Out into the sunny street: In the great marsh, far beyond In the midst of wood and field; Anglers old in reverie, Fishing feebly morn to night From the woods of beech and fir, And a cock may answer, down Such is Drowsietown-but nay! In this town so sleepy and slow. P WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE Born 1842 FROM "THE PARADISE OF BIRDS" CHORUS OF HUMAN SOULS Mortals who attempt the seas Where man's breath and blood must freeze You whom Fortune, by despite, Destiny, or daring, carry Farther in the four months' night Than M'Clintock, Sabine, Parry, Hayes, or Kane— Say, we charge ye, why ye come Where humanity is dumb; Is it but to reive and harry, Or for gain, That you break the arctic barriers where feathered spirits reign? Are you whalers, blown astray In the chase through Baffin's Bay? Or men tired of the sun, Human thought and speech and feature, Night, that hides each kind and creature? Driven you up, in hopes of food, To this landless latitude? Know ye not, indeed, that Nature In these climes For our race produces nothing but requital for our crimes? Back, we do beseech ye, back If your hand has driven a quill, Body and soul ! We were men who speak these words, But for harm we did the birds Now are beaten in this weather, Past control, Round the Paradise that holds the Aviary of the Pole. For our crimes are here decreed Pains proportioned to each deed: ! As on earth we played our parts, Some become the birds they slew; Some fruitlessly pursue Feathered phantoms; all at leisure, In one strain, Swear the birds should live for ever could they live their lives again. Therefore, back! and if one bird That the infidel should so By report believe the woe, Waiting all in Purgatory, Who entreat Cruelly with death or dungeon things so simple and so sweet. |