Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  That goes without the beard.

  But now in vain is the torture,

  Fire shall never avail:

  Here dies in my bosom

  The secret of Heather Ale.”

  NOTE TO HEATHER ALE

  Among the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a high place. It is needless to remind the reader that the Picts were never exterminated, and form to this day a large proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the north. That the blundering guess of a dull chronicler should have inspired men with imaginary loathing for their own ancestors is already strange: that it should have begotten this wild legend seems incredible. Is it possible the chronicler’s error was merely nominal? that what he told, and what the people proved themselves so ready to receive, about the Picts, was true or partly true of some anterior and perhaps Lappish savages, small of stature, black of hue, dwelling underground — possibly also the distillers of some forgotten spirit? See Mr. Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands.

  The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;

  The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;

  The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea;

  And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

  They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;

  But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.

  We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,

  And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

  All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;

  All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;

  All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,

  For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

  We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;

  But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:

  So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,

  And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

  The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;

  The good red fires were burning bright in every ‘longshore home;

  The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;

  And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

  The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;

  For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)

  This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,

  And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

  O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,

  My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;

  And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,

  Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

  And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,

  Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;

  And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,

  To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

  They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.

  “All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call.

  “By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried.

  . . . “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

  She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,

  And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.

  As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,

  We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

  And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,

  As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;

  But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,

  Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

  THE END

  SONGS OF TRAVEL AND OTHER VERSES

  CONTENTS

  THE VAGABOND. (To an air of Schubert)

  YOUTH AND LOVE — I

  YOUTH AND LOVE — II

  IN DREAMS, UNHAPPY, I BEHOLD YOU STAND

  SHE RESTED BY THE BROKEN BROOK

  THE INFINITE SHINING HEAVENS

  PLAIN AS THE GLISTERING PLANETS SHINE

  TO YOU, LET SNOW AND ROSES

  LET BEAUTY AWAKE IN THE MORN FROM BEAUTIFUL DREAMS

  I KNOW NOT HOW IT IS WITH YOU

  I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES AND TOYS FOR YOUR DELIGHT

  WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE. (To an air of Diabelli)

  MATER TRIUMPHANS

  BRIGHT IS THE RING OF WORDS

  IN THE HIGHLANDS, IN THE COUNTRY PLACES

  TO THE TUNE OF WANDERING WILLIE

  WINTER

  THE STORMY EVENING CLOSES NOW IN VAIN

  TO DR. HAKE. (On receiving a Copy of Verses)

  TO —

  THE MORNING DRUM-CALL ON MY EAGER EAR

  I HAVE TROD THE UPWARD AND THE DOWNWARD SLOPE

  HE HEARS WITH GLADDENED HEART THE THUNDER

  FAREWELL, FAIR DAY AND FADING LIGHT!

  IF THIS WERE FAITH

  MY WIFE

  TO THE MUSE

  TO AN ISLAND PRINCESS

  TO KALAKAUA. (With a present of a Pearl)

  TO PRINCESS KAIULANI

  TO MOTHER MARYANNE

  IN MEMORIAM E. H.

  TO MY WIFE. (A Fragment)

  TO MY OLD FAMILIARS

  THE TROPICS VANISH, AND MESEEMS THAT I

  TO S. C.

  THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA

  ENVOI

  THE SONG

  THE WOODMAN

  TROPIC RAIN

  AN END OF TRAVEL

  WE UNCOMMISERATE PASS INTO THE NIGHT

  SING ME A SONG OF A LAD THAT IS GONE

  TO S. R. CROCKETT. (On receiving a Dedication)

  EVENSONG

  NOTE.

  The following collection of verses, written at various times and places, principally after the author’s final departure from England in 1887, was sent home by him for publication some months before his death. He had tried them in several different orders and under several different titles, as “Songs and Notes of Travel,” “Posthumous Poems,” etc., and in the end left their naming and arrangement to the present editor, with the suggestion that they should be added as Book III. to future editions of “Underwoods.” This suggestion it is proposed to carry out; but in the meantime, for the benefit of those who possess “Underwoods” in its original form, it has been thought desirable to publish them separately in the present volume. They have already been included in the Edinburgh Edition of the author’s works.

  S. C.

  THE VAGABOND. (To an air of Schubert)

  Give to me the life I love,

  Let the lave go by me,

  Give the jolly heaven above

  And the byway nigh me.

  Bed in the bush with stars to see,

  Bread I dip in the river —

  There’s the life for a man like me,

  There’s the life for ever.

  Let the blow fall soon or late,

  Let what will be o’er me;

  Give the face of earth around

  And the road before me.

  Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,

  Nor a friend to know me;

  All I seek, the heaven above

  And the road below me.

  Or let autumn fall on me

  Where afield I linger,

  Silencing the bird on tree,

  Biting the blue finger.

  White as meal the frosty field —


  Warm the fireside haven —

  Not to autumn will I yield,

  Not to winter even!

  Let the blow fall soon or late,

  Let what will be o’er me;

  Give the face of earth around,

  And the road before me.

  Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,

  Nor a friend to know me;

  All I ask, the heaven above

  And the road below me.

  YOUTH AND LOVE — I

  Once only by the garden gate

  Our lips we joined and parted.

  I must fulfil an empty fate

  And travel the uncharted.

  Hail and farewell! I must arise,

  Leave here the fatted cattle,

  And paint on foreign lands and skies

  My Odyssey of battle.

  The untented Kosmos my abode,

  I pass, a wilful stranger:

  My mistress still the open road

  And the bright eyes of danger.

  Come ill or well, the cross, the crown,

  The rainbow or the thunder,

  I fling my soul and body down

  For God to plough them under.

  YOUTH AND LOVE — II

  To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside.

  Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand,

  Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide,

  Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land

  Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.

  Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down,

  Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate

  Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on,

  Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate,

  Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone.

  IN DREAMS, UNHAPPY, I BEHOLD YOU STAND

  In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand

  As heretofore:

  The unremembered tokens in your hand

  Avail no more.

  No more the morning glow, no more the grace,

  Enshrines, endears.

  Cold beats the light of time upon your face

  And shows your tears.

  He came and went. Perchance you wept a while

  And then forgot.

  Ah me! but he that left you with a smile

  Forgets you not.

  SHE RESTED BY THE BROKEN BROOK

  She rested by the Broken Brook,

  She drank of Weary Well,

  She moved beyond my lingering look,

  Ah, whither none can tell!

  She came, she went. In other lands,

  Perchance in fairer skies,

  Her hands shall cling with other hands,

  Her eyes to other eyes.

  She vanished. In the sounding town,

  Will she remember too?

  Will she recall the eyes of brown

  As I recall the blue?

  THE INFINITE SHINING HEAVENS

  The infinite shining heavens

  Rose and I saw in the night

  Uncountable angel stars

  Showering sorrow and light.

  I saw them distant as heaven,

  Dumb and shining and dead,

  And the idle stars of the night

  Were dearer to me than bread.

  Night after night in my sorrow

  The stars stood over the sea,

  Till lo! I looked in the dusk

  And a star had come down to me.

  PLAIN AS THE GLISTERING PLANETS SHINE

  Plain as the glistering planets shine

  When winds have cleaned the skies,

  Her love appeared, appealed for mine,

  And wantoned in her eyes.

  Clear as the shining tapers burned

  On Cytherea’s shrine,

  Those brimming, lustrous beauties turned,

  And called and conquered mine.

  The beacon-lamp that Hero lit

  No fairer shone on sea,

  No plainlier summoned will and wit,

  Than hers encouraged me.

  I thrilled to feel her influence near,

  I struck my flag at sight.

  Her starry silence smote my ear

  Like sudden drums at night.

  I ran as, at the cannon’s roar,

  The troops the ramparts man —

  As in the holy house of yore

  The willing Eli ran.

  Here, lady, lo! that servant stands

  You picked from passing men,

  And should you need nor heart nor hands

  He bows and goes again.

  TO YOU, LET SNOW AND ROSES

  To you, let snow and roses

  And golden locks belong.

  These are the world’s enslavers,

  Let these delight the throng.

  For her of duskier lustre

  Whose favour still I wear,

  The snow be in her kirtle,

  The rose be in her hair!

  The hue of highland rivers

  Careering, full and cool,

  From sable on to golden,

  From rapid on to pool —

  The hue of heather-honey,

  The hue of honey-bees,

  Shall tinge her golden shoulder,

  Shall gild her tawny knees.

  LET BEAUTY AWAKE IN THE MORN FROM BEAUTIFUL DREAMS

  Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams,

  Beauty awake from rest!

  Let Beauty awake

  For Beauty’s sake

  In the hour when the birds awake in the brake

  And the stars are bright in the west!

  Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day,

  Awake in the crimson eve!

  In the day’s dusk end

  When the shades ascend,

  Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend

  To render again and receive!

  I KNOW NOT HOW IT IS WITH YOU

  I know not how it is with you —

  I love the first and last,

  The whole field of the present view,

  The whole flow of the past.

  One tittle of the things that are,

  Nor you should change nor I —

  One pebble in our path — one star

  In all our heaven of sky.

  Our lives, and every day and hour,

  One symphony appear:

  One road, one garden — every flower

  And every bramble dear.

  I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES AND TOYS FOR YOUR DELIGHT

  I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

  Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

  I will make a palace fit for you and me

  Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

  I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

  Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

  And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

  In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

  And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

  The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

  That only I remember, that only you admire,

  Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

  WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE. (To an air of Diabelli)

  Berried brake and reedy island,

  Heaven below, and only heaven above,

  Through the sky’s inverted azure

  Softly swam the boat that bore our love.

  Bright were your eyes as the day;

  Bright ran the stream,

  Bright hung the sky above.

  Days of April, airs of Eden,

  How the glory died through golden hours,

  And the shining moon arising,

  How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers!

  Bright were your eyes in the night:

  We have lived, my love
—

  O, we have loved, my love.

  Frost has bound our flowing river,

  Snow has whitened all our island brake,

  And beside the winter fagot

  Joan and Darby doze and dream and wake.

  Still, in the river of dreams

  Swims the boat of love —

  Hark! chimes the falling oar!

  And again in winter evens

  When on firelight dreaming fancy feeds,

  In those ears of agèd lovers

  Love’s own river warbles in the reeds.

  Love still the past, O my love!

  We have lived of yore,

  O, we have loved of yore.

  MATER TRIUMPHANS

  Son of my woman’s body, you go, to the drum and fife,

  To taste the colour of love and the other side of life —

  From out of the dainty the rude, the strong from out of the frail,

  Eternally through the ages from the female comes the male.

  The ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each,

  The eyes blind as gems and the tongue attempting speech;

  Impotent hands in my bosom, and yet they shall wield the sword!

  Drugged with slumber and milk, you wait the day of the Lord.

  Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest,

  Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.

  You that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with rings,

  You, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the doors of kings.

  BRIGHT IS THE RING OF WORDS

  Bright is the ring of words

  When the right man rings them,

  Fair the fall of songs

  When the singer sings them.

  Still they are carolled and said —

  On wings they are carried —

  After the singer is dead

  And the maker buried.

  Low as the singer lies

  In the field of heather,

  Songs of his fashion bring

  The swains together.

  And when the west is red

  With the sunset embers,

  The lover lingers and sings

  And the maid remembers.

  IN THE HIGHLANDS, IN THE COUNTRY PLACES

  In the highlands, in the country places,