Songs of Travel

AND OTHER LINES

by
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

eighth impression

LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1908

This collection of poems, written at various times and places, mainly after the author left England for good in 1887, was sent home by him for publication a few months before his death. He had experimented with different orders and various titles, like “Songs and Notes of Travel,” “Posthumous Poems,” and others, and ultimately left the naming and arrangement to the current editor, suggesting that they be added as Book III. to future editions of “Underwoods.” This suggestion is intended to be applied; however, for those who own “Underwoods” in its original form, it has been decided to publish them separately in this volume. They have already been included in the Edinburgh Edition of the author’s works.

S. C.

CONTENTS

Give me the life I love,
Let the lava flow past me,
Give me the cheerful sky above
And the nearby path.
Resting in the brush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
That’s the life for a guy like me,
That’s the life forever.

Let the blow come soon or later,
Let whatever happens be;
Give me the earth all around
And the path ahead of me.
I'm not looking for wealth, hope, or love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I want is the sky above
And the path beneath me.

Or let autumn come to me
While I hang out in the fields,
Quieting the bird in the tree,
Chilling the blue finger.
White as flour the frosty field—
Cozy the fireside retreat—
I won’t give in to autumn,
Not even to winter!

Let the blow come, whether soon or late,
Let whatever will happen to me;
Give me the world around,
And the path in front of me.
I don’t ask for wealth, hope, or love,
Nor a friend to recognize me;
All I ask for is the sky above
And the ground below me.

Once, just by the garden gate
We kissed and said goodbye.
I have to follow this empty path
And explore the unknown.

Hail and goodbye! I must get up,
Leave behind the well-fed cattle,
And create on distant lands and skies
My journey of conflict.

The great, open world is my home,
   I wander as a determined outsider:
My love remains the open road
   And the bright eyes of danger.

Come what may, the cross, the crown,
The rainbow or the storm,
I give my soul and body up
For God to transform.

To the heart of youth, the world is a roadside.
Always moving forward, he travels; and on both sides,
Hidden deep in the gardens, golden pavilions rest,
Tucked away in blooming orchards, and far across the flat land
They beckon him with illuminated lamps in the evening.

As thick as the stars in the night sky when the moon is down,
Pleasures surround him. He moves towards his greater destiny,
Just waves a hand as he goes by,
Says a quick word to her at the garden gate,
Sings a youthful tune and then he's gone.

In dreams, I sadly see you standing
      As before:
The forgotten tokens in your hand
      Mean nothing now.

No longer does the morning light shine, no longer is the beauty,
      That cherishes, that loves.
The coldness of time strikes your face
      And reveals your tears.

He came and went. Maybe you cried for a bit
And then moved on.
Oh dear! But the one who left you with a smile
Doesn’t forget you.

She rested by the Broken Brook,
   She drank from the Weary Well,
She moved beyond my lingering gaze,
   Ah, where none can tell!

She came, she left. In other places,
Maybe under brighter skies,
Her hands will hold other hands,
Her eyes will meet other eyes.

She disappeared. In the echoing town,
   Will she remember too?
Will she remember the brown eyes
   As I remember the blue?

The endless shining sky
Rose and I saw at night
Countless angel stars
Dropping both sorrow and light.

I saw them far away like heaven,
Silent, bright, and lifeless,
And the inactive stars in the night
Meant more to me than food.

Night after night in my sadness
The stars watched over the sea,
Until suddenly, I looked into the twilight
And one star had come down to me.

As clear as the shining stars look
After the winds have cleared the sky,
Her love showed up, asking for mine,
And danced playfully in her eyes.

Clear as the shining candles burned
On Cytherea’s shrine,
Those full, glowing beauties turned,
And called and conquered mine.

The beacon light that Hero lit
shone brighter on the sea,
No clearer called for will and skill,
than hers inspired me.

I was excited to feel her presence nearby,
I surrendered at the sight.
Her silent brilliance hit my ears
Like sudden drums at night.

I ran as the cannon boomed,
   The soldiers took their positions on the walls—
Just like the devoted Eli raced
   In the sacred house of the past.

Here, madam, look! that servant is here
You chose from the crowd,
And if you don’t need heart or hands
He bows and leaves again.

To you, let snow and roses
   And golden hair belong.
These are the world’s captors,
   Let these please the crowd.
For her of deeper beauty
   Whose favor still I have,
The snow be in her dress,
   The rose be in her hair!

The color of mountain rivers
Flowing, full and cool,
From black to gold,
From fast-moving to still—
The color of heather honey,
The color of honeybees,
Will tint her golden shoulder,
Will brighten her tan knees.

Let Beauty rise in the morning from lovely dreams,
      Beauty rise from rest!
      Let Beauty rise
      For Beauty’s sake
In the hour when the birds wake in the bushes
      And the stars shine bright in the west!

Let beauty wake in the evening from the sleep of the day,
      Wake in the red evening!
      At the end of the day’s twilight
      When the shadows rise,
Let her awaken to the kiss of a gentle friend
      To give back and receive!

I don't know how it is for you—
   I love the beginning and the end,
The entire landscape of what's happening now,
   The entire journey of what has been.

One tiny detail that exists,
Neither you nor I should change—
One pebble in our way—one star
In all our sky above.

Our lives, every day and hour,
   Are a single symphony:
One path, one garden—every flower
   And every thorn is precious.

I will create brooches and toys for your enjoyment
Of birds singing in the morning and stars shining at night.
I will build a palace that's perfect for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days by the sea.

I will set up my kitchen, and you can take care of your room,
Where the river flows white and the breeze feels fresh,
And you will wash your clothes and keep yourself clean
In the morning rain and the evening dew.

And this will be for music when no one else is around,
The great song for singing, the special song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you appreciate,
Of the wide road that stretches and the fire by the roadside.

Berried brake and reedy island,
Heaven below, and only heaven above,
Through the sky’s inverted blue
Gently floated the boat that carried our love.
Bright were your eyes like the day;
Bright ran the stream,
Bright hung the sky above.
Days of April, breezes of Eden,
How the glory faded during golden hours,
And the shining moon rising,
How the boat returned home packed with flowers!
Bright were your eyes in the night:
We have lived, my love—
Oh, we have loved, my love.

Frost has frozen our flowing river,
Snow has covered our island marsh,
And next to the winter firewood
Joan and Darby doze, dream, and wake.
Still, in the river of dreams
Swims the boat of love—
Listen! the falling oar chimes!
And again in winter evenings
When the firelight feeds our imagination,
In the ears of aged lovers
Love’s own river whispers in the reeds.
Love still remembers the past, oh my love!
We have lived before,
Oh, we have loved before.

Son of my woman's body, you go, to the drum and fife,
To experience the color of love and the other side of life—
From the delicate to the rough, the strong emerging from the fragile,
Eternally through the ages, the male comes from the female.

The ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each,
The eyes blind as gems and the tongue trying to speak;
Weak hands in my chest, and yet they will wield the sword!
Dazed with sleep and milk, you wait for the day of the Lord.

Infant groom, uncrowned king, unordained priest,
Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.
You who explore my heart will shower the ladies with rings,
You, who came through the doors, will break down the doors of kings.

Bright is the sound of words
When the right person speaks them,
Lovely is the flow of songs
When the singer performs them.
They are still celebrated and shared—
On wings they are lifted—
Even after the singer is gone
And the creator is laid to rest.

Low as the singer lies
In the heather field,
Songs like his bring
The young men together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset's glow,
The lover hangs around and sings
And the girl remembers.

In the highlands, in the countryside,
Where the older farmers have rosy cheeks,
And the young beautiful maidens
Have calm eyes;
Where a peaceful silence brings joy and blessings,
And forever in the mountain hideaways
Her more beautiful music
Lingers and fades.

O to climb again to where I once roamed;
Where the old red hills are filled with birds,
And the low green meadows
Bright with grass;
And when evening fades, the million colors,
And the night arrives, and planets shine,
Look, the valley below
Star-lit!

O to dream, O to wake and roam
There, and with joy to give and receive,
Through the stillness,
Soft breath;
Look! for there, among the flowers and grass,
Only the stronger movements can be heard as they flow;
Only winds and rivers,
Life and death.

Home is no longer home to me, where must I wander?
Hunger pushes me on, I go where I have to.
Cold winter wind blows over hills and heather;
Heavy rain falls, and my roof is in ruins.
Loved by wise men was the shade of my home.
The genuine word of welcome was said at the door—
Dear old days, with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks from the past, you never return.

Home was truly home back then, my dear, filled with friendly faces,
Home was truly home back then, joyful for the child.
The fire and the bright windows sparkled over the moorland;
Song, cheerful song, created a palace in the wild.
Now, as day breaks over the moorland,
The house stands alone, and the chimney is cold.
Let it stand empty now, since all the friends have left,
The kind souls, the true hearts, who cherished this place in the past.

Spring will come again, calling up the moorfowl,
Spring will bring the sun and rain, bringing the bees and flowers;
Red will the heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft will the stream flow through the steady hours;
Bright will the day shine like it did in my childhood—
Bright will the day shine on the house with an open door;
Birds come and sing there and chirp in the chimney—
But I will go forever and never return.

In tough times, when down the iron path
The robin searches in vain
For berries and haws,
Look, bright flowers on my window-pane
The silver pencil of winter sketches.

When the snowy hills
And the bare woods are quiet;
When the snipes are silent in the frozen marshes,
And the whole garden is covered in mud,
Look, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs—
More beautiful than roses, look, the flowers of fire!

Saranac Lake.

The stormy evening is winding down, The wind howls loudly and the rain pours down, While here in my cozy home With fire-lit walls, I hear the wind outside, I listen to the calling squalls— ‘Blow, blow,’ I say, ‘you’re wasting your energy! Blow, blow,’ I say, ‘my love is home again!’

That ship you're chasing probably left last night
With the precious cargo of my happiness,
      Which here in a cozy home
      With fire-lit walls,
      Now hears the wind outside,
      Now listens to the howling squalls.
‘Blow, blow,’ I shout, ‘you can stir the sea in vain,
My rescued sailor is here by the fire with me!’

In the cherished hour that starts the day,
In the fresh dew, under the lightening sky,
One bird, before the forest choirs wake,
With a short call gets all the bushes awake:
Chirp, chirp, it goes; and doesn’t wait for long;
And that little signal fills the grove with song.

So on my pipe I played a tune or two;
It was hardly music, but it was all I knew.
It wasn't quite music, since I lacked the skill,
Yet what but frozen music filled my heart still?

Chirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped for a
better tune;
But Heaven decided I wouldn’t sing in vain,
For, look! Not far from there, in a hidden valley,
All quiet, sat an old nightingale.
He heard my little sparrow songs; then he woke;
And with a wave of music, he broke his silence.

I knew you to be strong and quiet like the hills;
I knew you to be compassionate, brave enough to endure,
Always ready for peace or war like a full-equipped Roman;
And I recognized your fairness, like the legendary kings
Who sat by the loud seaside to deliver judgments,
From dawn until dusk, bearded and few in words.
What was I to honor you for? A child;
A passionate youth but a child in strength,
Who constantly chases virtue's golden chariot wheels,
Running breathlessly, never reaching the finish line.
That’s how I felt, and it made me sad inside.

Since then my footsteps have walked by that river
Where all the many footprints stop,
Where the voices and the tears of life fade away.
There the tracks lead down, the hero’s path
Stomped heavily in the sand, the delicate girl’s:
Nimrod who blew his horn in the forest,
And the poor, dreaming child, seeker of flowers,
That here his quest ends with the grand:
So everyone goes down, and nothing comes back.

For you, for us, the sacred river waits,
For me, the unworthy, and for you, the perfect friend;
There, blame stops, and his relentless hounds
He calls back from the hunt, and rides home;
Yet praise and love walk by and enter in.
So when, beside that shore, I let go of
My greater-than-human weakness, and with you
Through that calm land fearlessly I move:
If we keep the joy intact at all,
You’ll be glad to see I’ve changed—I,
O Felix, to see you still the same.

The morning drum-call still resonates in my ears
And brings back memories; the morning dew
Is still fresh on my field at noon.

But now I sometimes stop in what I'm doing,
And listen for the bell, worrying that I might hear
(My work undone) the sunset gun too soon.

I have walked both the ups and downs;
I have faced and acted in days gone by;
I have desired everything, and said goodbye to hope;
And I have lived and loved, and shut the door.

He hears the thunder rolling in joy
and loves the falling dew;
He knows the earth above and below—
sits back and is happy to watch.

He sits next to the dying ember,
God for hope and a friend for man,
Happy to see, joyful to remember,
Waiting for the inevitable end.

Goodbye, beautiful day and fading light!
The earth-born here, looking west,
Watches the huge sun now sink down.
Goodbye. We will not meet again.

Farewell. I watch with a heavy sigh
My once overlooked chance slip away.
I stay here useless in my tent:
Goodbye, beautiful day, so poorly wasted!

Farewell, beautiful day. If any God
At all cares about this poor soul,
He who brought the good opportunity
Also set up the obstacle.

Let him seek vengeance—
Help me to sleep, help me to wake
Dressed and ready, and tell me to play
The hero in the coming day!

God, if this were enough,
That I see things stripped down to the core
And stuck in the mud up to my thighs;
That I neither ask nor hope nor demand,
Nut within the shell,
Nor dawn after sunset,
Nor life after death:
God, if this were faith?

Having felt your wind on my face
Spit sorrow and disgrace,
Having seen your evil fate
In Golgotha and Khartoum,
And the beasts, the work of your hands,
Fill lands with injustice
And stain the sea with blood:
If still in my veins there’s the joy
Of the dark night and the sun
And the lost battle, run:
If, as an expert,
I still accept the unfair challenges
With joy, and joy to endure and be challenged,
And still to fight and die for a dream of good:
God, if that were enough?

If feeling the weight of the mud,
And sinking into the mire,
Veins of glory and passion
Flow through and pierce and inspire,
With a hidden purpose of greatness in every part,
And the resulting glory of battle fills my heart;
To be thrilled by the joy of those who are prepared
To keep going forever, failing and trying again,
And be knocked down to the ground and get back up,
And fight for the meaning of a word and something unseen:
With half of a shattered hope as my pillow at night
That somehow what’s right is right
And the smooth will emerge from the rough:
Lord, if that were enough?

Trusty, dark, bright, and real,
With eyes like gold and morning dew,
Sharp and straight as a blade,
The great maker
Created my friend.

Honor, anger, courage, fire;
A love that life could never wear out,
Neither death nor evil could disturb,
The mighty master
Gave to her.

Teacher, gentle, friend, wife,
A true companion through life,
Whole-hearted and free-spirited,
The revered father
Gave to me.

Resign the rhapsody, the dream,
   To people with broader vision;
Let our pursuit be a simple theme,
   The sincerity of expression.

As monkish scribes from morning break
Worked until the end of the day,
And never thought a day was too long to create
One line or letter shining:

We also with a passionate mind,
Time, money, and fame ignored,
Our glory in our patience discover
And stir, and stir the pot:

Till the end, when we hear
the evening songs of birds around the house,
One corner of blue sky shows up
in our clear pool of words.

Leave, just leave it then, muse of my heart!
Without end and without border,
Leave it plain, without extra art
The picture just as it is.

Since long ago, as a child at home,
I read and dreamed of venturing out,
Wherever I went, whatever I desired,
One promised land filled my imagination.
That’s how I made my home on the long roads;
I traveled a lot by ship; often laid
My head under the open sky,
Soaked by rain and buffeted by wind:
And crossed many thousands of hills
And turned countless corners—Love’s efforts wasted,
Until, Lady, I reached your sunny isle
Without any expectations; and, like someone
Snatched from blindness, rubbed my eyes,
And shouted out to welcome my promised land.

Yes, my lady, here I finally am;
Here I found everything I had imagined:
The endless stretch of the blue sea
That protects the land’s purity;
The strong trees of the forest
Full of toys, flowers, and food;
The precious woods spreading out
To surround the whole town;
The town itself with grassy streets,
Adored by the moon, blessed by the dawn,
Where the brown children all day long
Keep a constant sound of play,
Playing in the sun, playing in the rain,
Never fighting or complaining;—
And late at night, in the fruit-filled woods,
Listen! Do you hear the flute passing by?

I glanced in both directions,
And realized I was in Fairyland.
But there was one thing I missed.
For, my lady (as you know),
Whoever managed to enter Fairyland,
Always found, with admiring eyes,
A kind and wise Fairy princess.
It wasn’t long before I waited; soon
At my doorstep, in broad daylight,
Gracious, helpful, wise, and good,
Stood the Fairy Princess Moë. [44]

Tantira, Tahiti, Nov. 5, 1888.

The Silver Ship, my King—that was her name
In the bright islands where your ancestors came [45]—
The Silver Ship, resting from winds and tides,
Below your palace in your harbor rides:
And the sailors, sitting safely on shore,
Like eager traders counting their treasures once more.
One gift they find, one strange and beautiful thing,
Now doubly precious because it pleased a king.

The right, my lord, is as old as the lyre
For bards to present to kings what they appreciate.
It’s my honor to offer this for Apollo’s sake;
And since the gift is appropriate, it’s yours to accept.
To golden hands, I bring the golden pearl:
The ocean gem for the island king.

Honolulu, Feb. 3, 1889.

[Written in April to Kaiulani during her youth; and at Waikiki, a short walk from Kaiulani’s banyan! When she visits my land and her father’s, and the rain falls against the window (as I worry it might), let her read this page; it will be like a flower picked and pressed at home; and she will remember her own islands, and the shadow of the great tree; and she will hear the peacocks calling in the evening and the wind moving through the palm trees; and she will think of her father sitting there alone.—R. L. S.]

Forth from her land to mine she goes,
The island girl, the island rose,
Light-hearted and bright-faced:
The daughter of a mixed heritage.

Her islands here, in the southern sun,
Will mourn for their Kaiulani gone,
And I, in her beloved banyan shade,
Look hopelessly for my little girl.

But our Scottish islands far away
Will shine with an unusual daylight,
And set aside their storms for once
To smile in Kaiulani’s eye.

Honolulu.

To witness the endless suffering in this place,
The broken limbs, the damaged faces,
The innocent victim smiling despite the pain—
A fool would be tempted to doubt his God.
He sees it, and he recoils. But if he looks again,
Look, beauty emerges from the depths of pain!
He notices the sisters on the sorrowful shores;
And even a fool falls silent and worships.

Guest House, Kalawao, Molokai.

I knew a silver-haired head was incredibly bright,
I knew a hardworking queen with a crown of silver hair.
A mix of courage and sadness, of beauty and fame,
Life, which honors the brave, crowned her himself with the crown.

The beauty of youth is delicate, but this was a gem of wisdom.
Life, which cherishes the courageous, offered itself as collateral.
The crown was beautiful to see, and beauty was its least significant aspect—
It was both the mark of a wound and the badge pinned to the heart.

The beauty of humans is fragile, and the silver turns to dust,
And the queen we remember rests with the brave and the just;
Rests with the weary in peace; but, honored and always beautiful,
Shines in our minds the crown of silver hair.

Honolulu.

A long time will pass before you see again
Green trees framing the entrance of the lane—
The wild lane filled with brambles and thorns,
The year-old cart tracks perfectly sunk in mud,
The smoke by the roadside, maybe the tiny huts,
And a wanderer's donkey drinking from the ruts:—
Long before you see how winding it goes,
Away from people’s chimneys and the bleating meadows
To the woodland shade, to the quiet forest,
Where only the brooklet giggles in the underbrush—
Away from the sun and the bustle of the valley
To where the loud voice of the nightingale
Fills the whole forest like one big room,
And every bank smells of golden broom;
So keep wandering until evening falls.
Then when you return to your friends by the fire,
You’ll see the rosy sun, stripped of its light,
Caught in the thickets like a schoolboy’s kite.

Here from the sea, the unproductive sun will rise,
Soaking the bare deck and blinding unprotected eyes;
The assigned hours up high will turn in vain
And plunge again into the barren ocean.
Attacks from squalls that mock the vigilant guard,
And rip the bursting sails from the mast,
And the meaningless noise of the calm at night
Will disturb your sleep. By the flashing light,
In a bug-infested, very unladylike space
Of the wildly swaying cabin, hour by hour . . .

Schooner ‘Equator.’

Do you remember—can we ever forget?—
How, in the tangled mess of youth,
In our chaotic surroundings, in our gloomy town,
We sulked and trembled, grieved, cried, and worried?
The harsh winter wind, the pouring rain,
The rare and welcome calm of the snow,
The slow morning, the exhausted day, the night,
The dirty charm of the night-time town,
Do you remember?—Ah, how could one forget!

As when the feverish sick listen all night long
To the wind's sound, and finally hear
The always-welcome voice of the rooster
Singing in the dark hour before dawn,—
With sudden excitement, they long for the day:
So sang in the shadows of youth the bird of hope;
So we, joyfully, listened and yearned.
For look! as we stood together at the palace entrance of life
Huddled with illusions, from inside—
How sweet it was to hear!—the music swelled and faded,
And through the opening of the revolving doors
What dreams of beauty dazzled us and vanished!

I have since then struggled and celebrated;
Amid the wonders of life’s journey
Deeply experienced, and the sacred space seen:
Yet when the light from my fading eyes
Starts to dim and fade away, the voice of love
Will sound trivial in my closing ears,
What noise will come but the old cry of the wind
In our harsh city? What will come back
But the image of the emptiness of youth,
Filled with the echo of footsteps and that voice
Of dissatisfaction and joy and hopelessness?
So, just like in darkness, from the magic lamp,
The fleeting images shine and disappear
And vanish, while the night returns—these
I will remember, and then completely forget.

Apemama.

The tropics fade away, and I feel like I,
From Halkerside, from the highest point of Allermuir,
Or steep Caerketton, gaze dreamily once more.
Far off in fields and woods, I see the town
Rising boldly from the depths of its smoke,
Jagged, spired, and turreted, its untouched fortress
With flags flying. Around, on hills sloping towards the sea,
New expansions of the city shine. Lastly, the Forth
Flows wide with waters dotted with sacred islands,
And busy Fife steams with many towns.

There, on the sunny front of a hill,
Close to the house of kings, rest the dead,
My dead, the brave and articulate.
Their works, the salt-encrusted, still remain;
The sea crashes against their sturdy towers; the night
Vibrates with their bright lights. The creators,
One by one, here in this barred cell,
Where the rain washes away, and the rust eats away,
Fell into lasting silence. Continents
And oceans separate;
An uncharted sea, on a dark island,
Surrounds and confines their wandering child
In vain. The voices of generations past
Call me, sitting far away, to stand up,
My many footsteps quickly to retrace,
And, when everything has changed, lie down
In that marked city of the dead.

Apemama.

I heard the heartbeat of the attacking sea
Throbbing far away all night. I heard the wind
Screaming and shaking the restless palm trees.
I got up and took a walk. The island was all bright sand,
Swinging fronds and shadows of the palm;
The sky all moon and wind and the dark expanse;
The sharpest star extinguished, because Venus was asleep.
The king, my neighbor, with his group of wives,
Slept within the boundaries of the fort;
Where alone, in the wind, under the moon,
Among the sleeping huts, a fire blazed,
The only streetlight and the lone guard.
To other lands and nights my thoughts wandered—
To London first, and especially to your home,
The many-pillared and dearly loved place.
There my yearning thoughts settled; there again
In the upper room I lay, and heard from far away
The never-sleeping city hum like a shell;
The muffled footsteps of the Museum guard
Passed by me again; I saw again
Lights futilely brighten the empty street;
Again I longed for the coming morning,
The waking traffic, the stirring birds,
The harmonious trill of tiny songs
That weaves around monumental structures
A fleeting charm of beauty. Most of all,
For your light steps I yearned, and your knock
That was the joyful wake-up call of my day.
Look now, as you head to your tasks in the great house
In the morning through the entrance you pass,
Take a moment to glance, where by the pillared wall
Distant island gods, covered in soot,
Sit now unhonored, the rough monument
Of forgotten beliefs and unknown races:
They sit now despondent, clearly remembering
The priest, the victim, and the singing crowd,
The blaze of the bright noon, and that loud voice,
Constant, of the waves on the shore.
As far as these are from their sacred shrine,
So far, so distant, your separated friends
Wander, estranged in body, but not in spirit.

Apemama.

[When I left the island of Apemama, which you won’t find on most maps, the King and I decided, since we both fancied ourselves as poets, that we should mark our farewell with some verse. Whether his Majesty has stuck to our agreement, the slow mail of the Pacific might let me know in six months, or maybe not until a year later. The following lines represent my part of the deal, and I hope that by showcasing some unusual customs, they will entertain a civilized audience. Nothing in this has been made up or exaggerated; the lady referred to as the author’s muse has only put into rhyme the facts or legends I encountered during my two months on the island.—R. L. S.]

Conclusion

Let us, who part like brothers, part like poets;
You in your own language and rhythm, I in mine,
Let’s properly acknowledge our separation.
Though our melodies differ, the theme remains the same:
The melodies differ, and how different their fates!
You will call to the dazzling palace courtyard
The leader of the singers, and to him,
Humbly listening, deliver your farewell verse
; he, having fulfilled his role,
Will pass your lines to the island chorus,
Now woven with harmony: so they, at last,
Night after night, in the open dance hall,
Shall thirty men with tangled hair, to the clapping hands,
Chant and howl and bark. How unfortunate!
Only paper and print will honor mine.

THE TRACK

Let the King now raise his ear
And brush the leafy curls from his forehead,
While we fulfill our promise,
My muse tells and celebrates his lineage.

I

Bride of the shark, I first sing of her bravery
Who stirred the lonely seas for a King.
She, from the shore and the simple homes of men,
Swam beyond the climber’s sight of the sea,
Guided by signs; and without fear,
Watched her monstrous lover approach.
She looked around her at the heavenly pale,
The empty sea had no land or sail—
Only the unforgiving sun hung above—
When the depths bubbled and the beast emerged.
But she, trusting in fate’s decisions,
Steeled herself and embraced her mate,
And, as men say, from that ocean union
Bore the qualities of a stronger race.

II

Her strict descendant I next applaud,
Survivor of countless battles:—
In the assembly of voices who commanded the crowd;
Led and was relied on by the powerful;
And when swords were drawn,
Like a stronghold, stood tall:—
Whom, not until seventy years had passed,
Unmarked by wounds, standing tall,
Still quick on their feet, still shining in appearance,
The hunter, Death, finally caught up.

III

His sons, the two brothers, I sing,
Of whom the older was a King.
Not a Childeric, yet he strayed
Far from his father’s harsh ways displayed,
Until his day came when he died,
He lived, he ruled, he wrote with pride.
But mostly I celebrate
The one who was the state's true weight,
Led with wisdom and boldness, too,
In peaceful times and battles new;
He played the leader’s role so well
In every legal and shady spell.
His soldiers, with brave hearts that soared,
Would hear him laugh amidst the swords.
He could trace through the ages past
The tangled roots of his island's cast;
He crafted the best rhymes, led the dance,
For any festive circumstance:
And skillfully shaped oars and boats,
A palace or an armor’s coats.
No one was better at kindling the fire,
Or tying the mystical leaf, none higher,
Upon the untouched windward shore
Of the island, 'neath the crashing roar,
To heal the ailing and contain,
With whispered chants and swaying canes,
The chattering and howling gods' disdain.
But he, while ruling with hand and brain,
Commanded and charmed, leading without strain,
And thus in virtue and in might
He stood tall in everyone’s sight—
Yet, in brotherly love and faith,
He stayed grounded while reaching for the wraith,
Gave and followed the wise command,
Both pilot and servant of the land.

IV

My Tembinok’ from men like these
Inherited his palaces,
His right to rule, his mental strength,
His cocoa-islands, surrounded by the sea.
A stern bearer of the sword and whip,
A master known for his mastery,
He learned, without the push of necessity,
To write, to calculate, and to read;
From everything that touches his silent shore,
He adds to his wealth of knowledge,
Eager in old age just like in youth
To grasp a skill, to discover a truth,
To paint on the internal page
A clearer picture of the time.
His age, you say? But oh, not really!
In his solitary island from long ago,
A royal Lady of Shalott,
Cut off by the sea, he doesn’t see it;
He only hears it from afar.
The strain of equatorial daytime
He endures; he records all the while
The dull history of the island;
Slaves bring him praise of his fame,
Or gossip from the palm-tree town;
He notices the rarer ships and boats
And can only hear from a distance,
Where thrones and fortunes rise and fall,
The rumble of the turning wheel.

V

For the unexpected tears he cried
When I left, may his strong spirit
Not fade, may his passing years
Not bring new reasons for tears;
Whether at a book or playing cards, at work or having fun,
May the breeze across the palace courtyard
Always be with him; and may the loud song
Always entertain his ears.

Schooner ‘Equator,’ at Sea.

In the entire grove, there wasn’t a stream or a bird
Or anything besides my blows that was heard,
And the woods wore their midday appearance—
The beauty of their silence.
From the island summit to the seas,
Trees grew taller, trees drooped, and trees
Groped upward in the gaps. The green
Embraced the slopes and ravines
By fathoms. By the multitude
The rugged columns of the forest
And clusters of branches stood;
Thick as a crowd, deep as an ocean,
And silent as eternity.
With an lowered axe and a backward head,
My laborer had just left this scene,
And with a tangled story to share,
Came back. Some spirit from hell,
A dead man or a stripped god,
Had closely followed him and walked,
And celebrated when he turned to flee.
How differently it felt for me!
Whose eye searched the dim arcade
Impatient of the incoming shadow—
A shy elf, or pale cold dryad,
Or a lingering spirit from the past:
In vain. The fair and stately things,
Impassive like departed kings,
Stood still in the woods’ stillness,
And silent. The rooted multitude
Nodded and brooded, bloomed and dreamed,
Meaningless, undiscovered. It seemed
No other skill, no hope, they knew,
Than holding the earth and reaching for the blue.
Among plant kings, priests,
And young trees, I (the only beast)
Was doing the beast’s work, killing; I cut
The stubborn roots, scattered
The earth with the bare leaves,
And commanded the saplings to fall in bundles;
Breaking through the tangled mess
A wreck that I called a path,
A Golgotha that, later on,
When rains had watered, and suns shone,
And seeds enriched the spot, would bear
And be called a garden. Here and there,
I spotted and pulled by the green hair
A foe more determined to live,
The sharp and deadly sensitive plant.
He, half-aware, fled the attack;
He shrank and pulled back his branches;
And struggling against his anchor,
Captured and scratched my rooting hand.
I saw him crouch, I felt him bite;
And suddenly my eyes were opened.
I saw the woods for what they were:
The lost and the victorious cause,
The deadly battle set in line,
Saw silent weapons cross and shine:
Silent defeat, silent assault,
A battle and a burial ground.

Thick around me in the bustling mud
Briar and fern fought to the blood:
The hooked vine in his trap
Caught his unwilling neighbors in:
There the green killer thrived and spread,
Feeding on his smothering victims,
And played on his climbing coil.
Competing roots battled for the soil
Like scared demons: with despair
Competing branches pushed for air.
Green conquerors overhead
Towered over the bodies of their dead:
The rulers of the forest field,
Unfamiliar with defeat, destined to yield:
For in the branches' grips, look!
The cancers of the orchid grow.
Silent as in the designated ring
Two licensed wrestlers strain and cling;
Quiet as by yellow Hooghly’s side
The suffocating captives died;
So the woodland warfare goes
Endlessly; and the silent foes
Grapple and smother, strain and hold
Without a cry, without a gasp.
Here also sound your fans, O God,
Here too your banners move about:
Forest and city, sea and shore,
And the whole earth, your threshing-floor!
The drums of war, the drums of peace,
Echo through our cities without cease,
And all the iron halls of life
Ring with the nonstop strife.

The common struggle is hard to notice.
Crowds die, and we don’t even notice or mourn:
The bugle sounds—we grieve for a few!
What small group at Waterloo?
What few hundred more or less
In the man-devouring Wilderness?
What handful bled on Delhi ridge?
—Look instead at London, on your bridge
The pale throngs march by,
Determined to kill, resigned to die.
Count instead all the injured and dead
In the unkind war for survival.
Look under hotter skies
At what leafy Londons rise,
And thrive, and suffer in silence:
Or in your peaceful garden ground,
Contented, in the fading light,
Stroll and watch the roses bloom.
That these could live, what thousands died!
All day the cruel hoe was used;
The ambulance cart rolled all day;
Your wife, the gentle, kind, and cheerful,
Put on her long gloves, grabbed the spade,
And bathed in vegetable blood;
And now that the long slaughter is done,
Look! where the lazy smoke rises,
Look, where the bonfire flickers red
In the evening, for the innocent dead.

Why talk about peace? when we’re all warriors,
Clanking in our armor as we enter the hall,
And there’s always a necessary sword
Lying on the table.
In the green fields or quiet streets,
We sleep under siege and eat while surrounded;
Working all day and waking at night,
In conflict with competing desires.
The rose feeds on roses; the lark
Feeds on larks. The sedentary clerk
Spends all morning with a busy pen
Killing the dreams of other men;
And like the creatures of the woods and fields,
He protects his young and defends his territory.

Unashamed of the narrow goal I have;
I take care of my sheep, watch over my flock;
I breathe conflict on wolves and competing herds,
A devout outlaw on the edge
Of God and morning; and when the time
Comes to bow to me, or rivals defeat me, I’ll climb
To places no ordinary person dares,
In my battle gear, the loud stairs
Of honor; and my victor
Will acknowledge me as a warrior fallen in battle.

Vailima.

As the sharp strike of the hit, when the metal is blended perfectly,
Echoes and vibrates throughout the entire bell,
So the thunder above spoke with one voice,
So in the heart of the mountain, the sound rumbled and stayed.

Suddenly, the thunder was silenced—extinguished was the lightning—
And the spirit of rain laughed joyfully in the night.
Loud like the raging river in the split valley,
Spirit of rain! you laughed and danced on the rooftops of people;

And the sleepers jumped in their beds, filled with joy and fear as you fell.
You struck, and my cabin trembled; the roof roared like a bell.
You spoke, and immediately the mountain shouted and shook with the streams.
You stopped, and the day came back, rosy and pure.

And I thought that beauty and terror are just two sides of the same coin;
And the world has space for love, death, thunder, and dew;
And all the tensions of hell rest in the summer air;
And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is beautiful.
Helpful streams of tears flow from the touch of pain;
And from the cloud that strikes, generous rivers of rain.

Vailima.

Let your soul now find a place to anchor in this real world.
Here, let your body be secured;—
This scene remains unchanged from this moment on,
The image in your mind; and when time passes,
And the vibrant scene suddenly fades—
The ultimate guides, where your horse took you today,
Will carry your lifeless body.

Vailima.

We pass quietly into the night
From the loud feast, and as we leave
A faint and sweet tremor lingers in people's memories
As fragile as music. Our features,
The sound of our voice, the touch of a loved one’s hand,
Disappear, one by one, from this world:
Meanwhile, in the hall of song, the crowd
Cheers for the new performer. One, maybe,
One last survivor stays behind,
And smiles, remembering what has long been forgotten.
Before tomorrow fades away,
He too, coming back, steps through the curtain,
And the new age forgets us and moves on.

Sing me a song about a boy who is gone,
Say, could that boy be me?
He was happy and set sail one day
Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was behind, Rum on the left,
Eigg on the right front;
The joy of youth shone in his spirit:
Where is that joy now?

Sing me a song about a guy who is gone,
Say, could that guy be me?
Full of life, he set sail one day
Across the sea to Skye.

Give me back everything that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the guy that’s gone!

Sing me a song about a boy who is gone,
Do you think that boy could be me?
Cheerful at heart, he set sail one day
Across the sea to Skye.

Billows and breezes, islands and oceans,
   Mountains of rain and sunshine,
Everything that was good, everything that was beautiful,
   Everything that was me is gone.

The wind is blowing today, and the sun and the rain are both here,
   The wind is blowing on the moors today and now,
Where around the martyrs' graves the curlews are calling,
   My heart remembers how!

Grey tombs of the dead lying in deserted places,
Standing stones on the empty wine-red moor,
Hills full of sheep, and the mounds of the silent vanished people,
And winds, harsh and clean:

Let me see you again as I fade away,
   Hills of home! and to hear the call once more;
Listen to the peewees crying near the martyrs' graves,
   And then to hear nothing at all.

Vailima.

The day's embers glow red
Beyond the shadowy hill.
The kitchen is full of smoke: the bed
In the dim house is ready:
The vast sky turns dark above,
And the great woods are loud.
So far I have been guided,
Lord, by Your will:
So far I have followed, Lord, and still I wonder.

The breeze from the sweet-smelling land
Blows suddenly toward the shore,
And slams my cottage door.
I hear the signal, Lord—I get it.
The night at Your command
Has come. I will eat and sleep and won’t ask any more.

Vailima.

[44]  This is the same Princess Moë whose beauty and personality have been noted by the late Lord Pembroke in South Sea Bubbles and by M. Pierre Loti in Mariage de Loti.

[45] The yacht Casco was named by the people of Fakarava in the Paumotus.