Song-Surf. Rice Cale Young

slipt like an asp to his ear and laughed for the sight he

      Would give when the carrion kites should tear to his bone.

      I smote thro' his temple the nail, to the dust, a worm, did I bind him.

      My heart was a-leap with rage and a-quiver with scorn.

      And I danced with a holy delight before and behind him —

      I that am called blessèd o'er all unto Judah born.

      "Aye, come, I will show thee, O Barak, a woman is more than a warrior,"

      I cried as I lifted the door wherein Sisera lay.

      "To me did he fly and I shall be called his destroyer —

      I, Jael, who am subtle to find for the Lord a way!"

      "Above all the daughters of men be blest – of Gilead or Asshur,"

      Sang Deborah, prophetess, then, from her waving palm.

      "Behold her, ye people, behold her the heathen's abasher;

      Behold her the Lord hath uplifted – behold and be calm!

      "The mother of him at the window looks out thro' the lattice to listen —

      Why roll not the wheels of his chariot? why does he stay?

      Shall he not return with the booty of battle, and glisten

      In songs of his triumph – ye women, why do ye not say?"

      And I was as she who danced when the Seas were rended asunder

      And stood, until Egypt pressed in to be drowned unto death.

      My breasts were as fire with the glory, the rocks that were under

      My feet grew quick with the gloating that beat in my breath.

      At night I stole out where they cast him, a sop to the jackal and raven.

      But his bones stood up in the moon and I shook with affright.

      The strength shrank out of my limbs and I fell, a craven,

      Before him – the nail in his temple gleamed bloodily bright.

      Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?

      I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.

      But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen

      His spirit – by day and by night come voices that wait.

      I fly to the desert, I fly to the mountain – but they will not hide me.

      His gods haunt the winds and the caves with vengeance that cries

      For judgment upon me; the stars in their courses deride me —

      The stars Thou hast hung with a breath in the wandering skies.

      Jehovah! Jehovah! I slew him, the scourge and sting of Thy Nation.

      Take from me his spirit, take from me the voice of his blood.

      With madness I rave – by day and by night, defamation!

      Jehovah, release me! Jehovah! if still Thou art God!

      TO THE SEA

      Art thou enraged, O sea, with the blue peace

      Of heaven, so to uplift thine armèd waves,

      Thy billowing rebellion 'gainst its ease,

      And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves,

      From shuddering profundities where shapes

      Of awe glide thro' entangled leagues of ooze,

      To hoot thy watery omens evermore,

      And evermore thy moanings interfuse

      With seething necromancy and mad lore?

      Or, dost thou labour with the drifting bones

      Of countless dead, thou mighty Alchemist,

      Within whose stormy crucible the stones

      Of sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,

      Are crumbled by thine all-abrasive beat?

      With immemorial chanting to the moon,

      And cosmic incantation, dost thou crave

      Rest to be found not till thy wild be strewn

      Frigid and desert over earth's last grave?

      Thou seemest with immensity mad, blind —

      With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn;

      Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mind

      Is night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scorn

      Of the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.

      Bound in thy briny bed and gnawing earth

      With foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,

      Thou art as Fate in torment of a dearth

      Of black disaster and destruction's strides.

      And how thou dost drive silence from the world,

      Incarnate Motion of all mystery!

      Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurled

      Whither thy Ghost tempestuous can see

      A desolate apocalypse of death.

      Oh, how thou dost drive silence from the world,

      With emerald overflowing, waste on waste

      Of flashing susurration, dashed and swirled

      O'er isles and continents that shrink abased!

      Nay, frustrate Hope art thou, of the Unknown,

      Gathered from primal mist and firmament;

      A surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,

      Whelming humanity with fears unmeant.

      Yet do I love thee, O, above all fear,

      And loving thee unconquerably trust

      The runes that from thy ageless surfing start

      Would read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,

      That Immortality is might of heart!

      THE DAY-MOON

      So wan, so unavailing,

      Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

      Last night, sphered in thy shining,

      A Circe – mystic destinies divining;

      To-day but as a feather

      Torn from a seraph's wing in sinful weather,

      Down-drifting from the portals

      Of Paradise, unto the land of mortals.

      Yet do I feel thee awing

      My heart with mystery, as thy updrawing

      Moves thro' the tides of Ocean

      And leaves lorn beaches barren of its motion;

      Or strands upon near shallows

      The wreck whose weirded form at night unhallows

      The fisher maiden's prayers —

      "For him! – that storms may take not unawares!"

      So wan, so unavailing,

      Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

      But Night shall come atoning

      Thy phantom life thro' day, and high enthroning

      Thee in her chambers arrased

      With