English

“W HEN I'm discharged in Liverpool 'n' draws my bit o' pay,
I won't come to sea no more.
I'll court a pretty little lass 'n' have a weddin' day,
'N' settle somewhere down ashore.
I'll never fare to sea again a-temptin' Davy Jones,
A-hearkening to the cruel sharks a-hungerin' for my bones;
I'll run a blushin' dairy-farm or go a-crackin' stones,
Or buy 'n' keep a little liquor-store,”—
So he said.

They towed her in to Liverpool, we made the hooker fast,
And the copper-bound officials paid the crew,

Through the blue shadowy valley I hastened in a dream:
Flower rich the night, flower soft the air, a blue flower the stream
I hurried over before I came to the cabin door,
Where the orange flame-glow danced within on the beaten floor.
And the lovely mother who drooped by the sleeping child arose:
And I see how with love her eyes are glad, her face how it glows.
And I know all this was past ten thousand years away,
But in the Ever-Living yesterday is here today,
And the beauty made dust we cry out for with so much pain.

1. And when they see me coming, Their
eyes sticks out—like prongs, Sayin', “Beware of Larry
Gorman; He's the man—that makes the songs!”

2 I told her that her bread was good,
Likewise her tea was strong;
But little she knew I was Gorman,
The man who made the songs!

A sternly subtle horror grew within
The deep and shaggy wood; it seemed akin
To my sad thoughts; went on with scarce a turn
The timber pathway, till a sullen burn
Spread sideways like a white and whispering ghost,
So rippling into darkness and so lost.
Above the swamp the giant trees embrace
Like wrestling dragons, underneath the lace
Of their broad pennons; here a sullen bough
Short-lopped, gleams whitely, threatening through the sough
Of all the distant tree-tops, bids me cast
My weary expectation here at last.

On out-stretch'd Wings of glorious Seraphs borne,
More bright than Ev'ning Bow, or radiant Morn,
Lo Charity from Heav'n descends,
And Heav'nly Joy her Train attends:
Serenely meek, in Smiles array'd,
Seraphic Ardours on her wait,
Celestial Virtues shine display'd,
Celestial Pomp adorns her State.

Around her Throne obsequious move
Soft Compassion, pious Love,
Melting Pity, Hopes that chear,
And from the Wretched drive Despair.
Divine Benevolence before her stands,
Grace in her Smiles and Bounty in her Hands.

O MAN of my own people, I alone
Among these alien ones can know thy face,
I who have felt the kinship of our race
Burn in me as I sit where they intone
Thy praises,—those who, striving to make known
A God for sacrifice, have missed the grace
Of thy sweet human meaning in its place,
Thou who art of our blood-bond and our own.
Are we not sharers of thy Passion? Yea,
In spirit-anguish closely by thy side
We have drained the bitter cup, and, tortured, felt
With thee the bruising of each heavy welt.
In every land is our Gethsemane.

When the earliest star of evening breaks the gloom of twilight skies,
And to meet its fresh effulgence, we lift up day-wearied eyes,
Eyes on which Life hangs its burthen, Sleep can loose as well as Death,
Then a spirit, passing near me, pauses, breathing gentle breath.

Come thou where the giant shadows shall enclose thee with their arms,
Where the silence shields from sinful thoughts as angels guard from harms;
Not with laughter and companions, flaunting in the light of Day,
Come, a vesper Nun at even, to remember and to pray.

Lovely apostate! what was my offence?
Or am I punish'd for obedience?
Must thy strange rigours find as strange a time?
The act and season are an equall crime
Of what thy most ingenious scorns could doe,
Must I be subject and Spectatour too?
Or were the sufferings and sins too few
To be sustain'd by me, perform'd by you?
Unless (with Nero) your uncurb'd desire
Be to survey the Rome you set on fire
While wounded for and by your power, I
At once your martyr and your prospect dy.
This is my doome, and such a riddling fate

The winds blow low on the fields and hedges,
There is a murmur amid the sedges,
A low sweet sound where the water gushes
Forth from the grass amid the rushes;
It is a streamlet small and young,
It loves to dally the mosses among,
It trickles slowly,
It whispers lowly,
On its breast the thistle drops its down,
The water lily
So white and stilly
Sleeps in its lap till its leaves grow brown.

Dance, poor Eveleen—dance, and dream—
Soft is the music, and fresh the stream.
We will follow thee where it flows—

What song shall I sing to the heavens?
My heart is bounding with music:
I want to pour out my praise to the everlasting heights:
For the gift of life is apparent: as with wings I am lifted:
And the love of my heart goes forth to the ends of the Earth,
And I gather the folk in my arms, and for marvel of life
Want to chant to the heavens praise for the gift and the glory.