By Henry Meade Bland Because there is a rosy memory Of stream and flower and a face divine Woven with high crag and lilied lea, I, Inno, child of the Dawn and the White Sunshine And lose myself among the ancient pine, Climbing the highest cliff in silent joy, Lone as lorn Paris driven by fate from song-built Troy. How can I read the glacier chronicle, Of heaped moraine, or rock-wall scarred and seamed: Upon the yearning soul that once has dreamed On labyrinthine mind or once has deemed, That he has found perfection in a face: And all the magic of that face is reamed Into his brain, woven in immortal lace, Too many memories ensnare the heart, And seem to hold it from the days to be. I shall forget the things of which I was a part: I turn my gaze upon the flowered lea, The joyous thrush is rhyming now for me, The waterfall is singing hour by hour: Make me, oh Crag, of thine eternity! Give me, oh Vale, the glory of thy dower! Touch me, I pray, with thy strong majesty and power! Clear as a star reflected in the deep Of silent Mirror Lake, that face to me! No breath of air breaks in upon the sleep Of jewelled water, shining radiantly: Thus in that quiet lake of memory (As in the silver pool) upon the star I look with eager wondering eye and see The meteor-flash of beauty from afar; And fain would turn the key, the sacred past unbar. I walk in silence by the mossed stream, The ousel sings, the summer clouds are high; My mind runs only to a single theme An eager face that ever flashes nigh. I gaze the long prospect to the tender sky: Lo, it is there, and ever seems to rise. Then comes the gray dove's plaintive loving cry Only to be broken by a sweet surprise; Through the dark oak leaves gleam those eager talking eyes. And yet how often I linger on the trail, Or when the new moon leads the starry van Perhaps the Master-Mind has subtly given All the sweet harmonies of Eden-Time There gleams the rainbow over Vernal Fall A hundred thousand years of mountain bloom!- Nepenthe, asphodel and quiet rue, And all the fine embroidery of leaf and fern! In such a vale beloved Endymion Into the starlight, and through the night is felt Telling of love and war in many a sweet-sung tale. The great Earth-Mother carved, long, long ago, Her finger in the sand. She taught the snow The way of the stream. She hung the rose with dew. She hollowed out the caves, and tuned anew The hills to low Aeolian refrain: She gave the sky its deep eternal blue: She changed the snow to singing summer rain; Here fair Niam, the Oread of the Wind, And now she spreads her couch in many a sunlit hue. And here star-eyed Idalean Venus rose, Said she was born of foam: clear to his ken He saw her spring fairer than poet's pen Here on a flowery day came John o' the Mountain, And I, too, came and saw, and loved; and listened Dreamed by the river, watched with tender care Trailed through the meadow where the debonair All the long summer afternoons me-seemed To have been carried away to Aidenn-Land, Love drank libations from his chalice oaken And a new friendship smiled with many a happy token. The Mate's Revenge By Tom Devine F |IGHTING HANS BENSON, skipper of the schooner "Carrier Dove," stood on the poop deck with his lean legs far apart. One hand was holding the binoculars to his eyes and the other was savagely sawing circles in the air. He was looking aloft at the jigger top mast Slim Anderson was painting. His actions showed anger; his voice and words disgust. "Hey aloft, there! Yes, you, you slabsided, beach-coming swab, cover them there holidays. Where? Holy salt mackeral, can't yer see? On your port. Don yer port! Oh, limped-eyed saints above, can you see that corn-planter looking to his starboard? Yes, that's the spot, now paint, paint it! By the brimstone smells of Hell, he's dropped his brush! I never seen such an awkward potato pl-" He got no farther in his tirade. Something rubbed against his leg. It was Davy Jones, his black tom cat. He picked the cat up, smuggled him in the hollow of his arm, and as he stroked its back with his tarry hand, he went below. Davy Jones was his only friend. Fighting Hans lavished all his rough affection on him; confided his joys to him; his sorrows, his misgivings, and if he ever spoke a civil word it was to his cat. Yet, with all his cussedness, Fighting Hans was mis-named. He did not belong to that old school of skippers who argued with a belaying pin. He was a fault-finding, nagging old woman of the sea. Still, his bodily appearance was that of a fighter. He was built square from his hips up. Even his whiskers had square outlines and his head-Take another look at the name and judge for yourself. He had sailed and hauled ropes since he was a boy. Consequently his arms were nearly as large, and long as his legs. But his eyes, when they could be seen amid his shaggy eyebrows and whiskers that grew well over his cheek bones, showed his weak nature. They were of a washed blue color, flecked with muddy specks, and, yet they held a repulsive gleam. He was named about twenty years ago at Guymas, Mexico, by the wit of the ship's crew, to perpetuate the memory of a fight between Carlos Schuler, a second mate, and Fighting Hans. This Carlos was a cunning scoundrel, half Mexican and half German, who had gone ashore and drank some of the liquor courage the peons extract from cactus. A little of this juice inside the waistband of a Mexican forecasts a tempest of dark words, punctuated by the glint of daggers, and followed by a nice quiet funeral. When he came aboard he was carrying quite a cargo in his hold, besides a deck load of one quart in his hip pocket. He was looking for trouble and Fighting Hans. He found both. They exchanged sarcastic greetings and some six-cylinder compliments, remarkable in themselves for length and strength. But this was salt in old wounds so they shut their mouths and hands and proceeded to settle their troubles. Carlos, true to his Mexican blood, whipped out a dagger and made for that part of the skipper located behind the third button of his shirt. Fighting Hans avoided him with a nimble sidestep; reached out and snatched the bottle from his pocket. With a deft, backhand blow he broke the bottle on the mate's shoulder. He crumpled on the deck with a muffled clatter that ended in a slap as his face hit the hot deck. Carlos staggered to his feet, still clutching the dagger. He made at Fighting Hans again, chattering like a monkey |