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LATE SPRING

I

AH, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
Why the sweet Spring delays,
And where she hides, -- the dear desire
     Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
     The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago,
     It seemed that Spring was near!
     But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere,
     And sullen clouds drooped low
To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
     Beat on the window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed,
With rumpled feathers, down the wind again.
     Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?
     I searched their haunts in vain
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,
Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
The woods were bare: and every night the frost
To all my longings spoke a silent nay,
And told me Spring was far and far away.
Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except a broken and discouraged note, --
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, --
"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"

II

But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,
     What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a single cup,
      Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers,
      That lingered on their way,
Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,
And mingled with the bloom of later hours, --
Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
Filling the air with praise,
As if a silver chime of bells had pealed!
     The frozen songs within the breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
     Melt into rippling floods
     Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Confuse their music; for the living spark
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
      It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,
      Trembling with tenderness,
      While all the woods expand,
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
To veil the joys too sacred to be seen.

III

     Come, put your hand in mine,
True love, long sought and found at last,
And lead me deep into the Spring divine
     That makes amends for all the wintry past.
For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
     Arrive with you;
And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
     My dreams come true;
And in the promise of your generous eyes
     I read the mystic sign
     Of joy more perfect made
     Because so long delayed,
And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,
You're doubly dear because you come so late.

NEPENTHE

Yes, it was like you to forget,
And cancel in the welcome of your smile
My deep arrears of debt,
And with the putting forth of both your hands
To sweep away the bars my folly set
Between us -- bitter thoughts, and harsh demands,
And reckless deeds that seemed untrue
To love, when all the while
My heart was aching through and through
For you, sweet heart, and only you.

Yet, as I turned to come to you again,
I thought there must be many a mile
Of sorrowful reproach to cross,
And many an hour of mutual pain
To bear, until I could make plain
That all my pride was but the fear of loss,
And all my doubt the shadow of despair
To win a heart so innocent and fair;
And even that which looked most ill
Was but the fever-fret and effort vain
To dull the thirst which you alone could still.

But as I turned the desert miles were crossed,
And when I came the weary hours were sped!
For there you stood beside the open door,
Glad, gracious, smiling as before,
And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread
Restored me to the Eden I had lost.
Never a word of cold reproof,
No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse
The culprit whom they hold aloof, --
Ah, 't is not thus that other women use
The power they have Won!
For there is none like you, belovèd, -- none
Secure enough to do what you have done.
Where did you learn this heavenly art, --
You sweetest and most wise of all that live, --
With silent welcome to impart
Assurance of the royal heart
That never questions where it would forgive?

None but a queen could pardon me like this!
My sovereign lady, let me lay
Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss
Of penitence, then close the fingers up,
Thus -- thus! Now give the cup
Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth,
And come -- the garden blooms with bliss,
The wind is in the south,
The rose of love with dew is wet --
Dear, it was like you to forget!

HESPER.

HER eyes are like the evening air,
     Her voice is like a rose,
Her lips are like a lovely song,
     That ripples as it flows,
And she herself is sweeter than
     The sweetest thing she knows.

A slender, haunting, twilight form
     Of wonder and surprise,
She seemed a fairy or a child,
     Till, deep within her eyes,
I saw the homeward-leading star
     Of womanhood arise.

ARRIVAL

ACROSS a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
I travelled fast and far for this, -- to take thee by the hand.

A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his port would be,
So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face!

Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam!
The Power that made me wander far at last has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.

DEPARTURE

OH, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
And why is the garden so gay?
Do you know that my days of delight are done,
Do you know I am going away?
If you covered your face with a cloud, I 'd dream
You were sorry for me in my pain,
And the heads of the flowers all bowed would seem
To be weeping with me in the rain.

But why is your head so low, sweet heart,
And why are your eyes overcast?
Are they clouded because you know we must part,
Do you think this embrace is our last?
Then kiss me again, and again, and again,
Look up as you bid me good-bye!
For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear,
And your smile is the sun in my sky.

THE BLACK BIRDS

I

ONCE, only once, I saw it clear, --
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen, --
And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove

From the rough mountain where I stood,
Homesick for happiness,
Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
To cross, and then the long distress
Of solitude would be forever past, --
I should be home at last.
But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
On all this loveliness, so near,
And mine to-morrow!

Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,
A dark bird flew,
Silent, with sable wings.
Close in his wake another came, --
Fragments of midnight floating through
The sunset flame, --
Another and another, weaving rings
Of blackness on the primrose sky, --
Another, and another, look, a score,
A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, --
They boiled into the lucid air
Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
And more, and more, and ever more,
The numberless, ill-omened brood,
Flapping their ragged plumes,
Possessed the landscape and the evening light
With menaces and glooms.
Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place
Where once I saw the little house so white
Amid the flowers, covering every trace
Of beauty from my troubled sight, --
And suddenly it was night!

II

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and love
That those night-loving wings had poised above, --
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the withering heads
Of flowers, presaging decay,
Hung over barren beds:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day, --
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.

WITHOUT DISGUISE

IF I have erred in showing all my heart,
     And lost your favour by a lack of pride;
     If standing like a beggar at your side
With naked feet, I have forgot the art
Of those who bargain well in passion's mart,
     And win the thing they want by what they hide;
     Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied,
Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.

The sin, if sin it was, I do repent,
     And take the penance on myself alone;
Yet after I have borne the punishment,
     I shall not fear to stand before the throne
Of Love with open heart, and make this plea:
     "At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!"

GRATITUDE

"DO you give thanks for this? -- or that?"
     No, God be thanked
          I am not grateful
In that cold, calculating way, with blessing ranked
     As one, two, three, and four, -- that would be hateful.

I only know that every day brings good above"
          My poor deserving;
I only feel that, in the road of Life, true Love
     Is leading me along and never swerving.

Whatever gifts and mercies in my lot may fall,
          I would not measure
As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small;
     But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless
          The Hand that feeds us;
And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness,
     Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.

MASTER OF MUSIC

(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)

GLORY of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard,
     Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song, --
Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred,
     Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long!

Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away?
     Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air?
Gone, -- it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day!
     The Master has finished his work, and the glory of music is -- where?

Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound
     Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old:
Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground,
     Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous harmonies rolled!

Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea;
     Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll,
Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee, --
     The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.

STARS AND THE SOUL
(To Charles A. Young, Astronomer)

"TWO things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe:
The starry heavens and the moral law."
Nay, add another wonder to thy roll, --
The living marvel of the human soul!

Born in the dust and cradled in the dark,
It feels the fire of an immortal spark,
And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes,
The splendid secret of the unconscious skies.

For God thought Light before He spoke the word;
The darkness understood not, though it heard:
But man looks up to where the planets swim,
And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him.

What knows the star that guides the sailor's way,
Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray,
Of toil and passion, danger and distress,
Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness?

But human hearts that suffer good and ill,
And hold to virtue with a loyal will,
Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife
With star-surpassing victories of life.

So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies,
Devout astronomer, most humbly wise,
For lessons brighter than the stars can give,
And inward light that helps us all to live.

The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crown
The star-discoverer's name with high renown;
Accept the flower of love we lay with these
For influence sweeter than the Pleiades!

TO JULIA MARLOWE
(Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn)

LONG had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede
     Of marble maidens round this urn divine:
But when your golden voice began to read,
     The empty urn was filled with Chian wine.

PAN LEARNS MUSIC

LIMBER-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock,
Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock?
What are you making here? "Listen," said Pan, --
"Out of a river-reed music for man!"

"UNDINE"

'T WAS far away and long ago,
     When I was but a dreaming boy,
This fairy tale of love and woe
     Entranced my heart with tearful joy;
And while with white Undine I wept,
     Your spirit, -- ah, how strange it seems, --
Was cradled in some star, and slept,
     Unconscious of her coming dreams.

LOVE IN A LOOK

LET me but feel thy look's embrace,
     Transparent, pure, and warm,
And I'll not ask to touch thy face,
     Or fold thee with mine arm.
For in thine eyes a girl doth rise,
     Arrayed in candid bliss,
And draws me to her with a charm
     More close than any kiss.

A loving-cup of golden wine,
     Songs of a silver brook,
And fragrant breaths of eglantine,
     Are mingled in thy look.
More fair they are than any star,
     Thy topaz eyes divine --
And deep within their trysting-nook
     Thy spirit blends with mine.

MY APRIL LADY

WHEN down the stair at morning
     The sunbeams round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter
     Are bubbling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
     Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
     I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight
     The quiet book-room lies,
We read the sad old ballads,
     While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
     That give her heart relief;
And in the evening twilight,
     I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady,
     Of sunshine and of showers,
She weaves the old spring magic,
     And breaks my heart in flowers!
But when her moods are ended,
     She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
     I know her name is Love.

A LOVER'S ENVY

I ENVY every flower that blows
Along the meadow where she goes,
  And every bird that sings to her,
  And every breeze that brings to her
     The fragrance of the rose.

I envy every poet's rhyme
That moves her heart at eventime,
   And every tree that wears for her
   Its brightest bloom, and bears for her
     The fruitage of its prime.

I envy every Southern night
That paves her path with moonbeams white,
   And silvers all the leaves for her,
   And in their shadow weaves for her
     A dream of dear delight.

I envy none whose love requires
Of her a gift, a task that tires:
   I only long to live to her,
   I only ask to give to her
     All that her heart desires.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

O WONDERFUL! How liquid clear
The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
Floating and falling through the wood alone,
A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!
0 holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,
Long light, low light, glory of eventide!
Love far away, far up. -- up, -- love divine!
Little love, too, for ever, ever, near,
Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
In the leafy dark where you hide,
You are mine, -- mine, -- mine!

Ah, my belovèd, do you feel with me
The hidden virtue of that melody,
The rapture and the purity of love,
The heavenly joy that can not find the word?
Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
Come very near to me, and do not move, --
Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
And we will drink the wine of love with you.

FIRE-FLY CITY

LIKE a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
     Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight:
Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting,
     I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night.

Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing,
     Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream;
Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing,
     A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam.

Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions;
     Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green;
Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions, --
     Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean?

Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me?
     Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, kisses and wine:
Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me:
     A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine!

Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting, --
     Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair,
Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting,
     The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air!

Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is turning:
     Sleep in your quiet room, while through the midnight gloom my train is whirled.
Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is burning, --
     The only never failing light in all the phantom world.

THE GENTLE TRAVELLER

"THROUGH many a land your journey ran,
     And showed the best the world can boast:
Now tell me, traveller, if you can,
     The place that pleased you most."

She laid her hands upon my breast,
     And murmured gently in my ear,
"The place I loved and liked the best
     Was in your arms, my dear!"

SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908

O GARDEN isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, --
    Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,
       Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm rays
       That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, --
       What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee?
       Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days,
       She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays
       Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony!

Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
    And man the plaything of unconscious fate?
       Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above
       And man is greatest in his darkest hours:
       Walking amid the cities desolate,
       The Son of God appears in human love.

                       Tertius and Henry van Dyke, January, 1909.

THE WINDOW

ALL night long, by a distant bell,
     The passing hours were notched
On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,
     And the spark of life I watched
In her face was glowing or fading, -- who could tell? --
     And the open window of the room,
With a flare of yellow light,
     Was peering out into the gloom,
Like an eye that searched the night.

Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do you fear?
     "I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear:
Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the night-wind's breath,
     And low in the leafy laurels the larking shadow of death."

Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
     Told of the passing away
Of the dark, -- and my darling may have heard;
     For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,
     Till the splendor born in the east outburned
The yellow lamplight, pale and thin,
     And the open window slowly turned
To the eye of the morning, looking in.

Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes you so bright?
     "I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white,
With the rose of life on her tips, and the breath of life in her breast,
     And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes her rest."

Neuilly, June, 1909.

TWILIGHT IN THE ALPS

I LOVE the hour that comes, with dusky hair
     And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells
To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells
     Go chiming after her across the fair
And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
     Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells
     Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems
     To walk before the dark by falling rills,
And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
     She opens all the doors of night, and fills
With moving bells the music of my dreams,
     That wander far among the sleeping hills.

        Gstaad, August, 1909.

JEANNE D'ARC

THE land was broken in despair,
     The princes quarrelled in the dark,
When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air
Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare,
          Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc.

O virgin breast with lilies white,
     O sun-burned hand that bore the lance,
You taught the prayer that helps men to unite,
You brought the courage equal to the fight,
          You gave a heart to France!

Your king was crowned, your country free,
    At Rheims you had your soul's desire:
And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy,
The black-robed judges gave your victory
          The martyr's crown of fire.

And now again the times are ill,
     And doubtful leaders miss the mark;
The people lack the single faith and will
To make them one, -- your country needs you still, --
          Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc!

O woman-star, arise once more
     And shine to bid your land advance:
The old heroic trust in God restore,
Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore,
     And give a heart to France!

                Paris, July, 1909.

HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE

June 22, 1611

THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY

ONE sail in sight upon the lonely sea
And only one, God knows! For never ship
But mine broke through the icy gates that guard
These waters, greater grown than any since
We left the shores of England. We were first,
My men, to battle in between the bergs
And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine;
I name it! and that flying sail is mine!
And there, hull-down below that flying sail,
The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine!
My ship Discoverie!
                                 The sullen dogs
Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched
Their food and bit the hand that nourished them,
Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene,
I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch,
And paid your debts, and kept you in my house,
And brought you here to make a man of you!
You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man,
Toothless and tremulous, how many times
Have I employed you as a master's mate
To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett,
You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan,
You knew the plot and silently agreed,
Salving your conscience with a pious lie!
Yes, all of you -- hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring back
My ship!
                Too late, -- I rave, -- they cannot hear
My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh
Would be their answer; for their minds have caught
The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve,
That looks like courage but is only fear.
They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown, --
Or blunder home to England and be hanged.
Their skeletons will rattle in the chains
Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs,
While passing mariners look up and say:
"Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men
"Who left their captain in the frozen North!"

O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained
Plans of the wise and actions of the brave
Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards?
Look, -- there she goes, -- her topsails in the sun
Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop
Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go
Clean out of mind! We'll think of braver things!
Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King,
You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west.
You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose
Freely to share our little shallop's fate,
Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship, --
Too good an English seaman to desert
These crippled comrades, -- try to make them rest
More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son,
My little shipmate, come and lean your head
Against your father's knee. Do you recall
That April morn in Ethelburga's church,
Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled
To take the sacrament with all our men,
Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks
On our first voyage? It was then I vowed
My sailor-soul and years to search the sea
Until we found the water-path that leads
From Europe into Asia.
                                      I believe
That God has poured the ocean round His world,
Not to divide, but to unite the lands.
And all the English captains that have dared
In little ships to plough uncharted waves, --
Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher,
Raleigh and Gilbert, -- all the other names, --
Are written in the chivalry of God
As men who served His purpose. I would claim
A place among that knighthood of the sea;
And I have earned it, though my quest should fail!
For, mark me well, the honour of our life
Derives from this: to have a certain aim
Before us always, which our will must seek
Amid the peril of uncertain ways.
Then, though we miss the goal, our search is crowned
With courage, and we find along our path
A rich reward of unexpected things.
Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares!

I know not why, but something in my heart
Has always whispered, "Westward seek your goal!"
Three times they sent me east, but still I turned
The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes
Of ruttling ice along the Gröneland coast,
And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland,
And past the rocky capes and wooded bays
Where Gosnold sailed, -- like one who feels his way
With outstretched hand across a darkened room, --
I groped among the inlets and the isles,
To find the passage to the Land of Spice.
I have not found it yet, -- but I have found
Things worth the finding!
                                       Son, have you forgot
Those mellow autumn days, two years ago,
When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon, --
The flag of Holland floating at her peak, --
Across a sandy bar, and sounded in
Among the channels, to a goodly bay
Where all the navies of the world could ride?
A fertile island that the redmen called
Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land
Around was bountiful and friendly fair.
But never land was fair enough to hold
The seaman from the calling of the sea.
And so we bore to westward of the isle,
Along a mighty inlet, where the tide
Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood
That seemed to come from far away, -- perhaps
From some mysterious gulf of Tartary?

Inland we held our course; by palisades
Of naked rock where giants might have built
Their fortress; and by rolling hills adorned
With forests rich in timber for great ships;
Through narrows where the mountains shut us in
With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream;
And then through open reaches where the banks
Sloped to the water gently, with their fields
Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun.
Ten days we voyaged through that placid land,
Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat
Upstream to find, -- what I already knew, --
We travelled on a river, not a strait.

But what a river! God has never poured
A stream more royal through a land more rich.
Even now I see it flowing in my dream,
While coming ages people it with men
Of manhood equal to the river's pride.
I see the wigwams of the redmen changed
To ample houses, and the tiny plots
Of maize and green tobacco broadened out
To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale
The many-coloured mantle of their crops;
I see the terraced vineyard on the slope
Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine;
And cattle feeding where the red deer roam;
And wild-bees gathered into busy hives,
To store the silver comb with golden sweet;
And all the promised land begins to flow
With milk and honey. Stately manors rise
Along the banks, and castles top the hills,
And little villages grow populous with trade,
Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, --
The thread that links a hundred towns and towers!
And looking deeper in my dream, I see
A mighty city covering the isle
They call Manhattan, equal in her state
To all the older capitals of earth, --
The gateway city of a golden world, --
A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires,
And swarming with a host of busy men,
While to her open door across the bay
The ships of all the nations flock like doves.
My name will be remembered there, for men
Will say, "This river and this isle were found
By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek
The Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde."

Yes! yes! I sought it then, I seek it still,  --
My great adventure and my guiding star!
For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done;
We hold by hope as long as life endures!
Somewhere among these floating fields of ice,
Somewhere along this westward widening bay,
Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night,
The channel opens to the Orient, --
I know it, -- and some day a little ship
Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through!
And why not ours, -- to-morrow, -- who can tell?
The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart!
These are the longest days of all the year;
The world is round and God is everywhere,
And while our shallop floats we still can steer.
So point her up, John King, nor'west by north.
We 'l1 keep the honour of a certain aim
Amid the peril of uncertain ways,
And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God.

             Oberhofen, July, 1909.