So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye. The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born. O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day. They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. "All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call. "By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried. "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied. She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light. And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old. THE DEPARTED FRIEND BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Though he that ever kind and true Be now a moment gone before, Yet doubt not; anon the seasons shall restore He pushes on with right good will Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill, That self-same upland hopeful way That you and he through many a doubtful day Attempted still. He is not dead, this friend—not dead, But in the path we mortals tread Got some few, trifling steps ahead So that you, too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend Push gayly on, strong heart; the while You travel forward mile by mile, He loiters with a backward smile Till you can overtake, And strains his eyes to search his wake, Or, whistling, as he sees you through the brake, Waits on a stile. BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Grief, with a glass that ran; And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand In the houses of death and of birth; And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They fill'd his body with life; A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And night, and sleep in the night. In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. THE SONG OF THE CAMP BY BAYARD TAYLOR Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; |