I KNEW a much-loved mariner,
— Who lies a fathom underground;
Above him now the grasses stir,
— Two rose-trees set a bound.
From a high hill his grave looks out
— Through sighing larches to the sea;
Now for the ocean's raucous rout
— All June the humblebee
Drones round him on the lonely steeps,
— And shy wood-creatures come and go
Above the green mound where he keeps
— His silent watch below.
An elemental man was he —
— Loved God, his wife, his children dear,
And fared through dangers of the sea
— Without a sense of fear.
And, loving nature, he was wise
— In all the moods of wave and cloud;
Before the pageant of the skies
— Nightly his spirit bowed;
Yet reckoned shrewdly with the gale,
— And felt the viking's fierce delight
To face the north wind's icy hail,
— Unmoved to thought of flight.
But wheresoe'er his prow was turned,
— His thoughts, like homing pigeons, came
Back where his casement candle burned
— Through many a league its flame.
Exiled from all he loved, at last
— The summer gale has brought him home,
Where on the hillsides thickly massed
— The elders break in foam.
The lonely highways that he knew
— No longer hold him, nor the gale,
Sweeping the desolated blue,
— Roars in his slanting sail.
For he has grown a part of all
— The winter silence of the hills;
For him the stately twilights fall,
— The hemlock softly shrills
In mimicry of gales that woke
— His vigilance off many a shore
Whereon the vibrant billows broke.
— Now he awakes no more.
He wakes no more! Ah, me! his grief
— Was ever that the sea had power
To hold from him the budding leaf,
— The opening of the flower.
And so he hungered for the spring —
— The hissing, furrow-turning plow,
The first thin notes the bluebirds sing,
— The reddening of the bough.
Wave-deafened, many a night he stood
— Upon his watery deck, and dreamed
Of thrushes singing in the wood,
— And murmurous brooks that streamed
Through silver shallows, and of bees
— Lulling the summer afternoon
With mellow trumpetings of ease,
— Of drowsiness the boon.
And dreamed of growing old at home,
— The wise Ulysses of his crew
Of children's children, who would roam
— With him the lands he knew;
And, wide-eyed, face with him the gale,
— And hear the slanting billows roar
Their diapason round his rail —
— All safe beside his door.
Now he has come into his own, —
— Sunshine and bird-song round the spot,
And scents from spicy woodlands blown, —
— Yet haply knows it not.
But round the grave where he doth keep,
— Unsolaced by regret or woe,
His narrowed heritage in sleep,
— The little children go.
They shyly go without a sound,
— And read in reverent awe his name,
Until for them the very ground
— Doth blossom with his fame.
— Who lies a fathom underground;
Above him now the grasses stir,
— Two rose-trees set a bound.
From a high hill his grave looks out
— Through sighing larches to the sea;
Now for the ocean's raucous rout
— All June the humblebee
Drones round him on the lonely steeps,
— And shy wood-creatures come and go
Above the green mound where he keeps
— His silent watch below.
An elemental man was he —
— Loved God, his wife, his children dear,
And fared through dangers of the sea
— Without a sense of fear.
And, loving nature, he was wise
— In all the moods of wave and cloud;
Before the pageant of the skies
— Nightly his spirit bowed;
Yet reckoned shrewdly with the gale,
— And felt the viking's fierce delight
To face the north wind's icy hail,
— Unmoved to thought of flight.
But wheresoe'er his prow was turned,
— His thoughts, like homing pigeons, came
Back where his casement candle burned
— Through many a league its flame.
Exiled from all he loved, at last
— The summer gale has brought him home,
Where on the hillsides thickly massed
— The elders break in foam.
The lonely highways that he knew
— No longer hold him, nor the gale,
Sweeping the desolated blue,
— Roars in his slanting sail.
For he has grown a part of all
— The winter silence of the hills;
For him the stately twilights fall,
— The hemlock softly shrills
In mimicry of gales that woke
— His vigilance off many a shore
Whereon the vibrant billows broke.
— Now he awakes no more.
He wakes no more! Ah, me! his grief
— Was ever that the sea had power
To hold from him the budding leaf,
— The opening of the flower.
And so he hungered for the spring —
— The hissing, furrow-turning plow,
The first thin notes the bluebirds sing,
— The reddening of the bough.
Wave-deafened, many a night he stood
— Upon his watery deck, and dreamed
Of thrushes singing in the wood,
— And murmurous brooks that streamed
Through silver shallows, and of bees
— Lulling the summer afternoon
With mellow trumpetings of ease,
— Of drowsiness the boon.
And dreamed of growing old at home,
— The wise Ulysses of his crew
Of children's children, who would roam
— With him the lands he knew;
And, wide-eyed, face with him the gale,
— And hear the slanting billows roar
Their diapason round his rail —
— All safe beside his door.
Now he has come into his own, —
— Sunshine and bird-song round the spot,
And scents from spicy woodlands blown, —
— Yet haply knows it not.
But round the grave where he doth keep,
— Unsolaced by regret or woe,
His narrowed heritage in sleep,
— The little children go.
They shyly go without a sound,
— And read in reverent awe his name,
Until for them the very ground
— Doth blossom with his fame.