Classic Poem

Where a chain of sandy beaches
Cuts across an open sea,
Blue as asters, pink as peaches
Out beyond the farthest reaches
For a distant eye to see,
Every colour that one wishes
May be witnessed hereabout
From the sand-dunes to the ocean.
If the tide is going out,
There are sea-gulls in commotion
Flying over where a fish is;
In a pool as green as grass
Crimson shatterings may pass
Or a blackness blowing over
Quench the colour like a cover;
And the fronds of water-weeds,
Thick as leather, wave and feather,
Tossing stems blown out with beads
As wave after wave recedes.
If the tide is coming in,
What a thunder! What a din!
With the slappings and the swishes,
Creeping slowly and a thin
Line of little forward breakers
Licking onward up the sand
Like the fingers of a hand
Tapping where they'll soon be takers
For the sea has grabbed the land.
Up beyond the sand and eel-grass
Is a sunny little town
Built of palm-tree and palmetto.
It's a city here in petto ,
With its huts all golden brown,
And above, upon the thatches
Of its roofs are purple patches
Where the bougainvillaea's sown
Light-heeled seeds to wax and bloom there,
Always finding ample room there
For the forest's fleecy down.
Here were Indians long ago
In the days before a prow,
Topped by carven saint or sinner,
Sailed across the Spanish Main.
When the caravels and galleons
Of an overweening Spain
Had not found the precious metals
Of the Incas, or in vain
Wasted men and blood and treasure
Forcing Indians from their leisure
Just to glut the greed of gain.
When the opal orchid petals
Were no scientific find,
But a shimmer in the wind.
Ere the feet of dappled stallions
Set the print of iron shoe
On a sandy sunken shore,
But the dappled stallions waited
All in vain, for they were fated
To recross the sea no more.
And their masters often died
Waiting with them, side by side,
An emaciated crew.
All that happened long ago.
Now the vessels, to and fro,
Come as punctually as clock-work
Or at least they mean to do.
And they carry under hatches
All things needed by the cities
They have planted on the sands.
And the monasteried monks,
Hearing tales in quiet cells,
Whispered low in broken snatches
To an undertone of bells
From some wanderer overseas,
Find their hearts moved by strange pities
At the listening to these,
And they volunteer in bands
To convert the simple dwellers
Of these unimagined lands,
Worshipping as they should not.
Manner bringers, pardon sellers,
Vessels carry them in hordes
With a zeal that's piping hot.
Bishops lay aside their croziers,
Hew palmettos into boards,
Build them churches as a duty,
Fill them with whatever booty
They can find of silk or wax,
Woolen fabric, cloth of flax,
Goods of tailors, mercers, hosiers,
In the bottoms that come in,
And for payment wink at sin.
So the church grows, hung with feathers
Woven by the tired Indians,
Lined with these and Spanish leathers,
For at bargains none are keener
Than the potentates of churches.
So it was with Carthagena.
On a hill that rises straightly
From the town, it stands in stately
Isolation, gazing far
All across the stretching ocean.
Privateers and men of war,
Lost in reckoning, see its spire
Burning like a sacred fire
From the broad-leaved palms which rise
Just to where the windowed eyes
Stare forever out to sea.
And the captain calls his people,
Points to where that far-off shining
Glitters like a distant star,
Tells them, not without emotion,
That he knows now where they are,
They may cease their long repining
For that shimmering has been a
Joy to many, 'tis the steeple
Of the Church of Carthagena.
Sailors call the sunny flame
By another, fragrant name:
When the sparkle in the sky
First appears, they raise a cry
" Look! It is our Lady's eye! "
" The Madonna of the Ships " —
So she is to sailors' lips.
And indeed she is a sweetly
Lovely image, most discreetly
Veiled in gauzy stars and roses
With an iridescent cloak,
Made, at least so one supposes,
Noticing its changing sheen —
Ruby sometimes, sometimes green —
Of the wings of humming-birds.
From the hem of it, there poke
Little shoes of gold and blue,
Sewn with gems, not one or two,
But a toe-full flashing through
The beholder's head as though
He were watching the rainbow.
On her head a crown is set
Where great moons of carven jet
Are in fact no jet at all,
But black opals; and the fall
Of her wimple wrought of lace
Half obscures her wondrous face.
Only half, for there's her mouth,
And her nose, an awkward feature
For so heavenly a creature:
There's a sauciness of shape,
And the tip points upward slyly,
But her mouth is most demurely
Small and wistful, yet to see it
Is to know a sudden drouth.
But the priest, who's old and wily,
If you question him says, " Surely
God has ordered, and so be it! "
Glorious, excellent Madonna,
She of ships, and furious oceans,
Here at the Antipodes,
How should she resemble these
Dim Cathedral Virgins, hearing
Ancient fly-blown sins forever,
Snivelled into their dull ears
For eternities of years.
Sins here have a different flavour.
We must cast our hide-bound notions
Of her manner of appearing.
Here she is in perfect semblance
Of what she should be, her lips
Frame her name, or its resemblance:
" The Madonna of the Ships. "

But there is a curious story
You may hear about the streets.
Though they tell it to her glory,
Every second man one meets
Winks his eye when you address him
Speaking of her brave attire,
And if you go on and press him,
He will cross himself and say
'Tis no wonder, for the day
That the pirate ship caught fire
At the entrance of the bay
Was when last the priests arrayed her
Newly for a festival
Offered for the town's escape
From a sacking; they displayed her
In the morning. All agape,
Lacking reason's wherwithal
To digest this information,
You may beg for farther light
On so dim a revelation.
But your man is nothing loth,
For his city's praise and pride,
To detail upon his oath
What no citizen will hide:
The possession of a Blessing
Such as nowhere else can be,
Not in any place soever
All along that spacious sea,
At no river-mouth or harbour
Of that many-harboured sea.
So you learn that that same night
For a space of several hours
The high altar was deserted,
Not a trace of waxen image,
Only dropped and withered flowers
Shaken from her feather cape.
Then the church's doors were closed,
But a panic was averted
For the priests gave out she dozed
Being weary. All that night
The priests knelt and said their masses,
Swung their censers left and right,
Moved before the empty altar
With their passes and repasses,
And their sacred psalms and droning.
A great wind outside was moaning.
And the whirled palmettos scratching
On the walls, their great leaves catching
In the flimsy window shutters.
Streams of rain poured from the gutters.
One young priest began to falter
Fearing doom or miracle,
Or a Demon out of Hell.
But his fellows chanted on
Orison for orison.
Suddenly a fearful gale
Shook the church, and furious hail
Rattled on the wooden roof,
Like a squad of eager devils
Spitting flame from horn to hoof
Showering down a thousand evils.
And a window burst asunder.
There was heard a peal of thunder,
A distracting, dooming thunder,
Bearing omen in its rolling,
Tolling dolefully and slowly,
While the church stood slightly under
This reverberate and wholly
Overhanging dome of thunder.
Every joist and rafter quivered,
And the leather hangings shivered.
So protracted was the thunder,
Such an everlasting thunder,
That the priests both old and young
Were quite paralyzed of tongue,
And they ceased their weary singing,
Saying nothing after that.
Truth to tell, they fell down flat.
Each one wanted to be hid,
None saw what the others did.
Each priest's eyes were shut, each prayed.
But the storm seemed to be laid.
For a perfect calm was there,
Not a flutter nicked the air
Which appeared to hold its breath
Folding round them like a wreath
From the open window where
The palmetto leaf hung in
Still as stone, but dripping wet.
And the dripping made a noise
Like a nail which strikes on tin
Or a tinkling little bell
Palpitating for a spell
From some lonely hermitage
At the bottom of a dell.
And the pause endured an age,
Till each priest was moved to see,
Dared once more to look and see,
What that tinkling noise might be.
And they saw the altar set
For high mass and on it standing
Their dear Lady, and her poise
Was that of a flying gull
Just an instant after landing.
The priests gasped: " A Miracle! "
Sobbing, kneeling down before
Their Madonna, on the floor.
But the image made no sign,
Only her far-looking eyes
Gazed upon them with benign
Pleasantness, as one who sighs
And, in sighing, smiles again,
Pitiful to mortal men.
But they might not long indulge
Their great wonder and alarm,
Which no telling may divulge,
Seeing her escaped from harm.
For the old priest bade them haste
To relieve their Lady's plight
From the ravage of the night.
She was mud from foot to waist,
In her crown long weeds were tangled,
One of her bejewelled shoes
Was not there, and sea-shells jangled
Caught upon her feathered dress.
No time this to stare and pray,
Even though the wits confuse,
She must be well comforted,
Cherished, cosseted, and tended
Now her voyaging is ended,
Bathed, and combed, and clothed, and fed
With the sacred wine and bread.
Awed before her holiness,
Frightened priests ran to obey,
Getting in each other's way
In their eagerness to serve her,
Be the one most to deserve her.
In the end the task was done;
And the instant that the sun,
Calculated to exalt her,
Shone upon the wooden altar,
There they placed her reverently,
Crossing breast and bowing knee
To their " Lady of the Sea "
Blazoned in new finery.
When the clock that hung inside
The tall steeple stood at ten,
The church door was opened wide,
Everyone could enter then,
And the priests were told the news:
How the pirates nearly came
To the city, when a flame
Burst up from the nearing ship;
How they let the cable slip
Trying to put the fire out;
How the ship went on the shore
Lacking room to put about;
That the drowned were a full score,
And the others clapped in jail.
So the populace filed slowly
Past the altar, meek and lowly,
Saying " Mary, Mary, Hail! "
And the young priest, cold and pale,
Whispered the thing that befell,
How it was a miracle!
But the old priest said, " 'Tis well, "
Joining ancient finger-tips,
" Bless our Lady of the Ships! "