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1865-1936
THERE’s a whisper down the field where the year has
shot her yield
And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing:—‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the
clover
And your English summer’s done.
You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song—how long! how long!
Pull out on the trail again!
Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
We’ve seen the seasons through,
And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is
always new.
It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun,
Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate;
Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,
And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail,
And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is
always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,
And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
Of a black Bilbao tramp;
With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,
And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail,
From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always
new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea
In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
And the drum of the racing screw,
As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is
always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
And the fenders grind and heave,
And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the
crate,
And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass,
It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’
And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is
always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
And the sirens hoot their dread!
When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep
To the sob of the questing lead!
It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail,
the out trail,
And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that
is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d
floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail,
We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
And the shouting seas drive by,
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and
swing,
And the Southern Cross rides high!
Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
That blaze in the velvet blue.
They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail,
They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail
that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—
We’re steaming all too slow,
And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
You have heard the call of the off-shore wind
And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song—how long! how long!
Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And the deuce knows what we may do—
But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail,
the out trail,
We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that
is always new.
THEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a path through the woods
Before they planted the trees,
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ring’d pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods ...
But there is no road through the woods.
June 22, 1897
GOD of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
Far-call’d our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
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