Western Star

NOT for the great, not for the marvelous,
Not for the barren husbands of the gold;
Not for the arrowmakers of the soul,
Wasted with truth, the star-regarding wise;
Not even for the few
Who would not be the hunter nor the prey,
Who stood between the eater and the meat,
The wilderness saints, the guiltless, the absolved,
Born out of Time, the seekers of the balm
Where the green grass grows from the broken heart;
But for all these, the nameless, numberless
Seed of the field, the mortal wood and earth
Hewn for the clearing, trampled for the floor,
Uprooted and cast out upon the stone
From Jamestown to Benecia.

This is their song, this is their testament,
Carved to their likeness, speaking in their tongue
And branded with the iron of their star.
I say you shall remember them. I say
When night has fallen on your loneliness
And the deep wood beyond the ruined wall
Seems to step forward swiftly with the dusk,
You shall remember them. You shall not see
Water or wheat or axe-mark on the tree
And not remember them.
You shall not win without remembering them,
For they won every shadow of the moon,
All the vast shadows, and you shall not lose
Without a dark remembrance of their loss,
For they lost all and none remembered them.

Hear the wind
Blow through the buffalo-grass,
Blow over wild-grape and brier.
This was frontier, and this,
And this, your house, was frontier.
There were footprints upon the hill
And men He buried under,
Tamers of earth and rivers.
They died at the end of labor,
Forgotten is the name.

Now, in full summer, by the Eastern shore,
Between the seamark and the roads going West,
I call two oceans to remember them.
I fill the hollow darkness with their names.

In the North are the graves of France, by the cold harbors
Or scattered in the long forest like drops of wine,
The hunters, tireless as wolves, the black-haired runners,
The men of the clear, gay language, supple as willow,
Hard as the brass of trumpets, exact as light.
They liked good sauces and laughter, though some were surly.
They brought thrift and their women with them and a white flag
With a king’s gold lilies upon it. They ventured far.
Their paddles knew many lakes and many rivers.
They died in torture, breathing the Huron fire.
They were small in the endless wood but their axes sang.
They built towns on the grey rock. They endured great snows.
Their footsteps rang on the savageness of winter.
They made good soup of strange flesh and remembered the vines of Beaune and the light, warm earth.
Their seignorics are still marked. They left trail and trace.
The Spring and Fall of the year were their homesick seasons,
For then the ships came and went. It was many years.
But at last their lost France forsook them and it was ended,
Ended upon the Plains of Abraham.
It is not ended, ever,
While the three-day snowfall whispers, while the red leaf falls on grey stone.

In the South, where the huge, slow river pours to the gulf,
Are the graves of France. They worked iron with a light hand.
They named the city after the older city.
They died of the fever quickly in the white mist
That rose from the marsh at evening. Nevertheless
The tearose women flowered, the earth was kind,
The dandies carried their sword-canes through narrow streets,
The black, clear coffee smelt of the lotos-leaf.
They were little beside the great marsh and the rolling river
But they spent their grace and their music against the night,
Echoing and diminishing in the forest
Alien and wild and pathless, dimming all candles,
Heavy with odors, the spectre waiting beyond,
While the lustres gleamed and the laughter chimed like the lustres
And the fever-cart moved on to the sandy graves.
At the last, the Corsican sold them and it was ended,
Ended with pen and cannon and sunken flag.
It is not ended, ever,
While the black mud sucks in the marshes, while the gardens bloom yearlong.

In the South and the West and the South are the graves of Spain,
The proud fantastics, the horsemen of the great saddles,
The iron-plated seekers of gold and youth.
They fought men in feather-armor. They survived
The dolorous night and conquered. They tore each other.
For gold or gloomy honor and yet survived.
They cast grave, beautiful bells. They loved sun and scarlets.
Their bits were well-chased and cruel in the soft mouth.
The dark-eyed women aged early in the cool chambers
Where they were guarded like seed-corn from the white noon.
They danced and their dancing glittered with a dark fire.
They were male, their bodies were fluent as stretching lions.
There were many children in the house of the sun.
Their passion and their arrogance were carved
In olivewood, smoked by the flame of many candles.
Tomorrow was as good as today to them.
Proverbs were good and love like a burning wound
And horses and the punctilio of death.
And, always, at the back of the mind, they heard,
In peace or anger, the beating of the slow drops

On the dark, stained wood of the Cross, the old, ghostly sorrow,
Forever restless, never quite staunched or stilled.
These people made slaves and ground the meal in the stones
For God or treasure. Nevertheless, they were lords.
These people had much fate and met it with passion.
They were little among the high plains and the tall mountains
But they spent their hunger and passed. It is many years
Since the long rifles broke them. It has gone by.
It is lost like the cracked bells of forgotten missions.
It is drowned in the green where the sunken plate-ships lie.
It is not ended, ever,
While the yucca grows in the waste, while the changed blood runs in the heart.

There is no ground from the East Sea to the West
Where the men called English lie not. There is no ground
From the cold sea to the hot where they have not left their graves,
And the four winds blow on the graves of dark Gael and ruddy Gael.

The wide North wheatfields know who served the rich land
Like frost-giants plowing, homesick for the far saaters.
They know what the blonde women brought in their painted chests.
The red barns of Pennsylvania knew men like oxen,
The tulips of Hudson’s valley remember men,
The smokes of that calm, long Fall are their pipe-smoke, blowing.
The Jew has been spilt on the city-stones like water . . .

Everywhere lies the land.
Everywhere walk the red spirits of the land.
Everywhere the land is still vast. There are trees uncut and waste fields.

Everywhere they came, from the settled, known
Dust oversea where the one grave crowds the other.
The sun marched West and they came. The sea ran West and they came.

THERE was a wind over England, and it blew.
(Have you heard the news of Virginia?)
A west wind blowing, the wind of a western star,
To gather men’s lives like pollen and cast them forth,
Blowing in hedge and highway and seaport town,
Whirling dead leaf and living, but always blowing,
A salt wind, a sea wind, a wind from the world’s end,
From the coasts that have new, wild names, from the huge unknown.

Gather them now, the pollen and the wheat,
The hardy sailors, staring at the new shore,
Ready to smell the spices that are not there,
The great sea-wolves that looted the pride of Spain
And riddled the Grand Armada and sunk it deep,
The men whose ships were the terriers of the sea,
Drake and Fenner and Grenville and all the rest,
Hawkins, the slaver, High Admiral of England,
Sailing his ship The Jesus to black-faced lands,
And Raleigh, with his fatal and gilded dream.
Gather the dedicate of the Northwest Passage,
The seekers of the false loadstone, drowned in the dark.
(It must be there. We know that it must be there.
We lost three ships out of four but it must be there.
Our Admiral believed it unto the end.)
(There was a wind over England and it blew.)
There is ice to the North and Spain has the golden mines,
But, in between, there are wonders. Have we not seen ?
A fair, fresh land — yea, an earthly Paradise.
We touched at the shore. We gathered up sassafras.
And the savages came smiling with little gifts,
A gentle people and comely. We saw the pearls.
There were baskets full of the pearls in every hut.
We saw the sand of the rivers bright with gold.
Yet, being few, we departed. But next year —
For we questioned their king, a sober and stately
prince,
And he swears that beyond the mountains —
Gather them up.
(“Have you seen the live Indian at the ‘Rose and
Crown5?
He drinks strong ale like a Christian and knows
his name.
Nay, this is the honest Indian. The one before
Was nought but a blackamoor with a painted face
And hath since avouched it, sore to his keeper’s shame.”)
Gather them up, the sailors and adventurers,
Gather the credulous
Who looked for nutmeg-trees on the Kennebec,
Bold-hearted children of the youth of England,
And saw the Triton swimming in Casco Bay.

(“Fortune my foe! ‘Tis but one marvel more!
We will believe them all, believe them all!”)
And with them, gather the others, the seemly men,
The merchants, trading with Muscovy and Ind,
Grave in their gowns of velvet, worshipful sirs,
And passionate as schoolgirls in their ire,
The gamblers, dicing for twenty times the stake.
(“Have you heard the news from Virginia, have you heard?
I have a small adventure with the Levant,
And that should profit — but this hath a nobler
sound,
Nobler and worthier and more excellent.
O, the fine great mountains of gold! Have you heard the news?
Nay, I’m not to be coney-catched with the first wild tale
But Whittington sold his cat for a thousand pound,
As we read, and am I a lesser man than he?
Oh, hear Bow bells ring out for merchantmen,
Turn again, Whittington,
Turn again, Whittington,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London!”)

Gather the other gamblers, the hungry lords,
The splendid, casual peacocks of the court,
Greedy as cuckoos, bold as kingfishers,
The men with the little beards and the reckless eyes
Who shine and go to the Tower and shine again.
Or die on the headsman’s block with their hands stretched out
And a last fine phrase in the mouth.
(“Have you heard the news from Virginia? Have you heard?
The Earl hath a hand in the venture — God bring him shame!
He came all hufty-tufty into the hall,
A very pious Aeneas in taffety,
Trussed up to discover marvels — and yet, and yet,
Getting is got by getting — we know the saw —
And the old fox would not bark without sure advice.
Were there half the gold that he talks of— nay but half
I could pull down Cullingdon Manor and build anew.
I’d have boxwood walks and gods out of Italy
And a masque with Hercules come out of a cloud
— Nay, Jason rather — there is matter in Jason —
I’ll do it, though I venture two hundred pound.
Have you heard the news from Virginia?”)

Gather them up, the bright and drowning stars,
And with them gather, too,
The clay, the iron, and the knotted rope, The disinherited, the dispossessed,
The hinds of the midland, eaten by the squire’s sheep,
The outcast yeomen, driven to tramp the roads,
The sturdy beggars, roving from town to town,
Worldess, hopeless, harried by law and State,
The men who lived on nettles in Merry England,
The men of the blackened years
When dog’s meat was a dainty in Lincolnshire,
(Have you heard the news from Virginia?)
The poor, the restless, the striving, the broken knights,
The cast-off soldiers, bitter as their own scars,
The younger sons without office or hope of land,
Glover and cooper, mercer and cordwainer.
(“Have you heard the news from Virginia? Have you heard?
Wat swears he’ll go, for the gold lies heaped on the ground
And Ralph, the hatter, is ready as any man.
I keep my shop but my shop doth not keep me.
Shall I give such chances the go-by and walk the roads?
I am no hind to scratch in the earth for bread.
Nay, a stocking-weaver I, and of good repute
Though lately dogged by mischances. They’ll need such men.
Have you heard the news from Virginia?”)
Gather the waifs of the London parishes,
The half-starved boys, the sparrows of London streets,
The ones we caught before they could cut a purse,
And bind them out and send them across the sea.
(They will live or die but at least we are rid of them.
We’ll pick the likeliest ones. Boy, what’s your
name?
Good lad. You sail in The Fortune. The fool looks
mazed.
Well, give him a wash and see he is fitted out.
We’ll settle his master later.”)
O, spread the news,
The news of golden Virginia across the sea,
And let it sink in the hearts of the strange, plain men
Already at odds with government and church,
The men who read their Bibles late in the night,
Dissenter and nonconformist and Puritan,
Let it go to Scrooby and stop at the pesthouse there,
Let it go to the little meeting at Austcrfield.
(We must worship God as we choose. We must worship God
Though King and law and bishop stand in the way.
It is far, in the North, and they will not touch us
here, Yet I hear they mean to harry the sheep of God
And His elect must be steadfast. I hear a sound
Like the first faint roll of thunder, but it is far.
It is very far away.)

SIR THOMAS SMYTH, in his house in Philpot Lane,
— The great, sage merchant with the golden hand,
Honored by kings, trading with half the world —
Sat with a map before him and stared at it.
There was a ragged coast upon the map.
True-drawn or false? ‘Twas what one never knew,
Never until the men had voyaged there
And then not surely — but it haunted him
And had for nearly twenty years by now,
The old dream of Virginia, Raleigh’s dream.
“And Raleigh’s in the Tower and sits still,
Who used to strike a ball with kings and queens.
Fool, to fall out of favor with the King!
But he’s the same, and still will be the same,
The boy Apollo, greedy as the grave,
Restless as fire, vain as a popinjay,
And hateful as the adder to his foes;
A sort of demi-dragon of the Queen’s,
(She kept such) that would spit out fire and smoke,
Great plans, smart verses, idiot policies,
And all together, with such arrogance,
Such fine bravado, such mad lust for gold,
It seemed, at times, he shook the ‘stablished world
And dazzled like a comet in men’s eyes.
Well, comets are soon done.

Had he but sense,
He could have fixed himself upon the sky
Like a new constellation — and is lost
With his Guianas, in a little smoke,
The smoke of drunk tobacco, the grey ash.
Nay, I’ll not weep for him — and yet, and yet,
’Twas greatly planned, the scheme at Roanoke,
Might have succeeded — ‘tis the chance we take —
And ended in disaster and despair
And a bankrupt patent.

Well, we bought it up,
The patent that he never should have had,
Thought of it, pondered, put the thing aside,
And now it stirs — years later, many years —
Breathes — aye — like something that has lain asleep.
A chrysalis we shut within a box,
Forgot and turned aside from — and it stirs —
And, with it, something stirs in me as well.

I have much honor. I have gotten gold.
And, would they found a company to trade
For unicorns with double-headed men,
They’d come to me for backing — I can hear
them —
‘Sir Thomas Smyth, liveth in Philpot Lane —
Aye, the great merchant — known in Lombardy,
In Muscovy and Ind and the Levant —’
And so they come, flies of a summer’s day,
Bold captains, doughty swindlers, sharp-nosed lords,
And so I listen, since it is my trade,
Turn some aside, break some, ‘stablish a few,
Build here, tear down there, make them serve my will,
And buy up bankrupt patents at a price,
For that’s my trade as well — but that’s not all.
The pride of it is seeing something stir
That you thought long forgotten. And it stirs. And yet, how did we dare, how did we dare!
How did we dare to play such bowls with Spain?
She loomed above us like a thundercloud.
How did we dare to send our sailors out
Beyond all maps? How do we dare to seize
The commerce of barbaric Muscovy,
The unimaginable trade of Ind?
I should know well, having some part in it,
And I look backwards on it, and I see
A grave young madman in a sober dress
Who, each day, plans impossibilities
And, every evening, sees without surprise

Now, take the map. The map is what we know
And it means nothing. I’ve seen many maps,
Talked to a thousand seamen, in my time,
And, in the end, there is but this to say,
One ventures as one ventures.

Here it is,
The ragged coast — the coast that no one knows.
How far the lands march inland?

No one knows.
Is there a Northwest Passage to the East?
Is there Cathay beyond? Can Englishmen
Live there and plant and breed there?
No one knows.
And yet, I know this much. It must be tried.

My one man’s life hath seen this England grow
Into a giant from a stripling boy
Who fenced about him with a wooden sword
And prattled of his grandsire’s wars with France
— The long, the ruinous wars that sucked us dry,
Wars of the Roses, nightmare, endless wars,
Wars with the French, and beaten at the end —
Then we turned seaward. Then the trumpets blew.
And, suddenly, after the bloodshot night
Of Mary, and the gropings in the dark,
There were new men, new ships and a new world.

The punctual, fresh miracle come true.
And such were all of us, under the Queen,
And, though she lodged me in the Tower once
(I wonder is it damp where Raleigh lies?)
Why, that is what might hap to any man,
And she was older, then. Had she been younger
Or I less wary, she’d have had my head.
I felt it teeter on my neck of nights,
And sometimes still, I hear the scrannel voice
‘Thomas Smyth, Thomas Smyth,
By God, I’ll lodge you fitly, Thomas Smyth!’
Well, she had Essex’ head. I was his man.
And yet, for all the heading, she made England.

She made it — but ‘tis now the hour strikes
Whether we shall be small again or great.
O, knights and lords and broken gentlemen,
Sailors most bold — I’ll buy you for a farthing,
And set you broiling under Eastern suns,
Bed you with scorpions and have you flayed
By savages in woodlands thick and dark,
But I will have my will, my merchant’s will,
And see we keep the commerces we’ve won,
Nay, spread them, spread them like a giant’s net
Over waste oceans and fantastic seas
Till there is not a seaport in the world
That does not know the clinking name of England.

All for the money — yet that is not all.

The Raleighs must come first — I know the Raleighs.
The gold must lure men on — I know the gold.
That is not all.
If that were all and all,
Why should I dawdle here above a map,
At forty-eight, scheming for half a world?
Am I not Governor of the India Company,
Knighted, adventurer in West and East,
First merchant and prime mover of my years?
Why should I risk — and yet, I know I will.
I know it must be tried.

Now to the plans and the new charter here.
The Plymouth Company’s for Sagadahoc,
But we of London look more southerly
And may be right or wrong — one cannot know.
And, sooth to say,
Charter itself s a cumbrous piece of work,
But I’ll not move too rapidly at first
(I have learned that). I’ll sit there, at the Council,
Be grave and stroke my chin and watch their eyes,
The reverend signior, the portly man, One can learn much by watching a man’s eyes,
And, if the first attempt succeeds — ‘tis well —
If not — and that is where the Raleighs fail —
There will be janglings and accusations,
(Good Lord, have I not seen them in my time?)
Scapegoats and empty purses and the rest,
And then a grave man, moving quietly,
Civil at need and thrusting when he must,
Might get the matter safe in his own hands.
Yea, a laborious man, a housekeeper,
No ruffler, but a merchant in a gown
Who mends the gear the wastrel flung away.
We’ll steer by that — and wait — and see —and wait —
And it will be great labor — but we’ll wait.

The ships they warrant sound. As for the men,
They’ve a good man in Newport — a sound man —
Gosnold is staunch — I’m glad that we’ve a Percy —
Then there’s my talking namesake, young John Smith,
Full as an egg of wild-moustachioed tales,
Hot-tempered — aye — I’ll warrant quarrelsome,
And yet a man to make his mark or hang.
I care but little which if he does service.
Wingfield — related with my lord Southampton
And brings some influence — Kendall, a rogue,
But bold enough — why boggle at a rogue?
Aye, they’re not badly chosen for the game.
We’ll give them such instructions as we may —
As, not to settle in a fever swamp,
But on some healthy island in a stream
That’s deep enough for fitting anchorage,
Not too thick-wooded, either.

And they’ll be
Governed by a strong rule, yet Englishmen
With Englishmen their rights, not serfs or slaves,
And that is reasonable and is well
And we shall see.
I mean to plant, my friends,
Although, perhaps, you do not know it yet.
I mean to plant, my colleagues of the Company,
Not to spend treasure and the lives of men
In one fool’s foray for a pot of gold.
I am the sea and not the shooting-star,
The vise and not the rapier. And I come,
Slowly by turn and turn unto mine ends,
Squeezing out gold where others found no gold
And building on the wrecks of ruined dreams,
Because I have the labor and the skill.
Because I saw it twenty years ago.

Now, in God’s name, let them go forth to sea!”