The Tent On The Beach

I would not sin, in this half-playful strain,     Too light perhaps for serious years, though born     Of the enforced leisure of slow pain,     Against the pure ideal which has drawn     My feet to follow its far-shining gleam.     A simple plot is mine: legends and runes     Of credulous days, old fancies that have lain     Silent, from boyhood taking voice again,     Warmed into life once more, even as the tunes     That, frozen in the fabled hunting-horn,     Thawed into sound: a winter fireside dream     Of dawns and-sunsets by the summer sea,     Whose sands are traversed by a silent throng     Of voyagers from that vaster mystery     Of which it is an emblem; and the dear     Memory of one who might have tuned my song     To sweeter music by her delicate ear.     When heats as of a tropic clime     Burned all our inland valleys through,     Three friends, the guests of summer time,     Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew.     Behind them, marshes, seamed and crossed     With narrow creeks, and flower-embossed,     Stretched to the dark oak wood, whose leafy arms     Screened from the stormy East the pleasant inland farms.     At full of tide their bolder shore     Of sun-bleached sand the waters beat;     At ebb, a smooth and glistening floor     They touched with light, receding feet.     Northward a 'green bluff broke the chain     Of sand-hills; southward stretched a plain     Of salt grass, with a river winding down,     Sail-whitened, and beyond the steeples of the town,     Whence sometimes, when the wind was light     And dull the thunder of the beach,     They heard the bells of morn and night     Swing, miles away, their silver speech.     Above low scarp and turf-grown wall     They saw the fort-flag rise and fall;     And, the first star to signal twilight's hour,     The lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall light-house tower.     They rested there, escaped awhile     From cares that wear the life away,     To eat the lotus of the Nile     And drink the poppies of Cathay,     To fling their loads of custom down,     Like drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown,     And in the sea waves drown the restless pack     Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their track.     One, with his beard scarce silvered, bore     A ready credence in his looks,     A lettered magnate, lording o'er     An ever-widening realm of books.     In him brain-currents, near and far,     Converged as in a Leyden jar;     The old, dead authors thronged him round about,     And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves looked out.     He knew each living pundit well,     Could weigh the gifts of him or her,     And well the market value tell     Of poet and philosopher.     But if he lost, the scenes behind,     Somewhat of reverence vague and blind,     Finding the actors human at the best,     No readier lips than his the good he saw confessed.     His boyhood fancies not outgrown,     He loved himself the singer's art;     Tenderly, gently, by his own     He knew and judged an author's heart.     No Rhadamanthine brow of doom     Bowed the dazed pedant from his room;     And bards, whose name is legion, if denied,     Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride.     Pleasant it was to roam about     The lettered world as he had, done,     And see the lords of song without     Their singing robes and garlands on.     With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere,     Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer,     And with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore,     Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit once more.     And one there was, a dreamer born,     Who, with a mission to fulfil,     Had left the Muses' haunts to turn     The crank of an opinion-mill,     Making his rustic reed of song     A weapon in the war with wrong,     Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough     That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow.     Too quiet seemed the man to ride     The winged Hippogriff Reform;     Was his a voice from side to side     To pierce the tumult of the storm?     A silent, shy, peace-loving man,     He seemed no fiery partisan     To hold his way against the public frown,     The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down.     For while he wrought with strenuous will     The work his hands had found to do,     He heard the fitful music still     Of winds that out of dream-land blew.     The din about him could not drown     What the strange voices whispered down;     Along his task-field weird processions swept,     The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped:     The common air was thick with dreams,     He told them to the toiling crowd;     Such music as the woods and streams     Sang in his ear he sang aloud;     In still, shut bays, on windy capes,     He heard the call of beckoning shapes,     And, as the gray old shadows prompted him,     To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends grim.     He rested now his weary hands,     And lightly moralized and laughed,     As, tracing on the shifting sands     A burlesque of his paper-craft,     He saw the careless waves o'errun     His words, as time before had done,     Each day's tide-water washing clean away,     Like letters from the sand, the work of yesterday.     And one, whose Arab face was tanned     By tropic sun and boreal frost,     So travelled there was scarce a land     Or people left him to exhaust,     In idling mood had from him hurled     The poor squeezed orange of the world,     And in the tent-shade, as beneath a palm,     Smoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental calm.     The very waves that washed the sand     Below him, he had seen before     Whitening the Scandinavian strand     And sultry Mauritanian shore.     From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas     Palm-fringed, they bore him messages;     He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again,     And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths of Spain.     His memory round the ransacked earth     On Puck's long girdle slid at ease;     And, instant, to the valley's girth     Of mountains, spice isles of the seas,     Faith flowered in minster stones, Art's guess     At truth and beauty, found access;     Yet loved the while, that free cosmopolite,     Old friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood's dreams in sight.     Untouched as yet by wealth and pride,     That virgin innocence of beach     No shingly monster, hundred-eyed,     Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach;     Unhoused, save where, at intervals,     The white tents showed their canvas walls,     Where brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air,     Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long care.     Sometimes along the wheel-deep sand     A one-horse wagon slowly crawled,     Deep laden with a youthful band,     Whose look some homestead old recalled;     Brother perchance, and sisters twain,     And one whose blue eyes told, more plain     Than the free language of her rosy lip,     Of the still dearer claim of love's relationship.     With cheeks of russet-orchard tint,     The light laugh of their native rills,     The perfume of their garden's mint,     The breezy freedom of the hills,     They bore, in unrestrained delight,     The motto of the Garter's knight,     Careless as if from every gazing thing     Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring.     The clanging sea-fowl came and went,     The hunter's gun in the marshes rang;     At nightfall from a neighboring tent     A flute-voiced woman sweetly sang.     Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand,     Young girls went tripping down the sand;     And youths and maidens, sitting in the moon,     Dreamed o'er the old fond dream from which we wake too soon.     At times their fishing-lines they plied,     With an old Triton at the oar,     Salt as the sea-wind, tough and dried     As a lean cusk from Labrador.     Strange tales he told of wreck and storm,     Had seen the sea-snake's awful form,     And heard the ghosts on Haley's Isle complain,     Speak him off shore, and beg a passage to old Spain!     And there, on breezy morns, they saw     The fishing-schooners outward run,     Their low-bent sails in tack and flaw     Turned white or dark to shade and sun.     Sometimes, in calms of closing day,     They watched the spectral mirage play,     Saw low, far islands looming tall and nigh,     And ships, with upturned keels, sail like a sea the sky.     Sometimes a cloud, with thunder black,     Stooped low upon the darkening main,     Piercing the waves along its track     With the slant javelins of rain.     And when west-wind and sunshine warm     Chased out to sea its wrecks of storm,     They saw the prismy hues in thin spray showers     Where the green buds of waves burst into white froth flowers.     And when along the line of shore     The mists crept upward chill and damp,     Stretched, careless, on their sandy floor     Beneath the flaring lantern lamp,     They talked of all things old and new,     Read, slept, and dreamed as idlers do;     And in the unquestioned freedom of the tent,     Body and o'er-taxed mind to healthful ease unbent.     Once, when the sunset splendors died,     And, trampling up the sloping sand,     In lines outreaching far and wide,     The white-waned billows swept to land,     Dim seen across the gathering shade,     A vast and ghostly cavalcade,     They sat around their lighted kerosene,     Hearing the deep bass roar their every pause between.     Then, urged thereto, the Editor     Within his full portfolio dipped,     Feigning excuse while seaching for     (With secret pride) his manuscript.     His pale face flushed from eye to beard,     With nervous cough his throat he cleared,     And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed     The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read