Читать книгу Collected Poems: Volume Two - Alfred Noyes - Страница 14

Table of Contents

I

Chorus— Ships have swept with my conquering name Over the waves of war, Swept thro' the Spaniards' thunder and flame To the splendour of Trafalgar: On the blistered decks of their great renown, In the wind of my storm-beat wings, Hawkins and Hawke went sailing down To the harbour of deep-sea kings! By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk, Bent beak and pitiless breast, They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray: Who wakens me now to the quest?

II

Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,

Dumb is the shrinking plain,

And the songs that enchanted the woods are still

As I shoot to the skies again!

Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,

Does the down still cling to my claw?

Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?

Life, I follow thy law!

For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk! Who knoweth my pitiless breast? Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

III

As I glide and glide with my peering head,

Or swerve at a puff of smoke,

Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,

Here—gone—with an instant stroke?

Who toucheth the glory of life I feel

As I buffet this great glad gale,

Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,

Loosen my wings and sail?

For I am the hawk, the island hawk, Who knoweth my pitiless breast? Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

IV

Had they given me "Cloud-cuckoo-city" to guard

Between mankind and the sky,

Tho' the dew might shine on an April sward,

Iris had ne'er passed by!

Swift as her beautiful wings might be

From the rosy Olympian hill,

Had Epops entrusted the gates to me

Earth were his kingdom still.

For I am the hawk, the archer, the hawk! Who knoweth my pitiless breast? Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

V

My mate in the nest on the high bright tree

Blazing with dawn and dew,

She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee

As I drop like a bolt from the blue;

She knoweth the fire of the level flight

As I skim, close, close to the ground,

With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright

Dew-drops flashing around.

She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk, (O, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!) Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way; Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

VI

She builded her nest on the high bright wold,

She was taught in a world afar,

The lore that is only an April old

Yet old as the evening star; Life of a far off ancient day

In an hour unhooded her eyes;

In the time of the budding of one green spray

She was wise as the stars are wise.

Brown flower of the tree of the hawk, the hawk, On the old elm's burgeoning breast, She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way; Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

VII

Spirit and sap of the sweet swift Spring,

Fire of our island soul,

Burn in her breast and pulse in her wing

While the endless ages roll;

Avatar—she—of the perilous pride

That plundered the golden West,

Her glance is a sword, but it sweeps too wide

For a rumour to trouble her rest.

She goeth her glorious way, the hawk, She nurseth her brood alone; She will not swoop for an owlet's whoop, She hath calls and cries of her own.

VIII

There was never a dale in our isle so deep

That her wide wings were not free

To soar to the sovran heights and keep

Sight of the rolling sea:

Is it there, is it here in the rolling skies,

The realm of her future fame?

Look once, look once in her glittering eyes,

Ye shall find her the same, the same.

Up to the sides with the hawk, the hawk, As it was in the days of old! Ye shall sail once more, ye shall soar, ye shall soar To the new-found realms of gold.

IX

She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds

Thro' the ringing English dells,

For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,

To the music of golden bells;

A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood

And tossed her aloft in the blue,

A white hand eager for needless blood;

I hunt for the needs of two.

Yet I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk! Who knoweth my pitiless breast? Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

X

Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes

That have stared in the eyes of kings?

With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:

She has clawed at their jewelled rings!

Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn

To pluck him a prey from the skies,

When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn

In the valleys of Paradise?

Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk, Bent beak and pitiless breast? Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

XI

Is there ever a song in all the world

Shall say how the quest began

With the beak and the wings that have made us kings

And cruel—almost—as man? The wild wind whimpers across the heath

Where the sad little tufts of blue

And the red-stained grey little feathers of death

Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who? Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk, Bent beak and arrowy breast? Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

XII

Linnet and woodpecker, red-cap and jay,

Shriek that a doom shall fall

One day, one day, on my pitiless way

From the sky that is over us all;

But the great blue hawk of the heavens above

Fashioned the world for his prey—

King and queen and hawk and dove,

We shall meet in his clutch that day;

Shall I not welcome him, I, the hawk? Yea, cry, as they shrink from his claw, Cry, as I die, to the unknown sky, Life, I follow thy law!

XIII

Chorus— Ships have swept with my conquering name … Over the world and beyond, Hark! Bellerophon, Marlborough, Thunderer, Condor, respond!— On the blistered decks of their dread renown, In the rush of my storm-beat wings, Hawkins and Hawke went sailing down To the glory of deep-sea kings! By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk, Bent beak and pitiless breast, They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray! Who wakens me now to the quest.