Song-Surf
Cale Rice




Cale Young Rice

Song-Surf




FOREWORD

These poems, first published as "Song-Surf" in 1900, by a firm which failed before the book, left the press, were republished with additions as the "lyrics" of "Plays & Lyrics," by Hodder & Stoughton, of London, in 1905. Revision and omissions have been made for this volume of a uniform edition in which they now appear.




WITH OMAR


		I sat with Omar by the Tavern door,
		Musing the mystery of mortals o'er,
		And soon with answers alternate we strove
		Whether, beyond death, Life hath any shore.

		"Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of Spring
		Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling.
		The Bird of Time has but a little way
		To flutter – and the Bird is on the Wing."

		"The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have I
		No heart for Wine. Must we not cross the Sky
		Unto Eternity upon his wings – Or,
		failing, fall into the Gulf and die?"

		"Ay; so, for the Glories of this World sigh some,
		And some for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
		But you, Friend, take the Cash – the Credit leave,
		Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!"

		"What! take the Cash and let the Credit go?
		Spend all upon the Wine the while I know
		A possible To-morrow may bring thirst
		For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?"

		"Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend,
		Before we too into the Dust descend;
		Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
		Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!"

		"Into the Dust we shall descend – we must.
		But can the soul not break the crumbling Crust
		In which he is encaged? To hope or to
		Despair he will – which is more wise or just?"

		"The worldly hope men set their hearts upon
		Turns Ashes – or it prospers: and anon,
		Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
		Lighting a little hour or two – is gone."

		"Like Snow it comes – to cool one burning Day;
		And like it goes – for all our plea or sway.
		But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purge
		The Vision it has brought to us away."

		"But to this world we come and Why not knowing,
		Nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing;
		And out of it, as Wind along the waste,
		We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing."

		"True, little do we know of Why or Whence.
		But is forsooth our Darkness evidence
		There is no Light? – the worm may see no star
		Tho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense."

		"But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?
		And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?
		O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine
		Must drown the memory of that insolence."

		"Yet can not – ever! For it is forbid
		Still by that quenchless Soul within us hid,
		Which cries, 'Feed – feed me not on Wine alone,
		For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'"

		"Well oft I think that never blows so red
		The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled:
		That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
		Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head."

		"Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes,
		More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose,
		Will the great Gardener for the uprooted soul
		Find Use no sweeter than – useless Repose?"

		"We cannot know – so fill the cup that clears
		To-day of past regret and future fears:
		To-morrow! – Why, To-morrow we may be
		Ourselves with Yesterday's sev'n thousand Years."

		"No Cup there is to bring oblivion
		More during than Regret and Fear – no, none!
		For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and be
		Marah before to-morrow's Sands have run."

		"Myself when young did eagerly frequent
		Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
		About it and about: but evermore
		Came out by the same Door where in I went."

		"The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither,
		Reason become a Prison where may wither
		From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts
		All Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither."

		"Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh Gate
		I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,
		And many a Knot unravelled by the Road —
		But not the Master-knot of Human fate."

		"The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand
		That scattered Saturn and his countless Band
		Like seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air:
		The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned."

		"Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside
		And naked on the air of Heaven ride,
		Wer't not a shame – wer't not a shame for him
		In this clay carcase crippled to abide?"

		"No, for a day bound in this Dust may teach
		More of the Sáki's Mind than we can reach
		Through æons mounting still from Sky to Sky —
		May open through all Mystery a breach."

		"You speak as if Existence closing your
		Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
		The Eternal Sáki from that Bowl has poured
		Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour."

		"Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death.
		But, in each bubble, may there be no Breath
		That lifts it and at last to Freedom flies,
		And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth?"

		"A moment's halt – a momentary taste
		Of Being from the Well amid the Waste —
		And Lo – the phantom Caravan has reached
		The Nothing it set out from – Oh, make haste!"

		"And yet it should be – it should be that we
		Who drink shall drink of Immortality.
		The Master of the Well has much to spare:
		Will He say, 'Taste' – then shall we no more be?"

		"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
		Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
		Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
		Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

		"And were it other, might we not erase
		The Letter of some Sorrow in whose place
		No truer sounding, we should fail to spell
		The Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's Face?"

		"Well, this I know; whether the one True Light
		Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me, quite,
		One flash of it within the Tavern caught
		Better than in the Temple lost outright."

		"In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.
		And everywhere that Love hath any Cost
		It may be found; the Wrath it seems is but
		A Cloud whose Dew should make its power most."

		"But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins
		Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
		Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
		They change and perish all – but He remains."

		"All – it may be. Yet lie to sleep, and lo,
		The soul seems quenched in Darkness – is it so?
		Rather believe what seemeth not than seems
		Of Death – until we know —until we know."

		"So wastes the Hour – gone in the vain pursuit
		Of This and That we strive o'er and dispute.
		Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
		Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit."

		"Better – unless we hope that grief is thrown
		Across our Path by urgence of the Unknown,
		Lest we may think we have no more to live
		And bide content with dim-lit Earth alone."

		"Then, strange, is't not? that of the myriads who
		Before us passed the door of Darkness through
		Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
		Which to discover we must travel too?"

		"Such is the Ban! but even though we heard
		Love in Life's All we still should crave the word
		Of one returned. Yet none is sure, we know,
		Though they lie deep, they are by Death deterred."

		"Send then thy Soul through the Invisible
		Some letter of the After-life to spell:
		And by and by thy Soul returned to thee
		But answers, 'I myself am Heaven and Hell.'"

		"From the Invisible, he does. But sent
		Thro' Earth, where living Goodness tho' 'tis blent
		With Evil dures, may he not read the Voice,
		'To make thee but for Death were toil ill spent'?"

		"Well, when the Angel of the darker drink
		At last shall find us by the river-brink
		And offering his Cup invite our souls
		Forth to our lips to quaff, we shall not shrink."

		"No. But if in the sable Cup we knew
		Death without waking were the wilful brew,
		Nobler it were to curse as Coward Him
		Who roused us into light – then light withdrew."

		"Then Thou who didst with pitfall and with gin
		Beset the Road I was to wander in,
		Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
		Enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin."

		"He will not. If one evil we endure
		To ultimate Debasing, oh, be sure
		'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sin
		Not His nor ours – but Fate's He could not cure."

		"Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
		That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
		The Nightingale that on the branches sang,
		Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?"

		"So does it seem – no other joys like these!
		Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease;
		And wintry Age, is't ever whisperless
		Of that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?"

		"Still, would some winged Angel ere too late
		Arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate,
		And make the stern Recorder otherwise
		Enregister, or quite obliterate!"

		"To otherwise enregister believe
		He toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve.
		And could Creation perfect from his hands
		Have come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve."

		So till the wan and early scent of day
		We strove, and silent turned at last away,
		Thinking how men in ages yet unborn
		Would ask and answer – trust and doubt and pray.




JAEL


		Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
		I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
		But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
		His spirit – by night and by day come voices that wait.

		Athirst and affrightened he fled from the star-wrought waters of Kishon.
		His face was as wool when he swooned at the door of my tent.
		The Lord hath given him into the hand of perdition,
		I smiled – but he saw not the face of my cunning intent.

		He thirsted for water: I fed him the curdless milk of the cattle.
		He lay in the tent under purple and crimson of Tyre.
		He slept and he dreamt of the surge and storming of battle.
		Ah ha! but he woke not to waken Jehovah's ire.

		He slept as he were a chosen of Israel's God Almighty.
		A dog out of Canaan! – thought he I was woman alone?
		I slipt like an asp to his ear and laughed for the sight he
		Would give when the carrion kites should tear to his bone.

		I smote thro' his temple the nail, to the dust, a worm, did I bind him.
		My heart was a-leap with rage and a-quiver with scorn.
		And I danced with a holy delight before and behind him —
		I that am called blessèd o'er all unto Judah born.

		"Aye, come, I will show thee, O Barak, a woman is more than a warrior,"
		I cried as I lifted the door wherein Sisera lay.
		"To me did he fly and I shall be called his destroyer —
		I, Jael, who am subtle to find for the Lord a way!"

		"Above all the daughters of men be blest – of Gilead or Asshur,"
		Sang Deborah, prophetess, then, from her waving palm.
		"Behold her, ye people, behold her the heathen's abasher;
		Behold her the Lord hath uplifted – behold and be calm!

		"The mother of him at the window looks out thro' the lattice to listen —
		Why roll not the wheels of his chariot? why does he stay?
		Shall he not return with the booty of battle, and glisten
		In songs of his triumph – ye women, why do ye not say?"

		And I was as she who danced when the Seas were rended asunder
		And stood, until Egypt pressed in to be drowned unto death.
		My breasts were as fire with the glory, the rocks that were under
		My feet grew quick with the gloating that beat in my breath.

		At night I stole out where they cast him, a sop to the jackal and raven.
		But his bones stood up in the moon and I shook with affright.
		The strength shrank out of my limbs and I fell, a craven,
		Before him – the nail in his temple gleamed bloodily bright.

		Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
		I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
		But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
		His spirit – by day and by night come voices that wait.

		I fly to the desert, I fly to the mountain – but they will not hide me.
		His gods haunt the winds and the caves with vengeance that cries
		For judgment upon me; the stars in their courses deride me —
		The stars Thou hast hung with a breath in the wandering skies.

		Jehovah! Jehovah! I slew him, the scourge and sting of Thy Nation.
		Take from me his spirit, take from me the voice of his blood.
		With madness I rave – by day and by night, defamation!
		Jehovah, release me! Jehovah! if still Thou art God!




TO THE SEA


		Art thou enraged, O sea, with the blue peace
		Of heaven, so to uplift thine armèd waves,
		Thy billowing rebellion 'gainst its ease,
		And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves,
		From shuddering profundities where shapes
		Of awe glide thro' entangled leagues of ooze,
		To hoot thy watery omens evermore,
		And evermore thy moanings interfuse
		With seething necromancy and mad lore?

		Or, dost thou labour with the drifting bones
		Of countless dead, thou mighty Alchemist,
		Within whose stormy crucible the stones
		Of sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,
		Are crumbled by thine all-abrasive beat?
		With immemorial chanting to the moon,
		And cosmic incantation, dost thou crave
		Rest to be found not till thy wild be strewn
		Frigid and desert over earth's last grave?

		Thou seemest with immensity mad, blind —
		With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn;
		Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mind
		Is night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scorn
		Of the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.
		Bound in thy briny bed and gnawing earth
		With foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,
		Thou art as Fate in torment of a dearth
		Of black disaster and destruction's strides.

		And how thou dost drive silence from the world,
		Incarnate Motion of all mystery!
		Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurled
		Whither thy Ghost tempestuous can see
		A desolate apocalypse of death.
		Oh, how thou dost drive silence from the world,
		With emerald overflowing, waste on waste
		Of flashing susurration, dashed and swirled
		O'er isles and continents that shrink abased!

		Nay, frustrate Hope art thou, of the Unknown,
		Gathered from primal mist and firmament;
		A surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,
		Whelming humanity with fears unmeant.
		Yet do I love thee, O, above all fear,
		And loving thee unconquerably trust
		The runes that from thy ageless surfing start
		Would read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,
		That Immortality is might of heart!




THE DAY-MOON


		So wan, so unavailing,
		Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

		Last night, sphered in thy shining,
		A Circe – mystic destinies divining;

		To-day but as a feather
		Torn from a seraph's wing in sinful weather,

		Down-drifting from the portals
		Of Paradise, unto the land of mortals.

		Yet do I feel thee awing
		My heart with mystery, as thy updrawing

		Moves thro' the tides of Ocean
		And leaves lorn beaches barren of its motion;

		Or strands upon near shallows
		The wreck whose weirded form at night unhallows

		The fisher maiden's prayers —
		"For him! – that storms may take not unawares!"

		So wan, so unavailing,
		Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

		But Night shall come atoning
		Thy phantom life thro' day, and high enthroning

		Thee in her chambers arrased
		With star-hieroglyphs, leave thee unharassed

		To glide with silvery passion,
		Till in earth's shadow swept thy glowings ashen.




A SEA-GHOST


		Oh, fisher-fleet, go in from the sea
		And furl your wings.
		The bay is gray with the twilit spray
		And the loud surf springs.

		The chill buoy-bell is rung by the hands
		Of all the drowned,
		Who know the woe of the wind and tow
		Of the tides around.

		Go in, go in! Oh, haste from the sea,
		And let them rest —
		A son and one who was wed and one
		Who went down unblest.

		Aye, even as I, whose hands at the bell
		Now labour most.
		The tomb has gloom, but Oh, the doom
		Of the drear sea-ghost!

		He evermore must wander the ooze
		Beneath the wave,
		Forlorn – to warn of the tempest born,
		And to save – to save!

		Then go, go in! and leave us the sea,
		For only so
		Can peace release us and give us ease
		Of our salty woe.




ON THE MOOR



1

		I met a child upon the moor
		A-wading down the heather;
		She put her hand into my own,
		We crossed the fields together.

		I led her to her father's door —
		A cottage mid the clover.
		I left her – and the world grew poor
		To me, a childless rover.


2

		I met a maid upon the moor,
		The morrow was her wedding.
		Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues
		Than the eve-star was shedding.

		She looked a sweet good-bye to me,
		And o'er the stile went singing.
		Down all the lonely night I heard
		But bridal bells a-ringing.


3

		I met a mother on the moor,
		By a new grave a-praying.
		The happy swallows in the blue
		Upon the winds were playing.

		"Would I were in his grave," I said,
		"And he beside her standing!"
		There was no heart to break if death
		For me had made demanding.




THE CRY OF EVE


		Down the palm-way from Eden in the mid-night
		Lay dreaming Eve by her outdriven mate,
		Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweet
		Of birth within the Garden's ecstasy.
		Pitiful round her face that could not lose
		Its memory of God's perfecting was strewn
		Her troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sigh
		Along her loveliness in the white moon.
		Then sudden her dream, too cruelly impent
		With pain, broke and a cry fled shuddering
		Into the wounded stillness from her lips —
		As, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,
		And tears, that had before ne'er visited
		Her lids with anguish, drew from her the moan:

		"Oh, Adam! What have I dreamed?
		Now do I understand His words, so dim
		To creatures that had quivered but with bliss!
		Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and I
		Wept at caresses that were once all joy,
		I have slept, seeing through Futurity
		The uncreated ages visibly!
		Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the womb
		Of Time, and all with lamentable mien
		Accusing without mercy, thee and me!
		And without pity! for tho' some were far
		From birth, and without name, others were near —
		Sodom and dark Gomorrah – from whose flames
		Fleeing one turned … how like her look to mine
		When the tree's horror trembled on my taste!
		And Babylon upbuilded on our sin;
		And Nineveh, a city sinking slow
		Under a shroud of sandy centuries
		That hid me not from the buried cursing eyes
		Of women who e'er-bitterly gave birth!
		Ah, to be mother of all misery!
		To be first-called out of the earth and fail
		For a whole world! To shame maternity
		For women evermore – women whose tears
		Flooding the night, no hope can wipe away!
		To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thou
		Hast not, endlessly beating, and to hear
		The swooning ages suffer up to God!
		And Oh, that birth-cry of a guiltless child
		In it are sounding of our sin and woe,




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