effortless, like prayer — 
 
 Which only thus avails — 
 He is borne up, without one stroke 
 Of his great wings; and little folk. 
 
 Who only know earth's little things 
 And cannot understand what force 
 Lifts him unerring on his course. 
 
 Sigh for the secret of his wings. 
 
44 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE HOBBY-HORSE 
 
 This is the Christmas toy 
 You gave your little boy? 
 A hobby horse, all bright 
 With harness red and white; 
 Already it is lame, 
 Worn out by many a game 
 Of riding up and down 
 The streets of Nursery Town; 
 The bridle reins are torn 
 And both its ears are shorn . . . 
 
 Fast sleeping in his bed, 
 His master's curly head 
 Dreams of to-morrow's rides: 
 In dreams he still bestrides 
 A charger black as night, 
 Famoused from many a fight I 
 He is Chief Golden Hair, 
 Custer the debonair; 
 In dreams he leads his men 
 Against the Sioux again; 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 45 
 
 THE HOBBY-HORSE (Continued) 
 
 Ringed 'round by painted braves, 
 His whole command he saves 1 
 
 Or, smiling in his sleep. 
 He feels his charger leap 
 Against the Paynim spears, 
 And in his drowsy ears 
 He hears the battle calls 
 That rang at Roncesvalles . . . 
 
 With Winchester a score 
 Of miles away, the roar 
 Of cannon tells him then 
 He must lead on his men 
 And take his thund'rous tracld 
 To turn the stragglers backl 
 
 Or, mightiest of dreams. 
 For a world's peace he seems 
 To lead the meek to arms! 
 
 Thus, cradled from all harms, 
 A smiling Lion-Heart, 
 He takes a hero's part 
 And rides his magic horse 
 Through all the ages' course . . . 
 
46 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE HOBBY-HORSE (Continued) 
 
 Ah, little curly head, 
 Safe In your drowsy bed. 
 Those battles are all done. 
 Yours yet to come, small son! 
 
 So we sit musing here 
 And strive to see made clear 
 What hobby you shall mount 
 In years you yet must count; 
 What hopes forlorn you'll lead; 
 What brave rides, on what steed! 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 47 
 
 THOMPSON STREET 
 
 Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue 
 
 Stretches her slender limbs 
 From the great Arch of Triumph, on, — 
 
 On, where the distance dims 
 
 The splendours of her jewelled robes, 
 
 Her granite draperies; 
 The magic, sunset-smitten walls 
 
 That veil her marble knees; 
 
 For ninety squares she lies a queen, 
 
 Superb, bare, unashamed. 
 Yielding her beauty scornfully 
 
 To worshippers unnamed. 
 
 But at her feet her sister glows, 
 
 A daughter of the South: 
 Squalid, immeasurably mean, — 
 
 But O I her hot, sweet mouth ! 
 
 My Thompson Street ! A Tuscan girl, 
 Hot with life's wildest blood; 
 
48 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 ^- — 
 
 THOMPSON STREET (Continued) 
 
 Her black shawl on her black, black hair, 
 Her brown feet stained with mud; 
 
 A scarlet blossom at her lips, 
 
 A new babe at her breast; 
 A singer at a wine-shop door, 
 
 (Her lover unconfessed). 
 
 Listen I A hurdy-gurdy plays 
 
 Now alien melodies : 
 She smiles; she cannot quite forget 
 
 The mother overseas 1 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 49 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 She had a little baby when she first became a wife, 
 
 A tiny child she never saw on earth — 
 
 While she was still unconscious from the fever of 
 
 that strife, 
 It died ... it died an hour from its birth; 
 
 She never saw that daughter who was gone before 
 
 she woke 
 (It must have seemed almost too small for 
 
 Death . . .) 
 But often she has wakened since and thought her 
 
 baby spoke, 
 And felt upon her cheek that tiny breath; 
 
 She sometimes cries, alone at night . . . silly 
 
 enough of her, 
 (No one but you will ever understand I) 
 But oh, it was so many days she felt her baby stir. 
 And, in the nights . . . how many things she 
 
 planned I , 
 
50 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE BONDWOMAN 
 
 Then why should she complain? 
 She chooses this — the hardship and the pain, 
 The unrelieved, unbeautiful, dull train 
 Of services to others; hand and brain 
 Outwearied with the drudgery of earth. 
 Then why should she be angry at my mirth? 
 At me, who have been idle from my birth, 
 Whose unearned plenty mocks her unpaid worth? 
 
 I choose to do with nothing wearisome; 
 
 I choose to feast, to toss to her no crumb; 
 
 I choose to sing, when she, from toil. Is dumb; 
 
 I spend her life for warmth, when she is numb; 
 
 I spend her toil for pleasure, choosing well 
 
 To make my life a heaven, hers a hell. 
 
 Then why should she complain? 
 She knows her life has in it nothing vain. 
 And that before the throne where Right must 
 reign, 
 
MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 51 
 
 THE BONDWOMAN (Continued) 
 
 Justice shall her great recompense constrain. 
 Then shall I not at last know her disdain? 
 
 Not so, this woman : in Heaven's garden-close 
 She'll weep, remembering the path I chose. 
 
52 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 FLOWER-GIRL 
 
 One night, when none you knew was near you, 
 In a strange city built of brick and stone, 
 
 You, in your loneliness, thought none could hear 
 you. 
 And wept . . . alone. 
 
 Your flowers, that seemed to you so pleading. 
 Faded, unsold, upon your narrow bed; 
 
 The city scorned them; and your heart was bleed- 
 ing, 
 And hope lay dead. 
 
 But I, whose love for you had semblance 
 
 To yours for each wan flower and drooping 
 sheaf, 
 Heard all your tears; and from them my remem- 
 brance 
 Has no relief. 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 63 
 
 FLOWER-GIRL (Continued) 
 
 You were so faint, and life so cruel to you 1 
 
 And though your lips are smiling now In sleep, 
 
 I cannot see why any one who knew you 
 Should let you weep I 
 
64. MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 NURSERY JINGLE 
 
 {^A young ivaitress nvas sent to the Tombs prison for stealing 
 three silver mesh purses and two gold tie clasps. Magistrate 
 Blank said: "Look at the ij^oman and look at her finery! It is 
 quite surprising hoiu none of these luomen steals anything that 
 is a necessity of life — they always steal some personal adorn- 
 ment," — Daily papers."] 
 
 I hold no brief for thug or thief 
 
 (Though they're much like me and you), 
 But there's no relief from the world-old grief 
 
 Of ''One plus One is Two!" 
 
 Yes, One plus One Is fact, not fun. 
 
 It's neither more nor less; 
 Who cares if it's true that the lads leave you 
 
 To follow a flaunting dress? 
 For Wealth is mine and Love is hers. 
 
 And neither belongs to you; 
 And ours is the right to keep our delight 
 
 And leave nothing for you when we're through. 
 
 Who cares If the one wild passion run 
 To feel the dizzying breath 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 65 
 
 NURSERY JINGLE (Continued) 
 
 Of the world's red lips on your finger tips? 
 
 Can a soul be starved to death? 
 Ah, we add each Fact, but never subtract, 
 
 For if once such a thing were begun, 
 Just think of the greed We would have to feed I 
 
 (A soul doesn't need any sun.) 
 
 And all of this seems but the crazy dreams 
 
 Of the girl who stood in court 
 And dully heard the Judge's word: 
 
 "You are all alike, your sort! 
 You were clothed; you were fed, on wh-eaten 
 bread. 
 
 You'd have scorned to ask for a meal, 
 You had nothing to do when your day was 
 through. 
 
 And yet you chose — ^to steal I 
 One might forgive if you stole to live. 
 
 For the body is worth its cost. 
 But you only stole to feed your soul. 
 
 And who cares . . ." The ending is lost. 
 
 / hold no brief for thug or thief 
 
 {Though they're much like me and you), 
 
 But there's no relief from the world-old grief 
 Of One plus One is Two! 
 
56 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 INDEPENDENCE HALL: 19 15 
 
 There is an old, old city 
 
 Beside the Delaware, 
 Whose life flows 'round the cloister 
 
 Called Independence Square; 
 
 Beneath the cool green arches 
 
 Reared by its quiet trees. 
 Through all the long hot summer 
 
 There runs a little breeze: 
 
 [A breath of air, that rises 
 And dies away again, 
 
 As fleeting as the longings 
 Of tired workingmen, 
 
 Who sit there on the benches, 
 Too tired to move or laugh, 
 
 With eyes fixed on Old Glory, 
 Drooping from its tall staff. 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 67 
 
 INDEPENDENCE HALL: 1915 (Continued) 
 
 And these men talk together 
 
 About the shady Square, 
 And wonder why that building 
 
 Should still be standing there. 
 
68 MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 DREAMERS 
 
 O LITTLE naked room wherein 
 Our work-day life is spent, 
 
 When will you cease to hem us in, 
 And leave the sky our tent? 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 59 
 
 THE DRUM 
 
 This Is the heady drum 
 
 Quenched in a long-past battle; 
 No more in years to come 
 
 Will sound its thump and rattle. 
 
 But from its shattered head 
 There sounds the undying story 
 
 Of those heroic dead 
 
 Whom the drum led to glory: 
 
 "A boy — too young to bear 
 A musket with the others, 
 
 Still firmly bound to share 
 A service like his brother's — 
 
 Bore me, the voice of war, 
 From his New England village, 
 
 And, marching on before. 
 
 Sowed fields for war's red tillage. 
 
60 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE DRUM (Continued) 
 
 "His very life he gave, 
 
 So dear was freedom to him; 
 
 Forget ye not the brave, 
 
 And the thrill running through him I" 
 
 Sons! look on this dead drum. 
 See what Peace cannot show you 
 
 In all your years to come, 
 Or wheresoever go you: 
 
 There see the Heart of Man — 
 War, only, naked shows It; 
 
 Yea, In awed silence scan 
 The grim war-drum that knows It! 
 
 This is the heart of fire 
 
 That burst with Its hot beating, 
 The voice that called my sire 
 
 To war without retreating; 
 
 This Is the parchment throat 
 
 Choked with its own hot clangour; 
 
 Whose last long-throbbing note 
 Broke in Its bitter anger; 
 
MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 61 
 
 THE DRUM (Continued) 
 
 This is life's hottest vein, 
 
 Cooled by its own blood's bursting; 
 To slake those yet unslain 
 
 In Freedom's quenchless thirsting I 
 
62 MERCHANTS OF THE MOBNING 
 
 —i 
 
 EASTER, 19 17 
 
 On Good Friday this was done: 
 
 A nation, silent, raised the sword 
 
 And kissed its blade; while tears welled slowly. 
 
 Good Friday! Day held ever holy 
 Since One who had no fear of death, 
 No part with hate; who drew no breath 
 That was not drawn for others' sake, 
 Suffered Himself to be, by men, 
 Driv'n into darkness past our ken. 
 
 Good Friday I Those who seemed to see 
 In that day's tale a mockery 
 Of all we vowed in other years. 
 In many a church, at many an altar; 
 Who said greed, only, made us palter; 
 Who wait To-morrow with black fears 
 For all the hard won heights whereon 
 Sight may be had of nobler dawn — 
 
 To-morrow, from the sepulchre 
 Scented with sorrow's costly myrrh. 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 63 
 
 EASTER, 19 1 7 (Continued) 
 
 A mightier force than theirs shall shake 
 Old wall to dust I Right shall awake. 
 
 For, in the souls of men shall gleam 
 Memories of you who kill your dream 
 Of selfish lives — of you, who give 
 ,Your lives for those who fear to live. 
 
 Why seek the living among dead? 
 Look to To-morrow, whose bright head 
 Is clothed in lightnings ! He shall speak 
 The word for which you vainly seek: 
 "Only him crucified shall rise — 
 He clearliest sees who gladllest dies I" 
 
 Good Friday I In the sweet, clear light 
 Of Easter morning, see aright 
 The meaning of the challenging: 
 "A sword, not peace, to you I bring I" 
 
 These dare the tomb — 
 
 And light bursts brighter from the darkness' 
 womb. 
 
64 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 VICTORY? 
 
 We that are weak are lonelier to-night: 
 
 For all the learned, 
 
 The men of knowledge, those who might 
 
 Have warmed the world's worn heart, have turned 
 
 To unenduring things . . . 
 
 And those who yearned 
 
 For God's great gift of vision and the wings 
 
 Of mighty truth have each one spurned 
 
 The upward-climbing path that leads 
 
 To happy upland meads; 
 
 Their hearts — not dead nor living, that once 
 
 burned 
 With a false lire — are cold. 
 Do they forget the meek? 
 Shall they, who might be bold 
 To stoop and gather all the poor and old 
 In an immortal happiness, be weak? 
 O ye who are endowed 
 Beyond us who are frail, 
 Whose hands cannot avail, 
 God calleth you aloud 
 
MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 65 
 
 VICTORY? (Continued) 
 
 Through his innumerous peoples' prayer! 
 Shall they that dare the skull-marked desert trail, 
 To reach the promised well, find no fresh water 
 there ? 
 
66 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 TO-MORROW'S WAR 
 
 In the cold, wet, and moaning night 
 I left my home, its warmth, its light, 
 To pace alone through many a dark and silent 
 
 street: 
 The old, cold blood of many kings long dead, 
 The heavy lips of many souls long fled. 
 Seemed pressing down upon me like a winding- 
 sheet. 
 
 I left my home, its warmth, its light, 
 
 Its half-read tale of ancient fight, 
 
 (The battle's blows, its shocks, its tumult in my 
 
 brain 
 All quenched at leaving, like a wind-blown lamp), 
 And the night wrapped me in its mantle damp. 
 And mourned around me with its cold and fitful 
 
 rain. 
 But the dawn's breath sang keener songs: 
 Of battle with to-morrow's wrongs. 
 And the wild north-wind stung my cheek until it 
 
 burned, 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 67 
 
 I 
 
 TO-MORROW'S WAR (Continued) 
 
 As though to wake me to its minstrelsy 
 Of deeds and blood-wrought justice yet to be . . . 
 And fresher air with the unconquered morn re- 
 turned. 
 
68 MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 
 
 THE HOLY WAR 
 
 In garments old, 
 By a great river, 
 Its dreamer trolled 
 (His heart a-quiver), 
 "In a high street 
 Of the great town. 
 The people meet. 
 The rich folk froiun. 
 The rabble presses, 
 The children shout; 
 In costlier dresses 
 Goes the gay rout; 
 The ivind is cold. 
 The poor folk shiver 
 In garments old. 
 By the great River! 
 
 "In a high street 
 
 Of the great toivn. 
 
 The church bell siveei 
 
 Sends rolling down 
 
 A thundering chime. 
 
 To make thrones tremble 
 
 Is it not time 
 
 Ye men assemble? 
 
 wondrous sea 
 Of human hearts, 
 Lift me on thee 
 Till fear departs! 
 Hers all the gold 
 
 1 have to give her: 
 Your city old, 
 
 By the great River!" 
 
 How blindly have you lived, my lords, 
 That now you blink at flashing swords? 
 Why whisper to your neighbour there, 
 "What war Is this, and why, and where? 
 Of wars / have had word of none. 
 Yet speaks this troop a bloody one ! 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 69 
 
 THE HOLY WAR (Continued) 
 
 Who are these men that break our ease 
 With scars of fighting overseas?" 
 
 These are the men who gave up all 
 
 (And some were born to a princely hall, 
 
 And some were snug in their rags as you) 
 
 To venture their lives as nobles do, 
 
 In the utmost service of the King, 
 
 And this is their mighty marshalling! 
 
 Ah, little did you, blind and dull. 
 
 Think these would e'er be worshipful 1 
 
 You curled your lip in days gone by 
 
 At the poor fools who went to die 
 
 For sorry wage and strange reward: 
 
 Warrant to serve a pauper Lord! 
 
 And stranger still their long campaign: 
 
 Theirs is no war for earthly gain, 
 
 But, facing a fearful enemy. 
 
 They die that others may be free; 
 
 By faith subduing earthly wrong; 
 
 By faith they toil and suffer long, 
 
 Enduring mockings, and the scourge, 
 
 And prison bonds; these only urge 
 
 Their spirits to more splendid deeds 
 
70 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE HOLY WAR (Continued) 
 
 Along the way their Captain leads I 
 Whence came such pain-despising love? 
 How great of soul, how much above 
 Our common life, how deep our debt. 
 Only in vision can be set. 
 Yes, more than conquerors are they, 
 For their great King himself shall say 
 That neither depth, nor height, nor death. 
 Nor life, nor any mortal breath. 
 Nor present things, nor things above, 
 Shall separate them from His love! 
 
 What is this glorious company? 
 What radiant troop is this you see? 
 
 These are the men of holy wars. 
 Their armour dented, their many scars 
 Dreadful to see; their clothing worn, 
 Their faces haggard, their banners torn. 
 Their numbers few — but, oh, what fire 
 Burns in their eyes! How like a choir 
 That chanteth a glorious minster-song, 
 Their battle hymn as they stride along! 
 They cannot die! but, living yet. 
 
MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 71 
 
 THE HOLY WAR (Continued) 
 
 While tears make happy eyelids wet, 
 Forward they surge, a mighty band, 
 And, dying, live . . . and, falling, stand 
 
72 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 SARRAN 
 
 SarrAn, the music master, 
 
 Has gone beyond the sea; 
 His journeyings are vaster 
 
 Than guessed by you or me . . , 
 We knew his heart was broken, 
 
 Though why we did not know — 
 Sarran, what word was spoken. 
 
 That made you smile and go? 
 
 Beyond the wine-dark mountains, 
 
 Beyond the violet sea, 
 Beyond the silver fountains 
 
 Of purple Castaly, 
 Beyond the reach of vision, 
 
 (O matchless melody 1) 
 He hears the harps Elysian 
 
 Of a lost eternity I 
 
 On earth he might not listen, 
 On earth he might hear not; 
 
 On earth no tears might glisten 
 Within his eyelids hot; 
 
MERCHANTS OF TEE MORNING 73 
 
 SARRAN (Continued) 
 
 On earth he knew no fountains 
 (Nor ever might he know), 
 
 But past the wine-dark mountains 
 The singing waters flow. 
 
 Redeem his ancient honor, 
 
 Redeem it with a song; 
 Redeem it, you who won her 
 
 And left him only wrong; 
 Redeem it, dole thus flinging, 
 
 (He will not thank you now) , 
 He hears alone her singing . . , 
 
 (Her soul alone knows how). 
 
 Beyond the sunrise mountains, 
 
 Beyond the sun-swept sea, 
 Beyond the deathless fountains 
 
 Of laughing Castaly, 
 Beyond the reach of vision, 
 
 (O matchless melody!) 
 He hears the harps Elysian 
 
 Of a lost eternity. 
 
74 MERCHANTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 REVEILLE 
 
 Dream, dreamer, until life 
 
 Her outworn self renews, 
 Dr&am, while the silver moon 
 
 Rains down her magic dews; 
 Dream for the weary earth 
 
 All happy things to do — 
 But, when you wake this morn, 
 
 O make your dream come true !