True Thomas sighed above his harp, And turned the song on the midmost string; And the last least word True Thomas made He harpit his dead youth back to the King.

"Now I am prince, and I do well To love my love withouten fear; To walk wi' man in fellowship, And breathe my horse behind the deer.

"My hounds they bay unto the death, The buck has couched beyond the burn, My love she waits at her window To wash my hands when I return.

"For that I live am I content (Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes!) To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade, And run in the woods o' Paradise!"

_'Twas nodding gra.s.s and naked sky, 'Twas blue above and bent below, Where, checked against the wastrel wind, The red deer belled to call the doe._

True Thomas laid his harp away, And louted low at the saddle-side; He has taken stirrup and hauden rein, And set the King on his horse o' pride.

"Sleep ye or wake," True Thomas said, "That sit so still, that muse so long; Sleep ye or wake?--till the latter sleep I trow ye'll not forget my song.

"I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun To stand before your face and cry; I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel, And over your head I ha' dusked the sky!

"I ha' harpit ye up to the Throne o' G.o.d, I ha' harpit your secret soul in three; I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' h.e.l.l, And--ye--would--make--a Knight o' me!"

THE STORY OF UNG.

Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago, Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.

Fashioned the form of a tribesman--gaily he whistled and sung, Working the snow with his fingers. _Read ye the Story of Ung!_

Pleased was his tribe with that image--came in their hundreds to scan-- Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: "Verily, this is a man!

Thus do we carry our lances--thus is a war-belt slung.

Ay, it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!"

Later he pictured an aurochs--later he pictured a bear-- Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair-- Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone-- Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.

Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still-- Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill, Hunters and fishers and trappers--presently whispering low; "Yea, they are like--and it may be.... But how does the Picture-man know?

"Ung--hath he slept with the Aurochs--watched where the Mastodon roam?

Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head--followed the Sabre-tooth home?

Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so, How is there truth in his image--the man that he fashioned of snow?"

Wroth was that maker of pictures--hotly he answered the call: "Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!

Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!" Swift from the tumult he broke, Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.

And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft, Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed: "If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done, And each man would make him a picture, and--what would become of my son?

"There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift, Nor dole of the oily timber that strands with the Baltic drift; No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale; No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.

"_Thou_ hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze, Nor worked the war-boats outward, through the rush of the rock-staked seas, Yet they bring thee fish and plunder--full meal and an easy bed-- And all for the sake of thy pictures." And Ung held down his head.

"_Thou_ hast not stood to the aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight; Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright: And the heart of the hairy mammoth thou sayest they do not see, Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.

"And now do they press to thy pictures, with open mouth and eye, And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy: But--sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain-- Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again."

And Ung looked down at his deerskins--their broad sh.e.l.l-ta.s.selled bands-- And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands; And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind: "Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!"

Straight on that glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne, Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone-- Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung, Blessing his tribe for their blindness. _Heed ye the Story of Ung!_

THE THREE-DECKER.

"The three-volume novel is extinct."

Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.

It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail; But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best-- The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

Fair held our breeze behind us--'twas warm with lovers' prayers: We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs; They shipped as Able b.a.s.t.a.r.ds till the Wicked Nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

_Carambas_ and _serapes_ we waved to every wind, We smoked good Corpo Bacco when our sweethearts proved unkind; With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed We also took our manners to the Islands of the Blest.

We asked no social questions--we pumped no hidden shame-- We never talked obstetrics when the little stranger came: We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in h.e.l.l.

We weren't exactly Yussufs, but--Zuleika didn't tell!

No moral doubt a.s.sailed us, so when the port we neared, The villain got his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.

'Twas fiddles in the foc'sle--'twas garlands on the mast, For every one got married, and I went ash.o.r.e at last.

I left 'em all in couples akissing on the decks.

I left the lovers loving and the parents signing checks.

In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed, I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest!

That route is barred to steamers: you'll never lift again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.

They're just beyond the skyline, howe'er so far you cruise In a ram-you-d.a.m.n-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.

Swing round your aching search-light--'twill show no haven's peace!

Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas!

Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest-- But you aren't a knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest.

And when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail, On a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed, You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread; You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall p.o.o.p-lanterns shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine.

Hull down--hull down and under--she dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.

All's well--all's well aboard her--she's dropped you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?

You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?

Well, tinker up your engines--you know your business best-- _She's_ taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!