But no one descended to the Traveller; To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, 20 That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:"Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house 30 From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. (1911) THE DAUBER ROUNDS CAPE HORN* JOHN MASEFIELD [From a long narrative poem, called Dauber, relating the adventures of an English boy who shipped as a seaman because he wished to be an artist-especially a painter of the sea.] So the night passed, but then no morning broke Only a something showed that night was dead. A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke, And the fog drew away and hung like lead. Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red; Copyright by the Macmillan Company. Reprinted from "Dauber" by special permission of the publishers and the author. Come what cards might, he meant to play the pack. "Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheet went clack; Ice filled the air with spikes; the graybacks burst. "Here's Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first. "Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you're a man! I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!" Up on the yards already they began That battle with a gale which strikes men dumb. The leaping topsail thundered like a drum. The frozen snow beat in the face like shots. III The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots. So up upon the topsail yard again, In the great tempest's fiercest hour, began Probation to the Dauber's soul, of pain Which crowds a century's torment in a span. For the next month the ocean taught this man, And he, in that month's torment, while she wested, Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested. But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose 120 Within the hour and blew again; and still The water as it burst aboard her froze. The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill, Daunting man's body, tampering with his will; But after thirty days a ghostly sun Gave sickly promise that the storms were done. A great gray sea was running up the sky, Desolate birds flew past; their mewings A slant came from the south; the singers stood Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, soon, Said one to other, as the ship lay over, Making her course again—again a rover. Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell. Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!"1 142 The combless seas were lumping into swell; The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet. More sail was made; the watch on deck was set To cleaning up the ruin broken bare A white star born in the evening glow But out of the woods as night grew cool * Reprinted from a volume called "Rivers to the Sea," published by the Macmillan Company, and reprinted by special permission. It grunted and splashed and waded in, The star grew pale and hid her face THE FINDING OF JAMIE✶ JOHN G. NEIHARDT [This is the last section of a modern epic called The Song of Hugh Glass, dealing with men concerned in the hunting and trapping adventures of the American fur-trade in the Northwest. The incidents of the poem occurred in 1823-25. Jamie, young and golden-haired, was the devoted friend of the old hunter, Hugh Glass, who had once saved his life in a fight with the Ree Indians. Hugh, alone on the range near the Grand River, had been attacked by a bear and wounded almost to death; Jamie, finding him, watched alone with the unconscious man through the night, and then for three more nights in company with friends. Recovery seeming hopeless, Jamie's companion, Jules, dug a grave for Hugh, but still he did not die. Finally, when there was danger of an attack by Indians, Jamie was persuaded to leave his friend and rejoin, with Jules, the main body of the men; they took with them Hugh's gun, flint, and knife. At length, coming to himself, and finding that he had been deserted and robbed, the wounded man crawled across the plain to the Missouri River, where he built a raft and drifted down to Kiowa. Convinced that Jamie had been a traitor to him, he set out to find him, at first with only vengeance in his heart. It should be noticed that the poet seeks to present not only the epic story of the hunters in the primitive era of the Northwest, but also what may be called the epic march of nature, of the seasons, on the great plains.] The country of the Crows Through which the Big Horn and the Rosebud run,1 Sees over mountain-peaks the setting sun; And southward from the Yellowstone flung wide, It broadens ever to the morning side And has the Powder on its vague frontier. About the subtle changing of the year, Ere even favored valleys felt the stir Of Spring, and yet expectancy of her From "The Song of Hugh Glass," copyright by the Macmillan Company, 1915. Reprinted by special permission. Silently He heard the careless parley of his men, And thought of how the Spring should come again, 21 That garish strumpet with her world-old lure, To waken hope where nothing may endure, To quicken love where loving is betrayed. Yet now and then some dream of Jamie made Slow music in him for a little while; He seemed as one who feeds upon his heart, And finds, despite the bitter and the smart, A little sweetness and is glad for that. Thence, fearing to encounter with the Ree, They headed eastward through the barren land, To where, fleet-footed down a track of sand, 2 Henry's Post. At the junction of the Yellowstone and Big Horn rivers. 3 the Platte. In eastern Wyoming. The Niobrara1 races for the morn- Upon the southern slopes the baby Spring, And ringed with swords of lightning, she would ride, 50 The haughty victrix and the mystic bride, Clad splendidly as never Sheba's Queen, Before her marching multitudes of green In many-bannered triumph! Grudging, slow, Amid the fraying fringes of the snow The bunch-grass sprouted; and the air was chill. Along the northern slopes 'twas winter still, And no root dreamed what Triumph over Death Was nurtured now in some bleak Nazareth Beyond the crest to sunward. On they spurred 60 Through vacancies that waited for the bird, And everywhere the Odic2 Presence dwelt. The Southwest blew, the snow began to melt; And when they reached the valley of the Snake, The Niobrara's ice began to break, And all night long and all day long it made A sound as of a random cannonade With rifles snarling down a skirmish line. A giant staggered by a pigmy's sling. Thence, plunging ever deeper into Spring, Across the greening prairie east by south They rode, and, just above the Platte's wide mouth, 81 Came, weary with the trail, to Atkinson.3 There all the vernal wonder-work was done: No care-free heart might find aught lacking there. Might not the sad forget, The happy here have nothing more to seek? Lo, yonder, by that pleasant little creek, How one might loll upon the grass and fish, And build the temple of one's wildest wish 'Twixt nibbles! Surely there was quite enough 90 Of wizard-timber and of wonder-stuff Yet there was one whose spirit stood aloof Aye, Jamie had been there; but when the tale That roving trappers brought from KiOwa1 Was told to him, he seemed as one who |