By Murphy’s Hotel as I loitered along I heard an old shellback a-singing his song,
Now the last meet is over, the last hunt is done,
And the last farewell spoken at set of the sun,
The Poet's dead! - a slave to honor - He fell, by rumor slandered,
Less hate and greed
Is what we need
There's a dark an' dirty wineshop on a waterfront I know, An' a cross-eyed Dago keeps it — or he kep' it years ago —
Dan —
Beats the band as a shantyman.
And they were stronger hands than mine
That digged the Ruby from the earth--
Two
I heard to-day the first sweet song of spring—
By the old Pagoda Anchorage they lay full fifteen strong,
And their spars were like a forest, and their names were like a song.
Once on a day a Paimpol man
Promised a ship to the good St. Anne . . .
Yo were but a little un, Crowner my lad,
When th' huntsman he said yo'd be t' spit o' yo'r dad,
YOU may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
I long for the streets but the Lord knoweth best,
For there I am never a saint;
To see the moment holds a madrigal,
To find some cloistered place, some hermitage
From Woolwich and Brentford and Stamford Hill, from Richmond into the Strand,
Oh, the Cockney soul is a silent soul – as it is in every land!
Wake, little Waxy! Hunting-time again,
The short days and goodly, the clean Autumn rain:
No greater earthly boon than this I crave, That those who some day gather 'round my grave,
'Er keel was laid in Seventy-four,
Let 'er go — let 'er go!
Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough.
When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls roug
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Wild child of genius with his witching lyre,
Dreamer of dreams of rarest fantasy,
While men pay reverence to mighty things,
They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle
Fair Harvard, the months have accomplished their round
And a year stands full-orbed and complete,
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Start Point and Beachy Head Tell their tale of quick and dead.
Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
When the last rousing gallop is ended,
And the last post-and-rall has been jumped,
Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of Hell,
SHE stands, a thousand-wintered tree,
By countless morns impearled;
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