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Gavin Bone: 1934

Medium Ævum III 1-6, 1934

 

go to: line 62a; click next line to return

 

        What I know, I shall launch in this stave ---

            Truth, from tired days.

        The trailing hours, toilsome and grave,

            When the heart says: ---

    "All ships are keeps of care, islands of fear,

    In the heavy bright water!"

 

                        But night hid the clear

    When we knocked past the cliffs ---

    Strait was the watch of old

    Which found me at the stem in the pining cold,

    My feet chained down with ice. --- But burning care

    Boiled round my heart. --- And hunger often files

    Its way in flesh. ---

                       O, when a man finds fair

    Fortune on the isles,

    He has then no thought for these rime-cold

    Sliding seas of winter where I spend

    This exile and tract of life! --- Dead is my friend.

    Icicles hang around me. --- Hail is flung in the air! ---

 

            Only the crawling of the wave

                  I heard, and the ice-bound surges die.

            Sometimes the swan would be so brave

                  As, in her lonely way, to cry.

 

            I made gay thoughts out of gannets' notes,

                  I held the puffin-bird could smile:

            The sea-mew was singing instead of the throats

                  In the mead-hall, that beat up a ballad erewhile.

 

            Storms struck the stone-cliffs as the tern

                  With dewy feathers screamed above.

            Over and over answered the erne

                  With icy wings ---

                  No friend, no shelter of love

            For the want in my heart! ---

                  So the burgher in lust

            Who lives within great walls, engrossing joy,

            Happy and high with wine --- drinks and does not trust

            This talk of sailing ---

                  While I live, weary!

 

                        It darkens. From the North

                        The curling snow steals forth.

                        The frost is on the land.

                        A smallish warning band

                        Of hailstones falls in chain ---

                        The coldest kind of grain!

                        And the thought knocks my heart

                        To tempt those deep streams!

                        Often in the day

                        My wish tells me the way

                        Over the sport of the waves

                        To far lands!

 

  O no man is proud enough yet in the earth,

        So gifted of heaven, so young or so hale,

  So loved by his God, or so sure of his worth

        That he does not fear danger setting to sail!

  He wonders how heaven will treat him.

        He hasn't the pleasure in gold

  Nor the heart for a harp, nor the joy in a wife ---

        All the pastimes of earth are grown old ---

  He can think about only the rolling and strife

        Of big waves beating the hold ---

  So his heart is fed with longing, who wends to the blue and the cold!

 

      The boughs take blossom, towns are gay,

            The meadows green, and Spring's in train:

      All these things urge me on my way

            To seek the lonely floods again

      O vainly does the cuckoo sing

            (The keeper of the gate of Spring)

      Who pines my ear with her boding tone!

 

    (A thing to happier men unknown

    What exiles feel, who tempt strange ways

    With danger!)

 

      As my mind turns back the days,

    It leaves the breast, the locker-up of woes,

    To cross the whale's wet country --- yearns and goes

    Where men live happy --- comes once more to me

    Drooping and sad --- till the slow bird of the sea

    That wheels alone, and presses me from rest,

    Chides my ship on, to cross a new sea-crest!

 

        The bliss of heaven is warm as a breath,

        But this dead life is cold to my clay.

        What Life thinks weal is brushed away

        Greedily, after a glance, by Death!

 

        Ere a man die, three things suffice

        To bring him to despair: ---

        Age or disease or feud efface

        His keen life out of the air!

 

        The firmest track a man may leave

        Is in the thought of his land:

        Then let him bring the Devil to grieve

        By the dear works of his hand,

        That the children of men make a tale of him

        And he hold heaven fast! ---

        But such deeds are fled, Caesar is dead,

        Kings look best in the past.

        Lordship is nothing to the old days

        When men lived in loyal fame.

        The flower is fallen, this is the stubble,

        Weak men walk in a world of trouble,

        What was noble runs lame!

 

    The deeds that were glory halt out of our ways

    Like each man in our province called Earth who grows old:

    When age creeps upon him and powders his head,

    The hoar-pate mourns that his friend is dead,

    A son of the great --- ready for the mould!

 

    See then, the body, when the life is ta'en,

    May not taste sweetness, may not sense a sore,

    Or raise a hand, or reason with its brain!

    And though a man should place a thing of worth

    Early beside his brother in the grave,

    It climbs not with that soul, but rots in earth ......

 

    Fear towards God is great, 'twas he who framed

    The strong roots of the world, and the plains for men,

    The leaning sky. A fool who fears not is shamed,

    Death comes in a moment and nooses him again.

    But the humble man whose belief is sure

    God will help to endure.

[ac 2667 e]

 

 

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