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 A 
 
 TRUE LOVE BALLAD 
 
 -OF- 
 
 PUT-IN CREEK 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
TRUE LOVE BALLAD 
 
 OF 
 
 "PUT-IN CREEK" 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 BY 
 
 Herbert Livingston Worthington, 
 "Harry Harrington." 
 

 By transfer 
 17 ill 907 
 
 Burke & Gregory, Print, Norfolk 
 
^} 
 
 ^li^ A TRUE LOVE BALLAD 
 
 CS 
 
 OF 
 
 " PUT-IN-CREEK." 
 
 Last Eve I sauntered thro' the town, 
 This Ancient Borough of renown, 
 It's streets and alleys up and down 
 To see what I could see ; 
 
 I knew it many years ago, 
 I've watched it's progress, ebb and flow, 
 Low mark and high mark, high and low. 
 Ere she was what she be. 
 
 I met a Mariner and he 
 
 Was grizzly gray as gray could be, 
 
 He had the salt smell of the sea, 
 
 A smell that wasn't weak, 
 
 A squint was in his weather eye 
 
 He got from watching of the sky, 
 
 Lest Storms should catch him on the sly 
 
 Adrift in "Put-in-Creek". 
 
Wintry gales hid in his hair 
 That scorned the silent Barber's care, 
 A Mariner he was, I swear, 
 (A quid was in his mouth,) 
 Complacently he chewed and chewed 
 The' "Boreas" raged or "Thetis" wooed 
 Or "Euroc" his mad tempest brewed 
 From Nor-west East by South. 
 
 He stood a Sea-God on his deck, 
 Foi" storm or calm he had no reck, 
 Nor calm or storm a single speck ; 
 The mad waves surged beneath : 
 He scanned the sea, he scanned the land, 
 The ebb and flow upon the strand, 
 He held a Jack-knife in his hand 
 A-picking of his teeth. 
 
 Four score he might have been or more, 
 This Sea-nursed Mariner of yore, 
 A weed o' Time cast on the shore 
 For aught I know, to doze. 
 Ere Old Saint Paul's a Kirk was, ere 
 The good Sir Ralph Lane landed where 
 Was once Town Point, the city here 
 Was in her swaddling clothes. 
 
For these Old Sea Dogs never die, 
 
 Coleridge he knew it, so do I, 
 
 And should they, there's no reason why 
 
 They mayn't come back again, 
 
 In Holy Writ somewhere I've read 
 
 The Mighty Sea gives back his dead, 
 
 What he gives back it must be said 
 
 He cannot keep — 'tis plain. 
 
 Death is ai sleep and sleep has dreams 
 And Dreams a waking. Life but seems 
 A Dream or Nightmare, thro' it gleamls 
 Sunshine perhaps or shade. 
 That which was is not yet still is,. 
 Oh Vassar lend me your cute quiz. 
 I flounder in my metaphys, 
 I crave your potent aid. 
 
 This Mariner, long years ago 
 
 I knew him, then the W^inter snow 
 
 Lav on his locks as now, and tho' 
 
 He seemeth old, I know 
 
 Time works no change for him. as then 
 
 Ha is, he sorteth not with men. 
 
 He talks with me, I, with him when 
 
 We talk of Long Ago. 
 
The Past is in his every look, 
 
 He reads it as an open book, 
 
 The City; Street and Lane and Nook 
 
 Are mapped off in his head, 
 
 He sorteth not with Man or Child, 
 
 A kind, old Soul he, unbeguiled, 
 
 If Fortune frowned or Fortune smiled 
 
 He careth not he said. 
 
 The Sea Nymphs sing his lullaby. 
 He loves the Sea, he knows not why. 
 It's face, 'neath bright or cloudy sky 
 Is lovely in his eye. 
 
 It's calms, it's passions, smiles and tears 
 Have been his worship many years, 
 Not on the land his God appears 
 Throned in such Majesty. 
 
 Mariner! tell to Paul* and me 
 What speak the voices of the Sea, 
 Ye, who are old and gray as he, 
 Is it a mystic rune? 
 The round Moon rises from the Sea, 
 About her car Sea Urchins be. 
 All dripping with his brine is she, 
 Westward she slippeth soon. 
 
 6 *PauJ in " Dombey and Son ". 
 
Where rolls Pacific on his strand 
 
 Gold-carpeted, Alaskan) sand 
 
 All jewelled, kisses his soft hand. 
 
 What is't the voices say? 
 
 Life is short and Love is sweet, 
 
 The Sky and Sea kiss when they meet, 
 
 Aye 1 lads and lasses when they greet. 
 
 These things bide not for aye. 
 
 Ye Ancient Mariner of the Seas, 
 O'er heaps of Pearls, rich Argosies 
 And Mermaid haunts, is't such as these 
 All thro' the Night ye seek? 
 What be your quest here every night 
 When Stars do blink, and snowy white 
 Your sail gleams like a winged sprite 
 O'er storm-tossed "Put-in-Creek"? 
 
 Mermaids are singing over there 
 A lullaby beyond compare, 
 I see them comb their yellow hair 
 Sea-drenched and limp and sleek. 
 Over the Sailor Boy's damp grave. 
 They've laid him in a coral cave 
 Deep down beneath the Sunlit wave 
 That rolls o'er "Put-in-Creek". 
 
"This Put-in-Creek," I knowed it when 
 
 Your oldest folks were babies, then 
 
 It coursed the Northern bounds of men 
 
 Thro' marsh and fen and brake. 
 
 Chapel Street was then it's bed, 
 
 From Charlotte Northward still it spread. 
 
 From Tripoli it Eastward led 
 
 To now-called "Mahone Lake". 
 
 Ere M was dreamed of, and it's flow 
 Was to the Eastern Branch we know 
 Where Kempsville is, who, long ago, 
 The Entry Port o' Crown, 
 Sent lordly ships o'er distant Seas, 
 White-winged to woo the fav'ring breeze, 
 When this here Norfolk, if yon please. 
 Was even scarce a town. 
 
 This be the life I love the best, 
 
 I've sailed East, I've sailed West, 
 
 Thro' Seas of Storms, thro' Seas of Rest 
 
 From Newport News to Ghent, 
 
 A tireless fiend of evil care 
 
 Hath followed mie, aye ! everywhere, 
 
 Thro' fair and foul and foul and fair 
 
 He went where'er I went. 
 
He followeth me where'er I be, 
 
 He roams the Earth, he sails the Sea, 
 
 He bringeth much unrest to me, 
 
 A Ghost he of the Past, 
 
 Whilom I knew when Life was young, 
 
 And Love did chide with honeyed tongue, 
 
 He sings the songs a Maiden sung, 
 
 His spell doth bind me fast. 
 
 A Maiden sweet, who, once for me 
 
 Was as the Moonlight to the Sea 
 
 Or red, ripe Clover to the Bee, 
 
 No fairer may ye seek, 
 
 She owned my love with modest mein. 
 
 Ah ! woful day as e'er was seen, 
 
 He stole the Maid, he bore my Queen 
 
 Far up this "Put-in-Creek ;" 
 
 And gave her to the Mermaids, who 
 Have hid her 'neath the waters blue, 
 I seek her as I loved her true. 
 For aye, my Love I seek, 
 This be my quest here every night 
 When Stars do blink and snowy white 
 My sail gleams like a Meteor bright 
 O'er Storm-tossed "Put-in-Creek." 
 
THE OLD WISHING TREE 
 
 TO 
 
 MISS COURTNEY NEWTON ARPS, 
 
 OF 
 
 Norfolk, Virginia, 
 
 This little Poem of "The Old Wishing Tree" 
 
 is respectfully dedicated by her dear 
 
 Father's old Army Chum of the 
 
 Sixties, and his and her 
 
 Sincere Friend 
 
 Herbert Livingston Worthington, 
 
BY WAY OF PREFACE. 
 
 THE OLD WISHING TREE. 
 
 The Old Wishing Tree, (as everybody hereabouts knows 
 and God pity those who don't.) was time out of mind one of 
 the most beautiful as well as historic Landmarks of "Ye 
 Anshient Borough of 'Norfolk," as it's old charter, signed by 
 Sir William Gooch, designates it. 
 
 It was, (alack! we can not say it is.) a thing of Antiquity, 
 for, really, how old it was I dare affirm that even Noah him- 
 self, (if he were living,) would scarce hazard a guess. Poca- 
 hontas, with her maids in waiting, may have played checquers 
 in its shade, and the young Bucks attendant upon the Mighty 
 Powhatan might there have organized their Base Ball Nines 
 or selected their Foot Ball Teams, (for the Wise Man once 
 said : "there is nothing new under the Sun,") upon the Green- 
 sward of the Tazewell Estate whereon it lived and grew and 
 died. 
 
 But be this as it may — 
 
 The redoubtable Captain John Smith in his "His- 
 toric of Ye Colony of Virginia," speaks of many 
 things of interest concerning these parts of "The Ultima 
 Thule," yet makes he no mention of The Wishing Tree. 
 What inference are we to draw from this? That it did not 
 exist? Not a whit of it. Does he speak of Pungo Ridge or 
 Put-in-Creek? Yet it is geographically known that when 
 Cain was in swaddling clouts, when Eve was disporting in 
 her morning wrapper of Fig Leaves, Pungo Ridge and Put-in- 
 Creek existed. 
 
 11 
 
I hate your intolerable Pessimistic Quibblers. They affect 
 neither the Past or Present. With them nought is every- 
 thing and everything nought — "Anno Urba Conditae" a fable, 
 William Tell a myth, the Wishing Tree a dream. These 
 verses are not written for such folk. The Author, in all confi- 
 dence, addresses himself to the most critical, and, at the same 
 time, to the most appreciative of readers, the Little Folk, 
 with the earnest hope that what is here written, (and solely 
 for them,) may please them, and with, also, the assurance that 
 they cannot believe more fully what is here set down than did 
 Grandpa himself whilst he was writing it. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Come here my winsome little Maid, 
 Sit ye on Grand Pa's knee 
 And list the story he will tell 
 About The Wishing Tree. 
 
 Your dainty feet have trod the spot 
 Where erst that old Tree grew 
 When your Grand Mama was a Tot 
 Scarce half so big as you. 
 
 Who planted it? Sure none may tell, 
 It budded there and grew. 
 Perhaps "twas Adam, just as well 
 Eve may have nursed it too. 
 
 The Red Man sought it's pleasant shade 
 When ruled great Powhatan 
 Before the Paleface from afar 
 Came and dispersed h.is Clan. 
 
 12 
 
I do not know if this be so, 
 
 I tell 't as I was told, 
 
 But my Grandsire, I've heard him say 
 
 'Twas very, very old. 
 
 You don't remember it? Why no! 
 Your elder Sisters do. 
 But yester eve I took you to 
 The very spot it grew. 
 
 On Granby Street, you've passed it oft 
 
 With Nurse, I will be bound. 
 
 Throned in State Coach when you were 
 
 \ 
 The Sweetest Babe in town. 
 
 I've wandered oft thro' Old St. Paul's, 
 That's very old dear, too. 
 With old, old graves of old, old folks 
 Who once were young like you. 
 
 Aye! handsome lads and lassies gay 
 All winsome, light and free, 
 They plighted troth for aye, for both 
 Beneath the Wishing Tree. 
 
 They thought none heard them, but alway, 
 ('Tis true as true can be,) 
 A little Bird heard every word 
 Spoke 'neath the Wishing Tree. 
 
 12 
 
And he would tell it to the Stars 
 
 As merrily sang he, 
 
 The Stars the White Moon told, who loved 
 
 To kiss the Wishing Tree. 
 
 And don't you know the Zephj-rs caught 
 Each secret sweet and all, 
 And hid 'em in the great big Elms 
 That fondle Old Saint Paul? 
 
 And so the Old Folks sleeping there 
 Would wake and say "Ah, me. 
 Sweet is Love's breath, 'twill bide till Death 
 Breathed 'neath The Wishing Tree." 
 
 Ah, Dear! the wishes that were made, 
 The wishes all to be, 
 By blythesome Lovers in it's shade 
 In sweet Expectancy. 
 
 Go ask your Grandma does she mind 
 The Spring of Fifty-Three, 
 What I said, she said and both said 
 Beneath The Wishing Tree? 
 
 The Moon shone as she never shone. 
 The bright Stars crowned her Queen, 
 When I, a lad of twenty-one. 
 Kissed a Rosebud of Sixteen. 
 
 14 
 
The little Bird he heard it all. 
 And merrily sang- he, 
 And merrily to Old Saint Paul's 
 We went to married be. 
 
 The Skies put on their loveliest dress 
 And lent their richest blue 
 Unto the Violets on her breast, 
 The sweetest ever grew. 
 
 Oh, dear old Times ! in mellowest Rhymes 
 Time runs for her and me, 
 Our love has but the stronger grown 
 Since gone is Fifty-Three. 
 
 Adown the Aisle I see the while 
 Her tripping home with me, 
 And on the street we stop and greet 
 The dear Old Wishing Tree. 
 
 What was the little Bird? Ah, Pet! 
 Your question puzzles me, 
 Was it a Bird and did he dwell 
 Up in The Wishing Tree? 
 
 IS 
 
A Bird, a Sprite, sure dear each night 
 Was there, sure as can be. 
 Sometimes a flash of Light like Pearls 
 In th' Throne room of the Sea, 
 
 And sometimes 'twas a rhythmic rune, 
 Sweet as such sounds may be, 
 Like mellow cadences of June 
 In that Old Wishing Tree. 
 
 There was a Spirit, too, I've heard 
 Who loved the Bird, and he 
 Dwelt at Saint Paul's and every night 
 Went to The Wishing Tree. 
 
 A-float, a-float in a tiny boat 
 
 Made of fleece clouds so light. 
 
 He'd sail o'er the tops of the old, old Elms 
 
 As he went to the Tree each night. 
 
 Fire Flies lent tapers to show the way, 
 The Bird would his Pilot be, 
 'Twas hard to guess which he loved the best — 
 Saint Paul's or The Wishing Tree. 
 
 The Bird and he within the Tree 
 Heard every word was said, 
 And every kiss they saw, I wis 
 'Twixt those old folks now dead. 
 
 16 
 
The Sprite and the Bird, as I have heard, 
 Like Love may never die. 
 When the Old Tree fell, don't you know 
 I saw both upward fly, 
 
 "To Heaven"? I guess so, and they told 
 The Angels that there be, 
 How cruel man had wrecked their home 
 Within The Wishing Tree. 
 
 'Now when Day dies Xight walks the skies, 
 Crowned with Stars is she, 
 She loves to throw her softest glow 
 Where stood The Wishing Tree. 
 
 When all is still I have my will 
 
 To stand where erst it grew, 
 
 And in the air, somewhere, somewhere 
 
 Are Voices once I knew. 
 
 One is the Past, the Present one, 
 
 The first is sweetest yet, 
 
 The other with one j'et to be 
 
 Is closer to you. Pet, 
 
 And this is what I heard 'em say 
 
 One eve, my bonnie Pet : 
 
 17 
 
18 
 
 FIRST voice: 
 
 Whither, whither Brother mine, 
 Whither now fly ye, 
 To Elmwood be your sorrowing flight 
 Since gone's The Wishing Tree? 
 
 Thro' Old Saint Paul's 'tis Progress calls, 
 My onward who may stay. 
 I raze her walls, the Ivy falls, 
 Lord am I of To-day. 
 
 The Old Time's gone, long live the New! 
 Your memories are but dust, 
 My wheels turn fast, they grind your Past, 
 On them there be no rust ; 
 
 Brother mine ! why grieve and pine, 
 
 Things may not always be, 
 
 A change is over Earth and Air, 
 
 E'er changeful is the Sea, 
 
 It were no sloth to drive you forth 
 
 From out The Wishing Tree. 
 
 SECOND voice: 
 
 Brother, brother mine, I know 
 Your will takes little heed 
 Of things that were so sweet and dear, 
 You make our old hearts bleed. 
 
spare for LoVe's sake those that still make 
 The Past a Present seem, 
 Sweet are Old Memories, doubly dear 
 Like Music in a Dream; 
 
 I go, ah, whither shall I go! 
 Gone are my ancient halls. 
 Your hammers dt4 make discord in 
 "God's Acre" of Saint Paul's; 
 
 It's old, old Piles, it's Holy Aisles 
 Spare long as Time may be, 
 'Tis there I go, in woe, in woe. 
 Since gone's The Wishing Tree. 
 * * * 
 
 Pet ! you are young and fair and sweet, 
 God keep you so alway. 
 May long, blest years be yours, for you 
 Like me'll grow old and gray. 
 
 But don't you think it was a Sin 
 
 As cruel as could be, 
 
 To drive the Sprite and the Bird so bright 
 
 From out The Wishing Tree ? 
 
 19 
 
THE POET. 
 
 I knew a Poet once, who like his kind 
 
 Was miserabU' poor ; the World received 
 
 His Songs and praised them — From the Crucible 
 
 Of Poverty he wrought, aye! the World looked on 
 
 And smiled approving, when he asked for bread 
 
 Gave him a stone, — yet in his soul there grew 
 
 Things which to him were real and tangible. 
 
 A Flower to him was not a flower indeed, 
 
 He watched it grow and bloom, in it a Soul 
 
 Spake voiceful from it's petals. 
 
 In loneliest haunts, e'en when a boy he strayed 
 
 In the tall wood, moss-crowned, that thro' the night 
 
 When men do sleep hold converse with the Angels 
 
 Who hide and seek within their leafy crests. 
 
 Skyward aspiring as in scorn of Earth. 
 
 His fellows were the Stars, playmates, the Streams 
 
 That sang him dreamy Music ; Nature oped 
 
 Her treasures from her sealed up wondrous book 
 
 Wherein he read, soft nestled in her lap. 
 
 And talked with her sweet God as face to face — 
 
 All Love was pictured in that mighty face — 
 
 20 
 
Nor Anger, Vengeance, but the sad sweet smile 
 
 That hailed the Nazarine, 
 
 As if in labored grief for his fair world. 
 
 Made foul with Alan's mad strife and hate of men, 
 
 Where Malice genders, birthing things most vile 
 
 And loathsome as that progeny of Hfell 
 
 Mad Incest, Sin and Death, the blind Poet saw 
 
 In Revelation when his inner sight, 
 
 As' if in scorn of outer vision oped 
 
 In Paradise regained — A Presence 'twas 
 
 To hire, not distance the meek child who drank 
 
 From her pure fountains knowledge infinite 
 
 And ravishing — In the songs of birds. 
 
 In leafy solitudes there was all enrapt 
 
 The Music of the Spheres ; their callow young 
 
 Were his for loving care, and when perchance 
 
 His meditative footsteps led him where 
 
 Soft nested in the Hawthorn they were housed, 
 
 'No fear aflfrighted, for they knew him as 
 
 Dame Nature's child, his mother and their own — 
 
 And so he lived, not in the World of Trade 
 
 Where cent per cent's the standard of a man 
 
 Of hoarded millions, wrung from horny hands 
 
 And suckling Babes, who worry at the teat, 
 
 Dried up by Poverty, lifeless as the bone 
 
 The Tiger leaves to bleach on Indian sands. 
 
 21 
 
Some called himi Fool, and said Sir, you have Wit 
 
 And that within you that may compass quite 
 
 A competence — not so, he'd rather tread 
 
 The path he heard in olden days was trod 
 
 By Him of Nazareth, than to count the gold 
 
 By millions — Let me, said he then. 
 
 Scorn that ye strive for, in it there are tears 
 
 Innumerable, tears, aye! the Orphan's moan, , 
 
 Brooding o'er burnt out fagots in the night. 
 
 When Winter's snows have froze Sweet Charity — 
 
 Away from these, for Misery is akin ; 
 
 It hides in squallid dens where Poverty 
 
 Sucks sustenance of all there is of Life 
 
 And dies of it's own famishment, as the worm 
 
 Who fattens on the Corpse we've laid to rest 
 
 And ends it's life of gluttony in Death 
 
 Destroying all itself itself destroys 
 
 And there the end — Yet to his Mother still 
 
 He went for guidance, for in Her sweet face 
 
 He saw all mysteries solved, he learned from whence 
 
 Came Angels, ever treading this fair Earth 
 
 To paint the Rose, and in her lowly bed 
 
 Perfume the violet, when her meek eye 
 
 Caught yet the splendor of the Sky, when it 
 
 On Summer days is bluest and athirst 
 
 For Showers ; for the Skies are bluest still 
 
 When Earth is thirstieth. 
 
 22 
 
Come forth with me, my Child, thro" mazy ways, 
 Sun-glinted, diamonded dewed and odorous 
 With flower breath that is an incense meet 
 To highest Heaven — "Neath last Autiunn"s leaves 
 Browned by the \Vinter"s chill, whose face peeps out, 
 Pearl white and tinted with a maiden's blush 
 Caught from the kiss wet lips of yonder shell. 
 The love of Amorous Sea-Nymphs, 'tis Arbutus, 
 The first born and the loveliest of the Spring — 
 She is a coy, sweet blossom, and she loves 
 The silence of deep shadows — Her I lapped 
 'Neath cold, dead leaves ; Resurgam ! see her ope 
 Her sweet eyes to the Sun, there he imprints 
 Soft kisses, vermeil dyed, as doth the shell 
 Laved by the Sea's wild kisses, tint her lips. 
 The sonorous Shell who treasures up his mioan 
 
 And rosier grows with Kisses 
 
 But alas! 
 The time came for his passing, and he went. 
 As a tired Child who seeks the Mother's breast 
 At eventide — Death were to him but Life 
 And promise, for his Mother held his hand, 
 "Fear not. for I will lead thee". After j^ears 
 Said he was Poet true — He cared not then. 
 
 23 
 
TO MRS. L. P. R., OF NORFOLK VA. 
 
 Come to the Fount of Castaly 
 That Poets drink of when they sing, 
 Fair singer, leave the muter throng, 
 Thy Golden Goblet bring; 
 
 See "Bobby" dip his chrystal cup 
 And pledge his Love of Scottish burn, 
 Moore's shade is here and with him too 
 Is Byron with his Urn. 
 
 Po ' ct Keats drinks deep, for he was one 
 "Whose name was writ in Water," he 
 With Chatterton, twin Poets, nursed 
 By Love and Poverty. 
 
 Dip deep thy Goblet, thou has drank 
 The clear, pure Stream of Poesy, 
 And let thy Rhythmic verses ring 
 In music which shall be 
 
 24 
 
Sweet echoes of a soul inborn 
 Of gentlest Passion, softly stirred, 
 Aye! that which makes the Poet great 
 And worthy to be heard. 
 
 Not that a Critic's eye may scan 
 In measures of a fancied art, 
 That is true poetry I deem 
 Which speaks unto the heart. 
 
 The Passions in us strangely work, 
 And human kind is human still. 
 The Poet is the instrument 
 Of Heaven's own sweet will. 
 
 And voiceful as the Stars we see 
 When Angels light them, and the gleam 
 Of thine is e'en a steady light, 
 A bright Star on thee Stream. 
 
 26 
 
THE BROOK. 
 
 A Sunbeam said to the Brook one day 
 The Summer is here, come let us play ; 
 The Wild Rose fringes your banks along 
 And the Thrush is warbling his Matin Song; 
 I'll hide in your wave as you bask in my light, 
 And we'll play 'till Katydid brings the Night, 
 So the Sunbeam said to the Brook one day 
 Steal out of the shadows and let us play. 
 
 And the Sunbeam died and the Brook sang on 
 
 His sweet refrain to the Thrush's song, 
 
 And the Jessamine dipped her golden cup 
 
 In the purling Stream as to drink it up ; 
 
 And the Brook sighed for it's playmate sweet, 
 
 \\'ith his amorous kiss of the Summer heat — 
 
 And the round Moon rose o'er the Eastern hill. 
 
 And she dipped her face in the murmuring; rill 
 
 With a softened light, like that which glows, 
 
 When the dewdrop is kissing the op'ning Rose. 
 
 A sweeter playmate I wis ye be 
 
 Said the Brook, sweet Moon come play with me. 
 
 26 
 
And they played together the whole night long 
 
 While the Katydid 'most ran mad with song — 
 
 And thei Sun came back and he kissed the Brook, 
 
 And the Thrush stole out of his leafy nook. 
 
 And the Jessamine dipped her golden cup 
 
 In the cooling Stream as to drink it up — 
 
 And the Sun and Brook and the Thrush they say 
 
 Were laughing and singing the live-long day — 
 
 But the Moon stayed late, she had overslept, 
 
 With a smaller face from her bed she crept, 
 
 And she greeted the Brook with a cold white kiss, 
 
 The Sea, sweet Brook, is the cause of this. 
 
 He prisoned me fast where the Gray Dawn hides, 
 
 For you know that I govern his mighty tides. 
 
 So the Brook played on with the Sun and the Moon, 
 And the Thrush ever joined in the mellow rune ; 
 But the Moon she grew ever lagged and late, 
 The Brook didn't know that the Sea was her mate 
 And that, scorning it's tender and passionate charms, 
 She lay all day in the Sea God's arms. 
 And, once on a time as the legends say 
 A Star leaped out of a cloud of gray ; 
 'Twas a lonely Star, he seemed as a child 
 Who had gone astray in a Desert wild. 
 But a tender light and a smile so bright 
 W^as seen on his beautiful face that night — 
 
 27 
 
He fell in the Brook in a childish glee 
 And he said 'Little Brook,' come play with me, 
 I am lonely up there in a company 
 Of Stars that are bigger and prouder than me — 
 And the Brook and the Star were wedded you know, 
 (The Thrush doesn't know why he loves them so,) 
 And they are to this day, and when clouds are seen 
 To shut out their kisses just like a screen, 
 The Brook goes murmuring a sweet complaint 
 And his song to the Dryads is low and faint, 
 When the Star leaps down with a true love kiss, 
 His song is a louder song than this. 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 Oh, wonderful, fathomless Sea! 
 Oh, deep and mysterious Sea ! 
 On thy breast here I rest 
 Like a bird in it's nest. 
 Ye peaceful, yet ominous Sea; 
 What bones do ye hide 
 "Neath the flow of your tide, 
 Ye cruel yet beautiful Sea. 
 
 I list to your roar on the sand ; 
 
 Far away is a beautiful land 
 
 That ye lave with your wave, 
 
 There is many a grave 
 
 'Twixt me and that beautiful land. 
 
 But my thoughts do ye know 
 
 Still bridges you o'er 
 
 To my love in that beautiful land. 
 
 She tarries ; why tarry so late 
 
 For her lover who watches the gate, 
 
 Can she be, changeful Sea, 
 
 As fickle as ye, 
 
 Fve waited her early and late. 
 
 Pray do me no wrong 
 
 For my heart is not strong, 
 
 It is breaking, all desolate. 
 
 29 
 
A Ship came ashore on the strand, 
 A Ship from that beautiful land, 
 All a-stove, "all a-stove," 
 Oh my Life, oh my Love, 
 She sailed from that beautiful land. 
 The Mermaids below 
 Stole my Love as I know, 
 They have crowned her white brow with a band 
 
 Of Coral and Pearl, oh, miy Queen, 
 
 In their caves ne'er such beauty was seen. 
 
 Like the light in the Night 
 
 Of a Meteor bright 
 
 Were thine eyes, oh, my beautiful Queen, 
 
 No Rose could compare 
 
 With thy cheeks soft and fair. 
 
 No Gold with thy ringlets' bright sheen. 
 
 Ah me! but to weep at her grave. 
 
 Hide it not, oh, ye pitiless wave. 
 
 To lie down by her side 
 
 'Neath the flow of your tide. 
 
 What were Heaven and Earth then to me, 
 
 To lie down by her side 
 
 In your sepulchre wide. 
 
 Ye passionate, beautiful Sea. 
 
 30 
 
Oh, wonderful, fathomless Sea! 
 
 Oh, deep and mysterious Sea! 
 
 "Neath your tide still ye hide 
 
 In your Caverns so wide, 
 
 All was lovely and loving to me, 
 
 I watch ye in dread, 
 
 Ye great Grave of the Dead, 
 
 I hate ye, ye Merciless Sea. 
 
 31 
 
A HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 God of Nature ! I cry unto Thee ! 
 Lift my soul from this Slough of Despond, 
 The world has few pleasures for me. 
 There is Peace in the Life that's beyond ; 
 
 Where Thou art is all Sunshine and Life, 
 Where Thou art not, dark Night and Despair 
 And things that are born of mad Strife 
 And fostered by sorrow and care. 
 
 Of Thee all that ever was, is, 
 The beautiful, perfect and good, 
 Even Man, thy Creature, yet is 
 Made Holy, baptised in Thy Blood. 
 
 The Sky. the Earth and the Sea, 
 Every leaf, ev'ry flower and tree 
 Is not a slight thing which may die, 
 'Tis a form that Thou wearest to me. 
 
 Before wild Chaos unfurled 
 Took form,' Thou wast God, and Thy Thought 
 Made gracious this Life, as a World 
 Leaped into strange Beauty from Naught. 
 
 32 
 
Who has set in his bounds the great Sea? 
 Who hast found for the Lightning his path? 
 Sun, Moon, Stars are centered in Thee, 
 The Tempest, Ye govern his wrath. 
 
 Who will give to the Rose it's sweet scent? 
 The Violet, its beautiful hue? 
 Could Titian or Raphael paint • 
 
 This Sunset unfolded to view? 
 
 The Sun, in a million of dyes, 
 
 Guilds the West, on a Gold Couch he lies. 
 
 The Stars ope their beautiful eyes 
 
 As God walks abroad in the Skies. 
 
 About me a stillness I feel 
 Too sacred for speech and too dear'. 
 It is here that Thou dwells to reveal 
 Thy Goodness, Thy Bounty, Thv Care. 
 
 Where'er thro' the wild wood my trend. 
 Thro' an infinite, measureless space. 
 It is there I own Thee my friend, 
 It is there that Thy beautiful face 
 
 Shines on me, the murmuring rills 
 Winding Seaward, voiceful and free. 
 The Song-bird's low music that thrills. 
 Are sweet Benedictions from Thee. 
 
 33 
 
34 
 
 Thou art there in the Sunshine and Storm, 
 On the Mountain how fair are Thy feet, 
 In the Rainbow I witness Thy form, 
 'Tis Thy music I hear in the beat 
 
 The heart pulse of Nature that makes 
 All a Glory, the Earth and the Sky, 
 Out of Life still comes Death, yet awakes 
 Out of Death a fair Life, for to die 
 
 Is to live; like a Chrysalis we. 
 
 For a form change a form, and we cast 
 
 The old for the new shell to be. 
 
 What we shall be, not what we were last. 
 
 Keep me, nourish me, Father, I pray ! 
 In Thy Soul let my Soul be all spent. 
 What matters Life's wearysome way 
 If in Thee I find rest and content. 
 
 Away from the bustle and strife 
 Of the town, let me flee while I can, 
 Where Curses, not Prayers, season Life, 
 And Man ever preys upon Man. 
 
 ^ Lot 99 
 
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