free-verse81 lines

Daisies Out At Sea.

by Eric Mackay

Daisies Out At Sea.

These are the buds we bear beyond the surf, -

Enshrined in mould and turf, -

To take to fields far off, a land's salute

Of high and vast repute, -

The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire,

Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire,

But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire.

II.

O bright and gracious things that seem to glow

With frills of winter snow,

And little golden heads that know the sun,

And seasons half begun,

How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair,

In this their prison on the seaward air,

On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.

III.

Have they no memory of the inland grass, -

The fields where breezes pass,

And where the full-eyed children, out at play,

Make all the land so gay?

Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear,

Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier,

In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here?

IV.

O gems of earth! O trinkets of the spring!

The sun, your gentle king,

Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace,

In many a sacred place,

The godlike summer sun will miss ye all,

For he has foster'd all things, great and small,

Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball.

But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene

The kirtles, tender-green,

And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers,

How will he throb for hours,

And wish the lark, the laureate of the light,

Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight,

And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.

VI.

Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told,

And deem'd it fairy-gold, -

And fairy-silver, - that ye bear withal;

Ye are so soft and small,

I weep for joy to find ye here to-day

So near to Heaven, and yet so far away,

In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.

VII.

Ye are the cynosure of many eyes

Bright-blue as English skies, -

The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row,

As if intent to show

That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower

Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower,

Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.

VIII.

She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy,

As one may send a toy

To children's children, bred in other lands

By love-abiding hands.

And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam

To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home,

Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.

IX.

In England's name, in Shakespeare's, - and in ours,

Who bear these trusted flowers, -

There shall be heard a cheer from many throats,

A rush and roar of notes,

As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds;

And they who till the ground and tend the herds

Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.

For England's sake, for England once again,

In pride and power and pain,

For England, aye! for England in the girth

Of all her joy and worth,

A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined,

And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind,

Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!