The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14

XLIII

TO S.R. CROCKETT

(ON RECEIVING A DEDICATION)Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing-stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all.Vailima.

XLIV

EVENSONG

The embers of the day are redBeyond the murky hill.The kitchen smokes: the bedIn the darkling house is spread:The great sky darkens overhead,And the great woods are shrill.So far have I been led,Lord, by Thy will:So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still.The breeze from the embalmèd landBlows sudden toward the shore,And claps my cottage door.I hear the signal, Lord – I understand.The night at Thy commandComes. I will eat and sleep and will not question more.Vailima.

ADDITIONAL POEMS

I

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

Blame me not that this epistleIs the first you have from me;Idleness hath held me fettered;But at last the times are bettered,And once more I wet my whistleHere in France beside the sea.All the green and idle weather,I have had in sun and showerSuch an easy, warm subsistence,Such an indolent existence,I should find it hard to severDay from day and hour from hour.Many a tract-provided ranterMay upbraid me, dark and sour,Many a bland Utilitarian,Or excited Millenarian,– “Pereunt et imputantur” —You must speak to every hour.But (the very term’s deception)You at least, my Friend, will seeThat in sunny grassy meadows,Trailed across by moving shadows,To be actively receptiveIs as much as man can be.He that all the winter grapplesDifficulties – thrust and ward —Needs to cheer him thro’ his dutyMemories of sun and beauty,Orchards with the russet applesLying scattered on the sward.Many such I keep in prison,Keep them here at heart unseen,Till my muse again rehearsesLong years hence, and in my versesYou shall meet them re-arisen,Ever comely, ever green.You know how they never perish,How, in time of later art,Memories consecrate and sweetenThose defaced and tempest-beatenFlowers of former years we cherishHalf a life, against our heart.Most, those love-fruits withered greenly,Those frail, sickly amourettes, —How they brighten with the distance,Take new strength and new existence,Till we see them sitting queenlyCrowned and courted by regrets!All that loveliest and best is,Aureole-fashion round their head,They that looked in life but plainly,How they stir our spirits vainlyWhen they come to us, Alcestis —Like returning from the dead!Not the old love but another,Bright she comes at memory’s call,Our forgotten vows revivingTo a newer, livelier living,As the dead child to the motherSeems the fairest child of all.Thus our Goethe, sacred master,Travelling backward thro’ his youth,Surely wandered wrong in tryingTo renew the old, undyingLoves that cling in memory fasterThan they ever lived in truth.Boulogne-sur-Mer, September 1872.

II

RONDELS

1

Far have you come, my lady, from the town,And far from all your sorrows, if you please,To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,And in green meadows lay your body down.To find your pale face grow from pale to brown,Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;Far have you come, my lady, from the town,And far from all your sorrows, if you please.Here in this seaboard land of old renown,In meadow grass go wading to the knees;Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;Far have you come, my lady, from the town.

2

Nous n’irons plus au boisWe’ll walk the woods no more,But stay beside the fire,To weep for old desireAnd things that are no more.The woods are spoiled and hoar,The ways are full of mire;We’ll walk the woods no more,But stay beside the fire.We loved, in days of yore,Love, laughter, and the lyre.Ah God, but death is dire,And death is at the door —We’ll walk the woods no more.Château Renard, August 1875.

3

Since I am sworn to live my lifeAnd not to keep an easy heart,Some men may sit and drink apart,I bear a banner in the strife.Some can take quiet thought to wife,I am all day at tierce and carte,Since I am sworn to live my lifeAnd not to keep an easy heart.I follow gaily to the fife,Leave Wisdom bowed above a chart,And Prudence brawing in the mart,And dare Misfortune to the knife,Since I am sworn to live my life.

4

OF HIS PITIABLE TRANSFORMATIONI who was young so long,Young and alert and gay,Now that my hair is grey,Begin to change my song.Now I know right from wrong,Now I know pay and pray,I who was young so long,Young and alert and gay.Now I follow the throng,Walk in the beaten way,Hear what the elders say,And own that I was wrong —I who was young so long.1876.

III

EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER

Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green,Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’,To pass the winter.Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,An’ snaws ahint her.I’ve seen ’s hae days to fricht us a’,The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,An’ half-congealin’,The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blawFrae blae Brunteelan’.I’ve seen ’s been unco sweir to sally,And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,Seen ’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shallyFor near a minute —Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,The deil was in it! —Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate,In blast an’ blaudin’, rain, deil hae ’t!The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,Wi’ cauld an’ weet,An’ to the Court, gin we ’se be late,Bicker oor feet.And at the Court, tae, aft I sawWhaur Advocates by twa an’ twaGang gesterin’ end to end the ha’In weeg an’ goon,To crack o’ what ye wull but LawThe hale forenoon.That muckle ha’, maist like a kirk,I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirkYe’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurkLike ghaists frae Hell,But whether Christian ghaists or Turk,Deil ane could tell.The three fires lunted in the gloom,The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,The rain upo’ the roof abunePlayed Peter Dick —Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the roomYour teeth to pick!But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,The ling-lang lanely winter through,Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ trueTo lore Horatian,We aye the ither bottle drewTo inclination.Sae let us in the comin’ daysStand sicker on our auncient ways —The strauchtest road in a’ the mazeSince Eve ate apples;An’ let the winter weet our cla’es —We’ll weet oor thrapples.Edinburgh, October 1875.

IV

THE SUSQUEHANNAH AND THE DELAWARE

Of where or how, I nothing know;And why, I do not care;Enough if, even so,My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can goBy flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair,Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.I think, I hope, I dream no moreThe dreams of otherwhere,The cherished thoughts of yore;I have been changed from what I was before;And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air,Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.Unweary, God me yet shall bringTo lands of brighter air,Where I, now half a king,Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing,And wear a bolder front than that which now I wearBeside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.August 1879.

V

EPISTLE TO ALBERT DEW-SMITH

Figure me to yourself, I pray —A man of my peculiar cut —Apart from dancing and deray,32Into an Alpine valley shut;Shut in a kind of damned Hotel,Discountenanced by God and man;The food? – Sir, you would do as wellTo cram your belly full of bran.The company? Alas, the dayThat I should dwell with such a crew,With devil anything to say,Nor any one to say it to!The place? Although they call it Platz,I will be bold and state my view;It’s not a place at all – and that’sThe bottom verity, my Dew.There are, as I will not deny,Innumerable inns; a road;Several Alps indifferent high;The snow’s inviolable abode;Eleven English parsons, allEntirely inoffensive; fourTrue human beings – what I callHuman – the deuce a cipher more;A climate of surprising worth;Innumerable dogs that bark;Some air, some weather, and some earth;A native race – God save the mark! —A race that works, yet cannot work,Yodels, but cannot yodel right,Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk,I vow that I could wholly smite.A river that from morn to nightDown all the valley plays the fool;Not once she pauses in her flight,Nor knows the comfort of a pool;But still keeps up, by straight or bend,The selfsame pace she hath begun —Still hurry, hurry, to the end —Good God, is that the way to run?If I a river were, I hopeThat I should better realiseThe opportunities and scopeOf that romantic enterprise.I should not ape the merely strange,But aim besides at the divine;And continuity and changeI still should labour to combine.Here should I gallop down the race,Here charge the sterling33 like a bull;There, as a man might wipe his face,Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.But what, my Dew, in idle mood,What prate I, minding not my debt?What do I talk of bad or good?The best is still a cigarette.Me whether evil fate assault,Or smiling providences crown —Whether on high the eternal vaultBe blue, or crash with thunder down —I judge the best, whate’er befall,Is still to sit on one’s behind,And, having duly moistened all,Smoke with an unperturbed mind.Davos, November 1880.

VI

ALCAICS TO HORATIO F. BROWN

Brave lads in olden musical centuries,Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,Sat late by alehouse doors in AprilChaunting in joy as the moon was rising:Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables;Spring scents inspired, old wine diluted;Love and Apollo were there to chorus.Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,Those, only those, the bountiful choristersGone – those are gone, those unrememberedSleep and are silent in earth for ever.So man himself appears and evanishes,So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting atSome green-embowered house, play their music,Play and are gone on the windy highway;Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memoryLong after they departed eternally,Forth-faring tow’rd far mountain summits,Cities of men on the sounding Ocean.Youth sang the song in years immemorial;Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtimeHeard and were pleased by the voice of singing;Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy —Songs sent by thee afar from VenetianSea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways,Dear to me here in my Alpine exile.Davos, Spring 1881.

VII

A LYTLE JAPE OF TUSHERIE

By A. TusherThe pleasant river gushesAmong the meadows green;At home the author tushes;For him it flows unseen.The Birds among the BushesMay wanton on the spray;But vain for him who tushesThe brightness of the day!The frog among the rushesSits singing in the blue.By ’r la’kin! but these tushesAre wearisome to do!The task entirely crushesThe spirit of the bard:God pity him who tushes —His task is very hard.The filthy gutter slushes,The clouds are full of rain,But doomed is he who tushesTo tush and tush again.At morn with his hair-brushes,Still “tush” he says and weeps;At night again he tushes,And tushes till he sleeps.And when at length he pushesBeyond the river dark —’Las, to the man who tushes,“Tush” shall be God’s remark!Hyères, May 1883.

VIII

TO VIRGIL AND DORA WILLIAMS

Here, from the forelands of the tideless sea,Behold and take my offering unadorned.In the Pacific air it sprang; it grewAmong the silence of the Alpine air;In Scottish heather blossomed; and at lastBy that unshapen sapphire, in whose faceSpain, Italy, France, Algiers, and Tunis viewTheir introverted mountains, came to fruit.Back now, my Booklet! on the diving ship,And posting on the rails, to home return, —Home, and the friends whose honouring name you bear.Hyères, 1883.

IX

BURLESQUE SONNET

TO ÆNEAS WILLIAM MACKINTOSH

Thee, Mackintosh, artificer of light,Thee, the lone smoker hails! the student, thee;Thee, oft upon the ungovernable sea,The seaman, conscious of approaching night;Thou, with industrious fingers, hast outrightMastered that art, of other arts the key,That bids thick night before the morning flee,And lingering day retains for mortal sight.O Promethean workman, thee I hail,Thee hallowed, thee unparalleled, thee boldTo affront the reign of sleep and darkness old,Thee William, thee Æneas, thee I sing;Thee by the glimmering taper clear and pale,Of light, and light’s purveyance, hail, the king.

X

THE FINE PACIFIC ISLANDS

(HEARD IN A PUBLIC-HOUSE AT ROTHERHITHE)The jolly English YellowboyIs a ’ansome coin when new,The Yankee Double-eagleIs large enough for two.O, these may do for seaport towns,For cities these may do;But the dibbs that takes the HislandsAre the dollars of Peru:O, the fine Pacific Hislands,O, the dollars of Peru!It’s there we buy the cocoanutsMast ’eaded in the blue;It’s there we trap the lassesAll waiting for the crew;It’s there we buy the trader’s rumWhat bores a seaman through…In the fine Pacific HislandsWith the dollars of Peru:In the fine Pacific HislandsWith the dollars of Peru!Now, messmates, when my watch is up,And I am quite broached to,I’ll give a tip to ’EvvingOf the ’ansome thing to do:Let ’em just refit this sailor-manAnd launch him off anewTo cruise among the HislandsWith the dollars of Peru:In the fine Pacific HislandsWith the dollars of Peru!Tahiti, August 1888.

XI

AULD REEKIE

When chitterin’ cauld the day sall daw,Loud may your bonny bugles blawAnd loud your drums may beat.Hie owre the land at evenfa’Your lamps may glitter raw by raw,Along the gowsty street.I gang nae mair where ance I gaed,By Brunston, Fairmileheid, or Braid;But far frae Kirk and Tron.O still ayont the muckle sea,Still are ye dear, and dear to me,Auld Reekie, still and on!

XII

THE LESSON OF THE MASTER

TO HENRY JAMESAdela, Adela, Adela Chart,What have you done to my elderly heart?Of all the ladies of paper and inkI count you the paragon, call you the pink.The word of your brother depicts you in part:“You raving maniac!” Adela Chart;But in all the asylums that cumber the ground,So delightful a maniac was ne’er to be found.I pore on you, dote on you, clasp you to heart,I laud, love, and laugh at you, Adela Chart,And thank my dear maker the while I admireThat I can be neither your husband nor sire.Your husband’s, your sire’s, were a difficult part;You’re a byway to suicide, Adela Chart;But to read of, depicted by exquisite James,O, sure you’re the flower and quintessence of dames.Vailima, October 1891.

XIII

THE CONSECRATION OF BRAILLE

TO MRS. A. BAKERI was a barren tree before,I blew a quenchèd coal,I could not, on their midnight shore,The lonely blind console.A moment, lend your hand, I bringMy sheaf for you to bind,And you can teach my words to singIn the darkness of the blind.Vailima, December 1893.

XIV

SONG

Light foot and tight foot,And green grass spread,Early in the morning,But hope is on ahead.Brief day and bright day,And sunset red,Early in the evening,The stars are overhead.

1

“Life on the Lagoons,” by H. F. Brown, originally burned in the fire at Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.’s.

2

From “Travels with a Donkey.”

3

page 140. “The aito,” quasi champion, or brave. One skilled in the use of some weapon, who wandered the country challenging distinguished rivals and taking part in local quarrels. It was in the natural course of his advancement to be at last employed by a chief, or king; and it would then be a part of his duties to purvey the victim for sacrifice. One of the doomed families was indicated; the aito took his weapon and went forth alone; a little behind him bearers followed with the sacrificial basket. Sometimes the victim showed fight, sometimes prevailed; more often, without doubt, he fell. But whatever body was found, the bearers indifferently took up.

4

page 141. “Pai,” “Honoura,” and “Ahupu.” Legendary persons of Tahiti, all natives of Taiárapu. Of the first two I have collected singular although imperfect legends, which I hope soon to lay before the public in another place. Of Ahupu, except in snatches of song, little memory appears to linger. She dwelt at least about Tepari, – “the sea-cliffs,” – the eastern fastness of the isle; walked by paths known only to herself upon the mountains; was courted by dangerous suitors who came swimming from adjacent islands, and defended and rescued (as I gather) by the loyalty of native fish. My anxiety to learn more of “Ahupu Vehine” became (during my stay in Taiárapu) a cause of some diversion to that mirthful people, the inhabitants.

5

page 142. “Covered an oven.” The cooking fire is made in a hole in the ground, and is then buried.

6

page 143. “Flies.” This is perhaps an anachronism. Even speaking of to-day in Tahiti, the phrase would have to be understood as referring mainly to mosquitoes, and these only in watered valleys with close woods, such as I suppose to form the surroundings of Rahéro’s homestead. A quarter of a mile away, where the air moves freely, you shall look in vain for one.

7

page 144. “Hook” of mother-of-pearl. Bright-hook fishing, and that with the spear, appear to be the favourite native methods.

8

page 145. “Leaves,” the plates of Tahiti.

9

page 146. “Yottowas,” so spelt for convenience of pronunciation, quasi Tacksmen in the Scottish Highlands. The organisation of eight sub-districts and eight yottowas to a division, which was in use (until yesterday) among the Tevas, I have attributed without authority to the next clan (see page 155).

10

page 146. “Omare,” pronounce as a dactyl. A loaded quarterstaff, one of the two favourite weapons of the Tahitian brave; the javelin, or casting spear, was the other.

11

page 148. “The ribbon of light.” Still to be seen (and heard) spinning from one marae to another on Tahiti; or so I have it upon evidence that would rejoice the Psychical Society.

12

page 149. “Námunu-úra.” The complete name is Námunu-úra te aropa. Why it should be pronounced Námunu, dactylically, I cannot see, but so I have always heard it. This was the clan immediately beyond the Tevas on the south coast of the island. At the date of the tale the clan organisation must have been very weak. There is no particular mention of Támatéa’s mother going to Papara, to the head chief of her own clan, which would appear her natural recourse. On the other hand, she seems to have visited various lesser chiefs among the Tevas, and these to have excused themselves solely on the danger of the enterprise. The broad distinction here drawn between Nateva and Námunu-úra is therefore not impossibly anachronistic.

13

page 149. “Hiopa the king.” Hiopa was really the name of the king (chief) of Vaiau; but I could never learn that of the king of Paea – pronounce to rhyme with the Indian ayah– and I gave the name where it was most needed. This note must appear otiose indeed to readers who have never heard of either of these two gentlemen; and perhaps there is only one person in the world capable at once of reading my verses and spying the inaccuracy. For him, for Mr. Tati Salmon, hereditary high chief of the Tevas, the note is solely written: a small attention from a clansman to his chief.

14

page 150. “Let the pigs be tapu.” It is impossible to explain tapu in a note; we have it as an English word, taboo. Suffice it, that a thing which was tapu must not be touched, nor a place that was tapu visited.

15

page 155. “Fish, the food of desire.” There is a special word in the Tahitian language to signify hungering after fish. I may remark that here is one of my chief difficulties about the whole story. How did king, commons, women, and all come to eat together at this feast? But it troubled none of my numerous authorities; so there must certainly be some natural explanation.

16

page 160. “The mustering word of the clan.”

Teva te ua,Teva te matai!Teva the wind,Teva the rain!

17

page 165. “The star of the dead.” Venus as a morning star. I have collected much curious evidence as to this belief. The dead retain their taste for a fish diet, enter into copartnery with living fishers, and haunt the reef and the lagoon. The conclusion attributed to the nameless lady of the legend would be reached to-day, under the like circumstances, by ninety per cent. of Polynesians: and here I probably under-state by one-tenth.

18

page 165. “The star of the dead.” Venus as a morning star. I have collected much curious evidence as to this belief. The dead retain their taste for a fish diet, enter into copartnery with living fishers, and haunt the reef and the lagoon. The conclusion attributed to the nameless lady of the legend would be reached to-day, under the like circumstances, by ninety per cent. of Polynesians: and here I probably under-state by one-tenth.

19

page 169. “Pit of popoi.” Where the bread-fruit was stored for preservation.

20

page 169. “Ruby-red.” The priest’s eyes were probably red from the abuse of kava. His beard (ib.) is said to be worth an estate; for the beards of old men are the favourite head-adornment of the Marquesans, as the hair of women formed their most costly girdle. The former, among this generally beardless and short-lived people, fetch to-day considerable sums.

21

page 169. “Tikis.” The tiki is an ugly image hewn out of wood or stone.

22

page 172. “The one-stringed harp.” Usually employed for serenades.

23

page 173. “The sacred cabin of palm.” Which, however, no woman could approach. I do not know where women were tattooed; probably in the common house, or in the bush, for a woman was a creature of small account. I must guard the reader against supposing Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan tattooer is extreme; and she would appear to be clothed in a web of lace, inimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, and of a bluish hue that at once contrasts and harmonises with the warm pigment of the native skin. It would be hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than “a well-tattooed” Marquesan.

24

page 175. “The horror of night.” The Polynesian fear of ghosts and of the dark has been already referred to. Their life is beleaguered by the dead.

25

page 176. “The quiet passage of souls.” So, I am told, the natives explain the sound of a little wind passing overhead unfelt.

26

page 178. “The first of the victims fell.” Without doubt, this whole scene is untrue to fact. The victims were disposed of privately and some time before. And indeed I am far from claiming the credit of any high degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in the time of famine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily than is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day lies on the writer’s mind.

27