Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Where the old plain men have rosy faces,

  And the young fair maidens

  Quiet eyes;

  Where essential silence cheers and blesses,

  And for ever in the hill-recesses

  Her more lovely music

  Broods and dies.

  O to mount again where erst I haunted;

  Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,

  And the low green meadows

  Bright with sward;

  And when even dies, the million-tinted,

  And the night has come, and planets glinted,

  Lo, the valley hollow

  Lamp-bestarred!

  O to dream, O to awake and wander

  There, and with delight to take and render,

  Through the trance of silence,

  Quiet breath;

  Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,

  Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;

  Only winds and rivers,

  Life and death.

  TO THE TUNE OF WANDERING WILLIE

  Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?

  Hunger my driver, I go where I must.

  Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;

  Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.

  Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.

  The true word of welcome was spoken in the door —

  Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,

  Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

  Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,

  Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.

  Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;

  Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.

  Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,

  Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.

  Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

  The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

  Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,

  Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;

  Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,

  Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;

  Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood —

  Fair shine the day on the house with open door;

  Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney —

  But I go for ever and come again no more.

  WINTER

  In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane

  The redbreast looks in vain

  For hips and haws,

  Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane

  The silver pencil of the winter draws.

  When all the snowy hill

  And the bare woods are still;

  When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,

  And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,

  Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs —

  More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

  Saranac Lake.

  THE STORMY EVENING CLOSES NOW IN VAIN

  The stormy evening closes now in vain,

  Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain,

  While here in sheltered house

  With fire-ypainted walls,

  I hear the wind abroad,

  I hark the calling squalls —

  ‘Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘you burst your cheeks in vain!

  Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘my love is home again!’

  Yon ship you chase perchance but yesternight

  Bore still the precious freight of my delight,

  That here in sheltered house

  With fire-ypainted walls,

  Now hears the wind abroad,

  Now harks the calling squalls.

  ‘Blow, blow,’ I cry, ‘in vain you rouse the sea,

  My rescued sailor shares the fire with me!’

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

  In the belovèd hour that ushers day,

  In the pure dew, under the breaking grey,

  One bird, ere yet the woodland quires awake,

  With brief réveillé summons all the brake:

  Chirp, chirp, it goes; nor waits an answer long;

  And that small signal fills the grove with song.

  Thus on my pipe I breathed a strain or two;

  It scarce was music, but ’twas all I knew.

  It was not music, for I lacked the art,

  Yet what but frozen music filled my heart?

  Chirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped a nobler strain;

  But Heaven decreed I should not pipe in vain,

  For, lo! not far from there, in secret dale,

  All silent, sat an ancient nightingale.

  My sparrow notes he heard; thereat awoke;

  And with a tide of song his silence broke.

  TO —

  I knew thee strong and quiet like the hills;

  I knew thee apt to pity, brave to endure,

  In peace or war a Roman full equipt;

  And just I knew thee, like the fabled kings

  Who by the loud sea-shore gave judgment forth,

  From dawn to eve, bearded and few of words.

  What, what, was I to honour thee? A child;

  A youth in ardour but a child in strength,

  Who after virtue’s golden chariot-wheels

  Runs ever panting, nor attains the goal.

  So thought I, and was sorrowful at heart.

  Since then my steps have visited that flood

  Along whose shore the numerous footfalls cease,

  The voices and the tears of life expire.

  Thither the prints go down, the hero’s way

  Trod large upon the sand, the trembling maid’s:

  Nimrod that wound his trumpet in the wood,

  And the poor, dreaming child, hunter of flowers,

  That here his hunting closes with the great:

  So one and all go down, nor aught returns.

  For thee, for us, the sacred river waits,

  For me, the unworthy, thee, the perfect friend;

  There Blame desists, there his unfaltering dogs

  He from the chase recalls, and homeward rides;

  Yet Praise and Love pass over and go in.

  So when, beside that margin, I discard

  My more than mortal weakness, and with thee

  Through that still land unfearing I advance:

  If then at all we keep the touch of joy

  Thou shalt rejoice to find me altered — I,

  O Felix, to behold thee still unchanged.

  THE MORNING DRUM-CALL ON MY EAGER EAR

  The morning drum-call on my eager ear

  Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew

  Lies yet undried along my field of noon.

  But now I pause at whiles in what I do,

  And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear

  (My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon.

  I HAVE TROD THE UPWARD AND THE DOWNWARD SLOPE

  I have trod the upward and the downward slope;

  I have endured and done in days before;

  I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;

  And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

  HE HEARS WITH GLADDENED HEART THE THUNDER

  He hears with gladdened heart the thunder

  Peal, and loves the falling dew;

  He knows the earth above and under —

  Sits and is content to view.

  He sits beside the dying ember,

  God for hope and man for friend,

  Content to see, glad to remember,

  Expectant of the certain end.

  FAREWELL, FAIR DAY AND FADING LIGHT!

  Farewell, fair day and fading light!

  The clay-born here, with westward sight,

  Marks the huge sun now downwar
d soar.

  Farewell. We twain shall meet no more.

  Farewell. I watch with bursting sigh

  My late contemned occasion die.

  I linger useless in my tent:

  Farewell, fair day, so foully spent!

  Farewell, fair day. If any God

  At all consider this poor clod,

  He who the fair occasion sent

  Prepared and placed the impediment.

  Let him diviner vengeance take —

  Give me to sleep, give me to wake

  Girded and shod, and bid me play

  The hero in the coming day!

  IF THIS WERE FAITH

  God, if this were enough,

  That I see things bare to the buff

  And up to the buttocks in mire;

  That I ask nor hope nor hire,

  Nut in the husk,

  Nor dawn beyond the dusk,

  Nor life beyond death:

  God, if this were faith?

  Having felt thy wind in my face

  Spit sorrow and disgrace,

  Having seen thine evil doom

  In Golgotha and Khartoum,

  And the brutes, the work of thine hands,

  Fill with injustice lands

  And stain with blood the sea:

  If still in my veins the glee

  Of the black night and the sun

  And the lost battle, run:

  If, an adept,

  The iniquitous lists I still accept

  With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood,

  And still to battle and perish for a dream of good:

  God, if that were enough?

  If to feel, in the ink of the slough,

  And the sink of the mire,

  Veins of glory and fire

  Run through and transpierce and transpire,

  And a secret purpose of glory in every part,

  And the answering glory of battle fill my heart;

  To thrill with the joy of girded men

  To go on for ever and fail and go on again,

  And be mauled to the earth and arise,

  And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes:

  With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night

  That somehow the right is the right

  And the smooth shall bloom from the rough:

  Lord, if that were enough?

  MY WIFE

  Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,

  With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,

  Steel-true and blade-straight,

  The great artificer

  Made my mate.

  Honour, anger, valour, fire;

  A love that life could never tire,

  Death quench or evil stir,

  The mighty master

  Gave to her.

  Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,

  A fellow-farer true through life,

  Heart-whole and soul-free

  The august father

  Gave to me.

  TO THE MUSE

  Resign the rhapsody, the dream,

  To men of larger reach;

  Be ours the quest of a plain theme,

  The piety of speech.

  As monkish scribes from morning break

  Toiled till the close of light,

  Nor thought a day too long to make

  One line or letter bright:

  We also with an ardent mind,

  Time, wealth, and fame forgot,

  Our glory in our patience find

  And skim, and skim the pot:

  Till last, when round the house we hear

  The evensong of birds,

  One corner of blue heaven appear

  In our clear well of words.

  Leave, leave it then, muse of my heart!

  Sans finish and sans frame,

  Leave unadorned by needless art

  The picture as it came.

  TO AN ISLAND PRINCESS

  Since long ago, a child at home,

  I read and longed to rise and roam,

  Where’er I went, whate’er I willed,

  One promised land my fancy filled.

  Hence the long roads my home I made;

  Tossed much in ships; have often laid

  Below the uncurtained sky my head,

  Rain-deluged and wind-buffeted:

  And many a thousand hills I crossed

  And corners turned — Love’s labour lost,

  Till, Lady, to your isle of sun

  I came, not hoping; and, like one

  Snatched out of blindness, rubbed my eyes,

  And hailed my promised land with cries.

  Yes, Lady, here I was at last;

  Here found I all I had forecast:

  The long roll of the sapphire sea

  That keeps the land’s virginity;

  The stalwart giants of the wood

  Laden with toys and flowers and food;

  The precious forest pouring out

  To compass the whole town about;

  The town itself with streets of lawn,

  Loved of the moon, blessed by the dawn,

  Where the brown children all the day

  Keep up a ceaseless noise of play,

  Play in the sun, play in the rain,

  Nor ever quarrel or complain; —

  And late at night, in the woods of fruit,

  Hark! do you hear the passing flute?

  I threw one look to either hand,

  And knew I was in Fairyland.

  And yet one point of being so

  I lacked. For, Lady (as you know),

  Whoever by his might of hand,

  Won entrance into Fairyland,

  Found always with admiring eyes

  A Fairy princess kind and wise.

  It was not long I waited; soon

  Upon my threshold, in broad noon,

  Gracious and helpful, wise and good,

  The Fairy Princess Moë stood.

  Tantira, Tahiti, Nov. 5, 1888.

  TO KALAKAUA. (With a present of a Pearl)

  The Silver Ship, my King — that was her name

  In the bright islands whence your fathers came —

  The Silver Ship, at rest from winds and tides,

  Below your palace in your harbour rides:

  And the seafarers, sitting safe on shore,

  Like eager merchants count their treasures o’er.

  One gift they find, one strange and lovely thing,

  Now doubly precious since it pleased a king.

  The right, my liege, is ancient as the lyre

  For bards to give to kings what kings admire.

  ’Tis mine to offer for Apollo’s sake;

  And since the gift is fitting, yours to take.

  To golden hands the golden pearl I bring:

  The ocean jewel to the island king.

  Honolulu, Feb. 3, 1889.

  TO PRINCESS KAIULANI

  [Written in April to Kaiulani in the April of her age; and at Waikiki, within easy walk of Kaiulani’s banyan! When she comes to my land and her father’s, and the rain beats upon the window (as I fear it will), let her look at this page; it will be like a weed gathered and pressed at home; and she will remember her own islands, and the shadow of the mighty tree; and she will hear the peacocks screaming in the dusk and the wind blowing in the palms; and she will think of her father sitting there alone. — R. L. S.]

  Forth from her land to mine she goes,

  The island maid, the island rose,

  Light of heart and bright of face:

  The daughter of a double race.

  Her islands here, in Southern sun,

  Shall mourn their Kaiulani gone,

  And I, in her dear banyan shade,

  Look vainly for my little maid.

  But our Scots islands far away

  Shall glitter with unwonted day,

  And cast for once their tempests by

  To smile in Kaiulani’s eye.

  Honolulu.


  TO MOTHER MARYANNE

  To see the infinite pity of this place,

  The mangled limb, the devastated face,

  The innocent sufferer smiling at the rod —

  A fool were tempted to deny his God.

  He sees, he shrinks. But if he gaze again,

  Lo, beauty springing from the breast of pain!

  He marks the sisters on the mournful shores;

  And even a fool is silent and adores.

  Guest House, Kalawao, Molokai.

  IN MEMORIAM E. H.

  I knew a silver head was bright beyond compare,

  I knew a queen of toil with a crown of silver hair.

  Garland of valour and sorrow, of beauty and renown,

  Life, that honours the brave, crowned her himself with the crown.

  The beauties of youth are frail, but this was a jewel of age.

  Life, that delights in the brave, gave it himself for a gage.

  Fair was the crown to behold, and beauty its poorest part —

  At once the scar of the wound and the order pinned on the heart.

  The beauties of man are frail, and the silver lies in the dust,

  And the queen that we call to mind sleeps with the brave and the just;

  Sleeps with the weary at length; but, honoured and ever fair,

  Shines in the eye of the mind the crown of the silver hair.

  Honolulu.

  TO MY WIFE. (A Fragment)

  Long must elapse ere you behold again

  Green forest frame the entry of the lane —

  The wild lane with the bramble and the brier,

  The year-old cart-tracks perfect in the mire,

  The wayside smoke, perchance, the dwarfish huts,

  And ramblers’ donkey drinking from the ruts: —

  Long ere you trace how deviously it leads,

  Back from man’s chimneys and the bleating meads

  To the woodland shadow, to the sylvan hush,

  When but the brooklet chuckles in the brush —

  Back from the sun and bustle of the vale

  To where the great voice of the nightingale

  Fills all the forest like a single room,

  And all the banks smell of the golden broom;

  So wander on until the eve descends.

  And back returning to your firelit friends,

  You see the rosy sun, despoiled of light,