Lyra Heroica Part 36

Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us.'

_Whitman._

CII

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows--through doors--burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill, you bugles, blow.

Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow!

Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they continue?

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?

Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums--you bugles, wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow!

Make no parley--stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestle to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hea.r.s.es, So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud, you bugles, blow.

_Whitman._

CIII

TWO VETERANS

The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking Down a new-made double grave.

Lo! the moon ascending, Up from the east the silvery round moon, Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears.

I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring, And every blow of the great convulsive drums Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father, (In the foremost ranks of the fierce a.s.sault they fell, Two veterans son and father dropt together, And the double grave awaits them).

Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive, And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, ('Tis some mother's large transparent face In heaven brighter growing).

O strong dead-march you please me!

O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me!

O my soldiers twain! O my veterans pa.s.sing to burial!

What I have I also give you.

The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music, And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love.

_Whitman._

CIV

THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVeS

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his h.o.a.rds of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

O sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro la.s.s to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the sh.o.r.e.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's s.h.i.+ps sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro la.s.s beside, Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

_Kingsley._

CV

A WELCOME

Welcome, wild North-easter.

Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee.

Welcome, black North-easter!

O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air.

Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play!

Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy d.y.k.e; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike.

Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe.