The Five Nations, Volume I

THE BELL BUOY [Page 4]

They christened my brother of old-- And a saintly name he bears-- They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minster-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime, O’er smooth flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire; Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown, When the greasy wind-rack lowers, Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling Powers (I war with a darkling sea); Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray, There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard of the bay, And moored me over the shoal. I rock, I reel, and I roll-- My four great hammers ply-- Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell--I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw; I turn in the nearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, The lanterns gather and grow, And I look for the homeward fleet. Rattle of block and sheet-- ‘Ready about--stand by!’ Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing In the rip of the racing tide, By the gates of doom I sing, On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand, Fretted and bound I bide Peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

CRUISERS [Page 9]

As our mother the Frigate, bepainted and fine, Made play for her bully the Ship of the Line; So we, her bold daughters by iron and fire, Accost and decoy to our masters’ desire.

Now pray you consider what toils we endure, Night-walking wet sea-lanes, a guard and a lure; Since half of our trade is that same pretty sort As mettlesome wenches do practise in port.

For this is our office: to spy and make room, As hiding yet guiding the foe to their doom; Surrounding, confounding, to bait and betray And tempt them to battle the seas’ width away.

The pot-bellied merchant foreboding no wrong With headlight and sidelight he lieth along, Till, lightless and lightfoot and lurking, leap we To force him discover his business by sea.

And when we have wakened the lust of a foe, To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go, Till, ’ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies-- Or our bullies close in for to make him good prize.

So, when we have spied on the path of their host, One flieth to carry that word to the coast; And, lest by false doubling they turn and go free, One lieth behind them to follow and see.

Anon we return, being gathered again, Across the sad valleys all drabbled with rain-- Across the grey ridges all crispèd and curled-- To join the long dance round the curve of the world.

The bitter salt spindrift: the sun-glare likewise: The moon-track a-quiver bewilders our eyes, Where, linking and lifting, our sisters we hail ’Twixt wrench of cross-surges or plunge of head-gale.

As maidens awaiting the bride to come forth Make play with light jestings and wit of no worth, So, widdershins circling the bride-bed of death, Each fleereth her neighbour and signeth and saith:--

‘What see ye? Their signals, or levin afar? ‘What hear ye? God’s thunder, or guns of our war? ‘What mark ye? Their smoke, or the cloud-rack outblown? ‘What chase ye? Their lights, or the Daystar low down?’

So, times past all number deceived by false shows, Deceiving we cumber the road of our foes, For this is our virtue: to track and betray; Preparing great battles a sea’s width away.

Now peace is at end and our peoples take heart, For the laws are clean gone that restrainèd our art; Up and down the near headlands and against the far wind We are loosed (O be swift!) to the work of our kind!

THE DESTROYERS [Page 13]

The strength of twice three thousand horse That seek the single goal; The line that holds the rending course, The hate that swings the whole: The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom, At gaze and gone again-- The Brides of Death that wait the groom-- The Choosers of the Slain!

Offshore where sea and skyline blend In rain, the daylight dies; The sullen, shouldering swells attend Night and our sacrifice. Adown the stricken capes no flare-- No mark on spit or bar,-- Girdled and desperate we dare The blindfold game of war.

Nearer the up-flung beams that spell The council of our foes; Clearer the barking guns that tell Their scattered flank to close. Sheer to the trap they crowd their way From ports for this unbarred. Quiet, and count our laden prey, The convoy and her guard!

On shoal with scarce a foot below, Where rock and islet throng, Hidden and hushed we watch them throw Their anxious lights along. Not here, not here your danger lies-- (Stare hard, O hooded eyne!) Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise The lit cliffs give no sign.

Therefore--to break the rest ye seek, The Narrow Seas to clear-- Hark to the siren’s whimpering shriek-- The driven death is here! Look to your van a league away,-- What midnight terror stays The bulk that checks against the spray Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home, The muffled, knocking stroke-- The steam that overruns the foam-- The foam that thins to smoke-- The smoke that clokes the deep aboil-- The deep that chokes her throes Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil, The lukewarm whirlpools close!

A shadow down the sickened wave Long since her slayer fled: But hear their chattering quick-fires rave Astern, abeam, ahead! Panic that shells the drifting spar-- Loud waste with none to check-- Mad fear that rakes a scornful star Or sweeps a consort’s deck!

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick, Now ere their wits they find, Lay in and lance them to the quick-- Our gallied whales are blind! Good luck to those that see the end, Good-bye to those that drown-- For each his chance as chance shall send-- And God for all! Shut down!

The strength of twice three thousand horse That serve the one command; The hand that heaves the headlong force, The hate that hacks the hand: The doom-bolt in the darkness freed, The mine that splits the main; The white-hot wake, the ’wildering speed-- The Choosers of the Slain!

WHITE HORSES [Page 18]

Where run your colts at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed? ’Mid bergs about the Ice-cap Or wove Sargasso weed; By chartless reef and channel, Or crafty coastwise bars, But most the ocean-meadows All purple to the stars!

Who holds the rein upon you? The latest gale let free. What meat is in your mangers? The glut of all the sea. ’Twixt tide and tide’s returning Great store of newly dead,-- The bones of those that faced us, And the hearts of those that fled.

Afar, off-shore and single, Some stallion, rearing swift, Neighs hungry for new fodder, And calls us to the drift. Then down the cloven ridges-- A million hooves unshod-- Break forth the mad White Horses To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water Our furious vanguard strains-- Through mist of mighty tramplings Roll up the fore-blown manes-- A hundred leagues to leeward, Ere yet the deep is stirred, The groaning rollers carry The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils-- Your forelock who may hold? E’en they that use the broads with us-- The riders bred and bold, That spy upon our matings, That rope us where we run-- They know the strong White Horses From father unto son.

We breathe about their cradles, We race their babes ashore, We snuff against their thresholds, We nuzzle at their door; By day with stamping squadrons, By night in whinnying droves, Creep up the wise White Horses, To call them from their loves.