4617755Poems — A Voyage to the Fortunate IslesSarah Piatt
NARRATIVE PIECES.
A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES.THE FABLE OF A HOUSEHOLD.
"Yes, but I fear to leave the shore. So fierce, so shadowy, so cold, Deserts of water lie before— Whose secrets night has never told, Save in close whispers to the dead. I fear," one vaguely said.
One answered: "Will you waver here? As wild and lonesome as the things Which hold their wet nests, year by year, In these poor rocks, are we. Their wings Grow restless—wherefore not our feet? That which is strange is sweet."
"That which we know is sweeter yet. Do we not love the near Earth more Than the far Heaven "Does not Regret Walk with us, always, from the door That shuts behind us, though we leave Not much to make us grieve?"
"Why fret me longer, when you know Our hands with thorny toil are torn? Scant bread and bitter, heat and snow, Rude garments, souls too blind and worn To climb to Christ for comfort: these Are here. And there—the Seas.
"True, our great Lord will let us drink At some wild springs, and even take A few slight dew-flowers. But, I think, He cares not how our hearts may ache. He comes not to the peasant's hut To learn—the door is shut.
"Oh, He is an hard Master. Still In His rough fields, for piteous hire, To break dry clods is not my will. I thank Him that my arms can tire. Let thistles henceforth grow like grain, To mock His sun and rain.
"Others He lifts to high estate— Others, no peers of yours or mine. He folds them in a silken fate, Casts pearls before them—oh, the swine! Drugs them with wine, veils them with lace; And gives us this mean place."
"Well. May there not be butterflies That lift with weary wings the air; That loathe the foreign sun, which lies On all their colours like despair; That glitter, home-sick for the form And lost sleep of the worm?"
"Hush—see the ship. It comes at last," She whispered, through forlornest smiles: "How brave it is! It sails so fast. It takes us to the Fortunate Isles. Come." Then the heart's great silence drew Like Death around the Two.
Death-like it was—through pain and doubt, To leave their world at once and go, Pale, mute, and even unconscious, out Through dimness toward some distant Glow, That might be but Illusion caught In the fine net of Thought.
As ghosts, led by a ghostly sleep— Followed by Life, a breathless dream— Out in eternal dusk, that keep Their way somewhere, these Two did seem, Till the sea-moon climbed to her place And looked in each still face.
"The worm," she waking said, "must long To put on beauty and to fly, But"—coming toward them sad and strong, There was a little double cry. "What hurts the children? They should rest, In such a floating nest."
"Oh, Mother, look—we all are gone. Our house is swimming in the sea. It will not stop. It keeps right on. How far away we all must be! The wind has blown it from the cliff. It rocks us like a skiff.
"We all will drown but Baby. He Is in his pretty grave so far. He has to sleep till Judgment. We Must sink where all the sailors are, 'Who used to die, when storms would come, Away off from their home."
"Lie still, you foolish yellow heads. This is a ship. We're sailing." "Where?" "Go nestle in your little beds. Be quiet. We shall soon be there." "Where?" "Why, it is not many miles." "Where?" "To the Fortunate Isles."
"Home is the best. Oh, what a light! God must be looking in the sea. It is His glass. He makes it bright All over with His face. And He Is angry. He is talking loud Out of that broken cloud.
The men all hear Him, in the ropes: He's telling them the ship must go. They 'd better climb to Him." Pale Hopes Looked from each wretched breast, to know If somewhere, through the shattered night, One sail could be in sight.
And Two, who waited, dying slow, Said, clinging to their desperate calm: "We had not thought such wind could blow Out of the warm leaves of the palm. Strange, with the Fortunate Isles so nigh— Strange, cruel, thus to die."
"The Fortunate Isles?" one other cried; "You knew we were not sailing there? They lie far back across the tide. Their cliffs are grey and wet and bare; "And quiet people in their soil Are still content to toil.
"Toward shining snakes, toward fair dumb birds, Toward Fever hiding in the spice, We voyaged." But his tropic words Dropped icy upon hearts of ice. The lonesome gulf to which they passed Had shown the Truth at last.
That wavering glare the drowning see, With phantoms of their life therein, Flashed on them both. Yet mostly she Felt all her sorrow, all her sin, And learned, most bitterly, how dear Their crags and valleys were.
Their home, whose dim wet windows stared Through drops of brine, like eyes through tears; The blue ground-blossoms that had cared To creep about their feet for years; And their one grave so deep, so small— Sinking, they saw them all!
To leave the Fortunate Isles, away On the other side of the world, and sail Still further from them, day by day, Dreaming to find them; and to fail In knowing, till the very last, They held one's own sweet Past:
Such lot was theirs. Such lot will be, Ah, much I fear me, yours and mine. Because our air is cold, and we See Summer in some mirage shine, We leave the Fortunate Isles behind, The Fortunate Isles to find.
