Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  For half a moment half supposed it good —

  Spied her mistake, nor sooner spied than ran

  To remedy; and with the greater fan,

  In gracious better thought, equipped the guest.

  From ill to well, from better on to best,

  Arts move; the homely, like the plastic kind;

  And high ideals fired that infant mind.

  Once more she backed, once more a space apart

  Considered and reviewed her work of art:

  Doubtful at first, and gravely yet awhile;

  Till all her features blossomed in a smile.

  And the child, waking at the call of bliss,

  To each she ran, and took and gave a kiss.

  NOW BARE TO THE BEHOLDER’S EYE

  Now bare to the beholder’s eye

  Your late denuded bindings lie,

  Subsiding slowly where they fell,

  A disinvested citadel;

  The obdurate corset, Cupid’s foe,

  The Dutchman’s breeches frilled below.

  Those that the lover notes to note,

  And white and crackling petticoat.

  From these, that on the ground repose,

  Their lady lately re-arose;

  And laying by the lady’s name,

  A living woman re-became.

  Of her, that from the public eye

  They do enclose and fortify,

  Now, lying scattered as they fell,

  An indiscreeter tale they tell:

  Of that more soft and secret her

  Whose daylong fortresses they were,

  By fading warmth, by lingering print,

  These now discarded scabbards hint.

  A twofold change the ladies know:

  First, in the morn the bugles blow,

  And they, with floral hues and scents,

  Man their beribboned battlements.

  But let the stars appear, and they

  Shed inhumanities away;

  And from the changeling fashion see,

  Through comic and through sweet degree,

  In nature’s toilet unsurpassed,

  Forth leaps the laughing girl at last.

  THE BOUR-TREE DEN

  Clinkum-clank in the rain they ride,

  Down by the braes and the grey sea-side;

  Clinkum-clank by stane and cairn,

  Weary fa’ their horse-shoe-airn!

  Loud on the causey, saft on the sand,

  Round they rade by the tail of the land;

  Round and up by the Bour-Tree Den,

  Weary fa’ the red-coat men!

  Aft hae I gane where they hae rade

  And straigled in the gowden brooms —

  Aft hae I gane, a saikless maid,

  And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms!

  Wi’ swords and guns they wanton there,

  Wi’ red, red coats and braw, braw plumes.

  But I gaed wi’ my gowden hair,

  And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms!

  I ran, a little hempie lass,

  In the sand and the bent grass,

  Or took and kilted my small coats

  To play in the beached fisher-boats.

  I waded deep and I ran fast,

  I was as lean as a lugger’s mast,

  I was as brown as a fisher’s creel,

  And I liked my life unco weel.

  They blew a trumpet at the cross,

  Some forty men, both foot and horse.

  A’body cam to hear and see,

  And wha, among the rest, but me.

  My lips were saut wi’ the saut air,

  My face was brown, my feet were bare

  The wind had ravelled my tautit hair,

  And I thought shame to be standing there.

  Ae man there in the thick of the throng

  Sat in his saddle, straight and strong.

  I looked at him and he at me,

  And he was a master-man to see.

  . . . And who is this yin? and who is yon

  That has the bonny lendings on?

  That sits and looks sae braw and crouse?

  . . . Mister Frank o’ the Big House!

  I gaed my lane beside the sea;

  The wind it blew in bush and tree,

  The wind blew in bush and bent:

  Muckle I saw, and muckle kent!

  Between the beach and the sea-hill

  I sat my lane and grat my fill —

  I was sae clarty and hard and dark,

  And like the kye in the cow park!

  There fell a battle far in the north;

  The evil news gaed back and forth,

  And back and forth by brae and bent

  Hider and hunter cam and went:

  The hunter clattered horse-shoe-airn

  By causey-crest and hill-top cairn;

  The hider, in by shag and shench,

  Crept on his wame and little lench.

  The eastland wind blew shrill and snell,

  The stars arose, the gloaming fell,

  The firelight shone in window and door

  When Mr. Frank cam here to shore.

  He hirpled up by the links and the lane,

  And chappit laigh in the back-door-stane.

  My faither gaed, and up wi’ his han’!

  . . . Is this Mr. Frank, or a beggarman?

  I have mistrysted sair, he said,

  But let me into fire and bed;

  Let me in, for auld lang syne,

  And give me a dram of the brandy wine.

  They hid him in the Bour-Tree Den,

  And I thought it strange to gang my lane;

  I thought it strange, I thought it sweet,

  To gang there on my naked feet.

  In the mirk night, when the boats were at sea,

  I passed the burn abune the knee;

  In the mirk night, when the folks were asleep,

  I had a tryst in the den to keep.

  Late and air’, when the folks were asleep,

  I had a tryst, a tryst to keep,

  I had a lad that lippened to me,

  And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

  O’ the bour-tree leaves I busked his bed,

  The mune was siller, the dawn was red:

  Was nae man there but him and me —

  And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

  Unco weather hae we been through:

  The mune glowered, and the wind blew,

  And the rain it rained on him and me,

  And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

  Dwelling his lane but house or hauld,

  Aft he was wet and aft was cauld;

  I warmed him wi’ my briest and knee —

  And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

  There was nae voice of beast ae man,

  But the tree soughed and the burn ran,

  And we heard the ae voice of the sea:

  Bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

  SONNETS

  I.

  Nor judge me light, tho’ light at times I seem,

  And lightly in the stress of fortune bear

  The innumerable flaws of changeful care —

  Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem

  (Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme

  And separate the prerogative of God!)

  That seaman idle who is borne abroad

  To the far haven by the favouring stream.

  Not he alone that to contrarious seas

  Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar,

  Not he alone, by high success endeared,

  Shall reach the Port; but, winged, with some light breeze

  Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before

  Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered.

  II.

  So shall this book wax like unto a well,

  Fairy with mirrored flowers about the brim,

  Or like some tarn that wailing curlews skim,

  Glassing the s
allow uplands or brown fell;

  And so, as men go down into a dell

  (Weary with noon) to find relief and shade,

  When on the uneasy sick-bed we are laid,

  We shall go down into thy book, and tell

  The leaves, once blank, to build again for us

  Old summer dead and ruined, and the time

  Of later autumn with the corn in stook.

  So shalt thou stint the meagre winter thus

  Of his projected triumph, and the rime

  Shall melt before the sunshine in thy book.

  III.

  I have a hoard of treasure in my breast;

  The grange of memory steams against the door,

  Full of my bygone lifetime’s garnered store —

  Old pleasures crowned with sorrow for a zest,

  Old sorrow grown a joy, old penance blest,

  Chastened remembrance of the sins of yore

  That, like a new evangel, more and more

  Supports our halting will toward the best.

  Ah! what to us the barren after years

  May bring of joy or sorrow, who can tell?

  O, knowing not, who cares? It may be well

  That we shall find old pleasures and old fears,

  And our remembered childhood seen thro’ tears,

  The best of Heaven and the worst of Hell.

  IV.

  As starts the absent dreamer when a train,

  Suddenly disengulphed below his feet,

  Roars forth into the sunlight, to its seat

  My soul was shaken with immediate pain

  Intolerable as the scanty breath

  Of that one word blew utterly away

  The fragile mist of fair deceit that lay

  O’er the bleak years that severed me from death.

  Yes, at the sight I quailed; but, not unwise

  Or not, O God, without some nervous thread

  Of that best valour, Patience, bowed my head,

  And with firm bosom and most steadfast eyes,

  Strong in all high resolve, prepared to tread

  The unlovely path that leads me toward the skies.

  V.

  Not undelightful, friend, our rustic ease

  To grateful hearts; for by especial hap,

  Deep nested in the hill’s enormous lap,

  With its own ring of walls and grove of trees,

  Sits, in deep shelter, our small cottage — nor

  Far-off is seen, rose carpeted and hung

  With clematis, the quarry whence she sprung,

  O mater pulchra filia pulchrior,

  Whither in early spring, unharnessed folk,

  We join the pairing swallows, glad to stay

  Where, loosened in the hills, remote, unseen,

  From its tall trees, it breathes a slender smoke

  To heaven, and in the noon of sultry day

  Stands, coolly buried, to the neck in green.

  VI.

  As in the hostel by the bridge I sate,

  Nailed with indifference fondly deemed complete,

  And (O strange chance, more sorrowful than sweet)

  The counterfeit of her that was my fate,

  Dressed in like vesture, graceful and sedate,

  Went quietly up the vacant village street,

  The still small sound of her most dainty feet

  Shook, like a trumpet blast, my soul’s estate.

  Instant revolt ran riot through my brain,

  And all night long, thereafter, hour by hour,

  The pageant of dead love before my eyes

  Went proudly; and old hopes, broke loose again

  From the restraint of wisely temperate power,

  With ineffectual ardour sought to rise.

  VII.

  The strong man’s hand, the snow-cool head of age,

  The certain-footed sympathies of youth —

  These, and that lofty passion after truth,

  Hunger unsatisfied in priest or sage

  Or the great men of former years, he needs

  That not unworthily would dare to sing

  (Hard task!) black care’s inevitable ring

  Settling with years upon the heart that feeds

  Incessantly on glory. Year by year

  The narrowing toil grows closer round his feet;

  With disenchanting touch rude-handed time

  The unlovely web discloses, and strange fear

  Leads him at last to eld’s inclement seat,

  The bitter north of life — a frozen clime.

  VIII.

  As Daniel, bird-alone, in that far land,

  Kneeling in fervent prayer, with heart-sick eyes

  Turned thro’ the casement toward the westering skies;

  Or as untamed Elijah, that red brand

  Among the starry prophets; or that band

  And company of Faithful sanctities

  Who in all times, when persecutions rise,

  Cherish forgotten creeds with fostering hand:

  Such do ye seem to me, light-hearted crew,

  O turned to friendly arts with all your will,

  That keep a little chapel sacred still,

  One rood of Holy-land in this bleak earth

  Sequestered still (our homage surely due!)

  To the twin Gods of mirthful wine and mirth.

  About my fields, in the broad sun

  And blaze of noon, there goeth one,

  Barefoot and robed in blue, to scan

  With the hard eye of the husbandman

  My harvests and my cattle. Her,

  When even puts the birds astir

  And day has set in the great woods,

  We seek, among her garden roods,

  With bells and cries in vain: the while

  Lamps, plate, and the decanter smile

  On the forgotten board. But she,

  Deaf, blind, and prone on face and knee,

  Forgets time, family, and feast,

  And digs like a demented beast.

  Tall as a guardsman, pale as the east at dawn,

  Who strides in strange apparel on the lawn?

  Rails for his breakfast? routs his vassals out

  (Like boys escaped from school) with song and shout?

  Kind and unkind, his Maker’s final freak,

  Part we deride the child, part dread the antique!

  See where his gang, like frogs, among the dew

  Crouch at their duty, an unquiet crew;

  Adjust their staring kilts; and their swift eyes

  Turn still to him who sits to supervise.

  He in the midst, perched on a fallen tree,

  Eyes them at labour; and, guitar on knee,

  Now ministers alarm, now scatters joy,

  Now twangs a halting chord, now tweaks a boy.

  Thorough in all, my resolute vizier

  Plays both the despot and the volunteer,

  Exacts with fines obedience to my laws,

  And for his music, too, exacts applause.

  The Adorner of the uncomely — those

  Amidst whose tall battalions goes

  Her pretty person out and in

  All day with an endearing din,

  Of censure and encouragement;

  And when all else is tried in vain

  See her sit down and weep again.

  She weeps to conquer;

  She varies on her grenadiers

  From satire up to girlish tears!

  Or rather to behold her when

  She plies for me the unresting pen,

  And when the loud assault of squalls

  Resounds upon the roof and walls,

  And the low thunder growls and I

  Raise my dictating voice on high.

  What glory for a boy of ten

  Who now must three gigantic men

  And two enormous, dapple grey

  New Zealand pack-horses array

  And lead, and wisely resolute

  Our day
-long business execute

  In the far shore-side town. His soul

  Glows in his bosom like a coal;

  His innocent eyes glitter again,

  And his hand trembles on the rein.

  Once he reviews his whole command,

  And chivalrously planting hand

  On hip — a borrowed attitude —

  Rides off downhill into the wood.

  I meanwhile in the populous house apart

  Sit snugly chambered, and my silent art

  Uninterrupted, unremitting ply

  Before the dawn, by morning lamplight, by

  The glow of smelting noon, and when the sun

  Dips past my westering hill and day is done;

  So, bending still over my trade of words,

  I hear the morning and the evening birds,

  The morning and the evening stars behold;

  So there apart I sit as once of old

  Napier in wizard Merchiston; and my

  Brown innocent aides in home and husbandry

  Wonder askance. What ails the boss? they ask.

  Him, richest of the rich, an endless task

  Before the earliest birds or servants stir

  Calls and detains him daylong prisoner?

  He whose innumerable dollars hewed

  This cleft in the boar and devil-haunted wood,

  And bade therein, from sun to seas and skies,

  His many-windowed, painted palace rise

  Red-roofed, blue-walled, a rainbow on the hill,

  A wonder in the forest glade: he still,

  Unthinkable Aladdin, dawn and dark,

  Scribbles and scribbles, like a German clerk.

  We see the fact, but tell, O tell us why?

  My reverend washman and wise butler cry.

  Meanwhile at times the manifold

  Imperishable perfumes of the past

  And coloured pictures rise on me thick and fast:

  And I remember the white rime, the loud

  Lamplitten city, shops, and the changing crowd;

  And I remember home and the old time,

  The winding river, the white moving rhyme,

  The autumn robin by the river-side

  That pipes in the grey eve.

  The old lady (so they say), but I

  Admire your young vitality.

  Still brisk of foot, still busy and keen

  In and about and up and down.

  I hear you pass with bustling feet

  The long verandahs round, and beat

  Your bell, and “Lotu! Lotu!” cry;

  Thus calling our queer company,

  In morning or in evening dim,

  To prayers and the oft mangled hymn.

  All day you watch across the sky

  The silent, shining cloudlands ply,

  That, huge as countries, swift as birds,

  Beshade the isles by halves and thirds,

  Till each with battlemented crest

  Stands anchored in the ensanguined west,