Songs of Travel and Other Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson ~ Full Audiobook
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songs of travel and other verses by robert louis stevenson preface the following collection of verses written at various times and places principally after the author's final departure from england in eighteen eighty seven was sent home by him for publication some months before his death

he had tried them in several different orders and under several different titles as songs and notes of travel posthumous poems c and in the end left their naming and arrangement to the present editor with the suggestion that they should be added as book three to further editions of underwoods

this suggestion it is proposed to carry out but in the meantime for the benefit of those who possess underwoods in its original form it has been thought desirable to publish them separately in the present volume they have already been included in the edinburgh edition of the author's works the vagabond

by robert louis stevenson to an heir of schubert

give to me the life i love let the lave go by me give the jolly heaven above and the byway nigh me bed in the bush with stars to see bread i dip in the river there's the life for a man like me there's the life for ever

let the blow fall soon or late let what will be o'er me give the face of earth a round and the road before me wealth i seek not hope nor love nor a friend to know me all i seek the heaven above and the road below me

or let autumn fall on me where afield i linger silencing the bird on tree biting the blue finger white as meal the frosty field warm the fireside haven not to autumn will i yield not to winter even

let the blow fall soon or late let what will be o'er me give the face of earth around and the road before me wealth i ask not hope nor love nor a friend to know me all i ask the heaven above and the road below me and the

This recording is in the public domain.

The untented cosmos, my abode, I pass, a willful stranger. My mistress still the open road, And the bright eyes of danger. Come ill or well, the cross, the crown, The rainbow or the thunder, I fling my soul and body down, For God to plow them under.

To the heart of youth the world is a highway side, passing forever. He fares, and on either hand, deep in the gardens, golden pavilions hide, nestle in orchard bloom, and far in the level land, call him with lighted lamp in the eventide. Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down, pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate fares, and but waves a hand as he passes on.

Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone. In Dreams Unhappy I Behold You Stand by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Rafi In dreams unhappy I behold you stand as heretofore, The unremembered tokens in your hand avail no more.

No more the morning glow, no more the grace, in shrines and deers. Cold beats the light of time upon your face, and shows your tears. He came and went, perchance you wept a while, and then forgot. Ah, me, but he that left you with a smile, forgets you not. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

she rested by the broken brook she drank of weary well she moved beyond my lingering look ah whither none can tell she came she went in other lands perchance in fairer skies her hands shall cling with other hands her eyes to other eyes

She vanished in the sounding town. Will she remember too? Will she recall the eyes of brown as I recall the blue? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

the infinite shining heavens rose and i saw in the night uncountable angel stars showering sorrow and light i saw them distant as heaven dumb and shining and dead and the idle stars of the night were dearer to me than bread

night after night in my sorrow the stars stood over the sea till lo i looked in the dusk and the star had come down to me the

playing as the glistening planets shine when winds have cleaned the skies her love appealed for mine and wantoned in her eyes clear as the shining tapers burned on cytherea's shrine those brimming lustrous beauties turned and called and conquered mine the beacon lamp that hero lit no fairer shone on sea no plainlier summoned will and wit than hers encouraged me

i thrilled to feel her influence near i struck my flag at sight her starry silence smote my ear like sudden drums at night i ran as at the cannon's roar the troops the trampers men as in the holy house of yore the willing eli ran here lady lo that servant stands you picked from passing men and should you need nor heart nor hands he bows and goes again

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Business taxes. We're stressing about all the time and all the money you spent on your taxes. This is my bill?

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to you let snow and roses and golden locks belong these are the world's enslavers let these delight the throng for her of duskier lustre whose favour still i wear the snow be in her kirtle the rose be in her hair the hue of highland rivers careering full and cool from sable unto golden from rapid unto pool

the hue of heather honey the hue of honey-bees shall tinge her golden shoulder shall gild her tawny knees let beauty awake by robert louis stevenson read for the box dot org by alan

let beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams beauty awake from rest let beauty awake for beauty's sake in the hour when the birds awake in the brake and the stars are bright in the west

let beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day awake in the crimson eve in the day's dusk end when the shades ascend let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend to render again and receive the

I Know Not How It Is With You by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by M. Lee I Know Not How It Is With You I Love the First and Last The Whole Field of the Present View The Whole Flow of the Past

One tittle of the things that are, nor you should change, nor I. One pebble in our path, one star in all our heaven up sky. Our lives in every day and hour, one symphony appear, one road, one garden, every flower, and every bramble tear, and a poem. This recording is in the public domain. I Will Make You Brooches by Robert Louis Stevenson

Read for LibriVox.org by Stunning. I will make you brooches and toys for your delight, of birdsong at morning and starshine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

i will make my kitchen and you shall keep your room where white flows the river and bright blows the broom and you shall wash your linen and keep your body white in rainfall at morning and dewfall at night

and this shall be for music when no one else is near the fine song for singing the rare song to hear that only i remember that only you admire of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire the

buried brake and reedy island heaven below and only heaven above through the sky's inverted azure softly swam the boat that bore our love bright were your eyes as the day bright ran the stream bright hung the sky above

days of april airs of eden how the glory died through golden hours and the shining moon arising how the boat drew homeward filled with flowers bright were your eyes in the night we have lived my love oh we have loved my love

frost has bound our flowing river snow has whitened all our island brake and beside the winter faggot joan and darby doze and dream and wake

still in the river of dreams swims the boat of love hark chimes the falling oar and again in winter evens when on firelight dreaming fancy feeds in those ears of aged lovers love's own river warbles in the reeds love still the past o my love we have lived of yore o we have loved of yore

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mater Triumphant by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for Libervox.org Son of my woman's body, You go to the drum and fife To taste the color of love And the other side of life From out of the dainty, the rude

the strong from out of the frail eternally through the ages from the female comes the male the ten fingers and toes and the shell-like nail on each the eyes blind as gems and the tongue attempting speech impotent hands in my bosom

And yet they shall wield the sword, Drugged with slumber and milk. You wait the day of the Lord, Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, Unanointed priest, soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.

you that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with rings you that came forth through the doors shall burst the doors of kings and of poem this recording is in the public domain bright is the ring of words by robert louis stevenson

read for every box dot org by alan mapstone bright is the ring of words when the right man rings them fair the fall of songs when the singer sings them still they are carolled and said on wings they are carried after the singer is dead and the maker buried

though as the singer lies in the field of heather songs of his fashion bring the swains together and when the west is red with the sunset embers the lover lingers and sings and the maid remembers the

in the highlands in the country places where the old plain men have rosy faces and the young fair maidens quiet eyes where essential silence cheers and blesses and forever in the hill recesses her more lovely music broods and dies

oh to mount again where earths thy haunted where the old red hills are bird enchanted and the low green meadows bright with sword and when even dies the million tinted and the night has come and planets glinted lo the valley hollow lamp be starred

oh to dream oh to awake and wander there and with delight to take and render through the trance of silence quiet breath lo for there among the flowers and grasses only the mightier movement sounds and passes only winds and rivers life and death the

home no more home to me home no more home to me home no more home to me whither must i wander hunger my driver i go where i must

cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather thick drives the rain and my roof is in the dust

loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree the true word of welcome was spoken in the door dear days of old with the faces in the firelight kind folks of old you come again no more home was home then my dear full of kindly faces

home was home then my dear happy for the child fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland song tuneful song built a palace in the wild now when day dawns on the brow of the moorland lone stands the house and the chimney-stone is cold

lone let it stand now the friends are all departed the kind hearts the true hearts that love the place of old

spring shall come come again calling up the moor fowl spring shall bring the sun and rain bring the bees and flowers red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley soft flow the stream through the even flowing hours

Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood, Fair shine the day on the house with open door, Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney, But I go for ever and come again no more.

winter by robert louis stevenson read for librivox dot org by marie christian in rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws low shining flowers upon my window pane the silver pencil of the winter draws when all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still

when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire lo by the hearth the laughter of the logs more fair than roses lo the flowers of fire saranac lake

The stormy evening closes now in vain. By Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for Libervox.org. The stormy evening closes now in vain. Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain. While here, in sheltered house, with fiery painted walls,

i hear the wind abroad i hark the calling squalls blow blow i cry you burst your cheeks in vain blow blow i cry my love is home again

yon ship you chased perchance but yesternight bore still the precious freight of my delight that here in sheltered house with fiery painted walls now hears the wind abroad now harks the calling squalls blow blow i cry

In vain you rouse the sea; My rescued sailor shares the fire with me.

in the pure dew under the breaking gray one bird ere yet the woodland choirs awake with brief reveil summons all the brake chirp chirp it goes nor waits an answer long and that small signal fills the grove with song thus on my pipe i breathed a strain or two it scarce was music but twas all i knew

it was not music for i lacked the art yet what but frozen music filled my heart chirp chirp i went nor hoped a nobler strain but heaven decreed i should not pipe in vain for lo not far from there in secret dale all silent sat an ancient nightingale my sparrow notes he heard

thereat awoke and with a tide of song his silence broke end of poem this recording is in the public domain two by robert louis stevenson read for the box dot org by sonia

i knew thee strong and quiet like the hills i knew thee apt to pity brave to endure in peace or war a roman full equipped and just i knew thee like the fabled kings who by the loud sea-shore gave judgment forth from dawn to eve bearded and few of words

what what was i to honor thee a child a youth in ardor but a child in strength who after virtue's golden chariot wheels runs ever panting nor attains the goal so thought i and was sorrowful at heart

since then my steps have visited that flood along whose shore do numerous footfalls cease the voices and the tears of life expire thither the prints go down the hero's way trod large upon the sand the trembling maids

nimrod that wound his trumpet in the wood and the poor dreaming child hunter of flowers that here his hunting closes with the great so one and all go down nor aught returns

for thee for us the sacred river waits for me the unworthy thee the perfect friend there blame desists there his unfaltering dogs he from the chase recalls and homeward rides yet praise and love pass over and go in

so when beside that margin i discard my more than mortal weakness and with thee through that still land unfearing i advance if then at all we keep the touch of joy thou shalt rejoice to find me altered i o felix to behold thee still unchanged the

The Morning Drum Call by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for liverybox.org by Alan Matstone

the morning drum-call on my eager ear thrills unforgotten yet the morning dew lies yet undried along my field of noon but now i pause at whiles in what i do and count the bell and tremble lest i hear my work untrimmed the sunset gun too soon

end of poem this recording is in the public domain i have trod the upward and the downward slope by robert louis stevenson read for every box dot org by allan mapstone

I have trod the upward and the downward slope. I have endured and done in days before. I have longed for all and bid farewell to hope. And I have lived and loved and closed the door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

He Hears with Gladdened Heart by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Stunning He hears with gladdened heart the thunder peal and loves the falling dew. He knows the earth above and under, sits and is content to view. He sits beside the dying ember, God for hope and man for friend, content to see, glad to remember, expectant of the certain end.

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Farewell, fair day, and fading light by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Farewell, fair day, and fading light The clay born here, with westward sight Marks the huge sun, now a downward soar Farewell, we twain shall meet no more

farewell i watch with bursting sigh my late contempt occasion die i linger useless in my tent farewell fair day so foully spent farewell fair day if any god at all consider this poor clod he who the fair occasion sent prepared and placed the impediment

Let him diviner vengeance take, Give me to sleep, give me to wake, Girded and shod, and bid me play The hero in the coming day.

god if this were enough that i see things bare to the buff and up to the buttocks in mire that i ask nor hope nor hire not in the husk nor dawn beyond the dusk nor life beyond death god if this were faith

having felt thy wind in my face spit sorrow and disgrace having seen thine evil doom in golgotha and khartoum and the brutes the work of thine hands fill with injustice lands and stain with blood the sea if still in my veins the glee of the black night and the sun and the lost battle run

if and adapt the iniquitous lists i still accept with joy and joy to endure and be withstood and still to battle and perish for a dream of good god if that were enough

if to feel in the ink of the slough and the sink of the mire veins of glory and fire run through and transpierce and transpire and the secret purpose of glory in every part and the answering glory of battle fill my heart

to thrill with the joy of girded men to go on for ever and fail and go on again and be mauled to the earth and arise and contend for the shade of a word and the thing not seen with the eyes with the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night that somehow the right is the right and the smooth shall bloom from the rough lord if that were enough

end of poem this recording is in the public domain my wife by robert louis stevenson trusty dusky vivid true with eyes of gold and bramble dew steel true and blade straight the great artificer made my mate

honour anger valour fire a love that life could never tire death quench nor evil stir the mighty master gave to her teacher tender comrade wife a fellow-farer true through life heart whole and soul free the august father gave to me

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To the Muse by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Stunning Resign the rhapsody, the dream, to men of larger reach. Be ours the quest of a plain theme, the piety of speech. As monkish scribes, from morning break, toiled till the close of light, Nor thought a day too long to make one line or letter bright.

we also with an ardent mind time wealth and fame forgot our glory in our patience find and skim and skim the pot till last when round the house we hear the even song of birds one corner of blue heaven appear in our clear well of words leave leave it then muse of my heart sans finish and sans frame leave unadorned by needless art the picture as it came

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To an Island Princess by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone

since long ago a child at home i read and longed to rise and roam where'er i went whate'er i willed one promised land my fancy filled hence the long roads my home i made tossed much in ships have often laid below the uncurtained sky my head rain deluged and wind buffeted

and many a thousand hills i crossed and corners turned love's labour lost till lady to your isle of sun i came not hoping and like one snatched out of blindness rubbed my eyes and hailed my promised land with cries

yes lady here i was at last here found i all i had forecast the long roll of the sapphire sea that keeps the land's virginity

the stalwart giants of the wood laden with toys and flowers and food the precious forest pouring out to compass the whole town about the town itself with streets of lawn loved of the moon blessed by the dawn where the brown children all the day keep up a ceaseless noise of play

play in the sun play in the rain nor ever quarrel or complain and late at night in the woods of fruit hark do you hear the passing flute

i threw one look to either hand and knew i was in fairyland and yet one point of being so i lacked for lady as you know whoever by his might of hand won entrance into fairyland found always with admiring eyes a fairy princess kind and wise

it was not long i waited soon upon my threshold in broad noon gracious and helpful wise and good the fairy princess moe stood tarantira tahiti november fifth eighteen eighty eight to call by robert louis stevenson

read for the book of the silver ship my king that was her name in the bright islands whence your fathers came the silver ship at rest from winds and tides below your palace in your harbor rides and the seafarers sitting safe on shore like eager merchants count their treasure o'er one gift they find one strange and lovely thing now doubly precious since it pleased the king

the right my liege is ancient as the lyre for bards to give to kings what kings admire tis mine to offer for apollo's sake and since the gift is fitting yours to take to golden hands the golden pearl i bring the ocean jewel to the island king honolulu february third eighteen eighty nine in a poem to princess kaulani by robert louis stevenson

read for the dot org by larry wilson written in april to kaiulani in the april of her age and at waikiki within easy walk of kaiulani's banyan when she comes to my land and her father's and the rain beats upon the window as i fear it will let her look at this page it will be like a weed gathered and pressed to tome and she will remember her own islands and the shadow of the mighty tree

and she will hear the peacock screaming in the dusk and the wind blowing in the palms and she will think of her father sitting there alone r l s forth from her land to mine she goes the island maid the island rose light of heart and bright of face the daughter of a double race her islands here and southern sun shall mourn their kiolanikon and i in her dear banyan shade look vainly for my little maid

but our scots islands far away shall glitter with unwonted day and cast for once their tempests by to smile in kaiolani's eye honolulu to mother mary ann to see the infinite pity of this place the mangled limb the devastated face

the innocent sufferer smiling at the rod a fool were tempted to deny his god he sees he shrinks but if he gaze again lo beauty springing from the breast of pain he marks the sisters on the mournful shores and even a fool is silent and adores guest house color well molokai the

in memoriam e h i knew a silver head was bright beyond to compare i knew a queen of toil with a crown of silver hair garland of valour and sorrow of beauty and renown life that honours the brave crowned her himself with the crown

the beauties of youth are frail but this was a jewel of age life that delights in the brave gave it himself for a gauge fair was the crown to behold and beauty its poorest part at once the scar of the wound and the order pinned on the heart

the beauties of man are frail and the silver lies in the dust and the queen that we call to mind sleeps with the brave and the just sleeps with the weary at length but honoured and ever fair shines in the eye of the mind the crown of the silver hair honolulu and if poem this recording is in the public domain to my wife by robert louis stevenson read for the box dot org by agnes robert bhaer a fragment

Long must elapse, ere you behold again, green forest rame, the entry of the lane, the wild lane with the bramble and the briar, the year-old car tracks perfect in the mire, the wayside smoke, perchance the dwarfish huts, and rambler's donkey drinking from the ruts. Long ere you trace how deviously it leads, back from man's chimneys and the bleating meads, to the woodland shadow, to the sylvan hush,

When but the brooklet chuckles in the brook, Back from the sun and bustle of the vale, To where the great voice of the nightingale, Fills all the forest like a single broom, And all the banks smell of the golden broom, So wander on till the eve descends, And back returning to your fire-lit friends, You see the rosy sun, despoiled of light, Hung cotton thickets like a schoolboy's kite,

Here from the sea the unfruitful sun shall rise, Bathe the bare deck and blind the unshielded eyes; The allotted hours aloft shall wheel in vain, And in the unpregnant ocean plunge again. A salt of squalls that mark the watchful god, And pluck the bursting canvas from the yard, And senseless clamour of the calm at night Must mar your slumbers by the plunging light In beetle-haunted, most unwomanly bower.

of the wild swerving cabin hour by hour schooner equator to my old familiars do you remember can we e'er forget how in the coiled perplexities of youth

in our wild climate in our scowling town we gloomed and shivered sorrowed sobbed and feared the belching winter wind the mist-celled rain the rare and welcome silence of the snows the laggard morn the haggard day the night the grimy spell of the nocturnal town do you remember ah could one forget

so when the fevered sick that all night long listed the wind in tone and hear at last the ever-welcome voice of chanticleer sing in the bitter hour before the dawn with sudden ardour these desire the day so sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope so we exulting hearkened and desired

for lo as in the palace porch of life we huddled with chimeras from within how sweet to hear the music swelled and fell and through the breach of the revolving doors what dreams of splendour blinded us and fled i have since then contended and rejoiced amid the glories of the house of life

profoundly entered and the shrine beheld yet when the lamp from my expiring eyes shall dwindle and recede the voice of love fallen significant on my closing ears what sound shall come but the old cry of the wind in our inclement city what return but the image of the emptiness of youth filled with the sound of footsteps and that voice of discontent and rapture and despair

So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp The momentary pictures gleam and fade, And perish, and the night resurges, These shall I remember, and then all forget. APAMAMA

The tropics vanish, and meseems that I, from Halkeside, from topmost Alamure, or steep Kerketon, dreaming, gaze again, far set in fields and woods. The town I see, spring gallant from the shallows of her smoke, cragged, spired, and turreted, her virgin fort beflagged.

About, on seaward drooping hills, New folds of city glitter; Last, the Forth wields ample waters Set with sacred isles, And populous Fife smokes With a score of towns. There, on the sunny frontage of a hill, Hard by the House of Kings, Repose the dead, my dead, The ready and the strong of word.

Their works, the salt-encrusted, still survive. The sea bombards their founded towers, The night thrills, pierced with their strong lamps. The artifices, one after one, here in this grated cell, Where the rain erases and the rust consumes, Fell upon lasting silence. Continents and continental oceans intervene, A sea uncharted.

on a lampless isle environs and confines their wandering child in vain the voice of generations dead summons me sitting distant to arise my numerous footsteps nimbly to retrace and all mutation over stretch me down in that denoted city of the dead ape mama

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To S. C. by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox.org by Algie Pag. I heard the pulse of the besieging sea throb far away all night. I heard the wind fly crying and convulse tumultuous palms. I rose and strolled.

The isle was all bright sand, And flailing fans and shadows of the palm, The heaven, all moon and wind, And the blind vault, the keenest planet slain, For Venus slept. The king, my neighbour, with his host of wives, Slept in the precinct of the palisade, Where, single, in the wind,

under the moon among the slumbering cabins blazed a fire sole street-lamp and the only sentinel to other lands and nights my fancy turned to london first and chiefly to your house the many-pillared and the well-beloved there yearning fancy lighted there again in the upper room i lay and heard far off

The unsleeping city murmur like a shell. The muffled tramp of the museum guard Once more went by me. I beheld again lamps vainly brighten The dispeopled street. Again I long for the returning morn, The awaking traffic, the bestirring birds, The constantaneous trill of tiny song That weaves round monumental cornices A passing charm of beauty.

Most of all, for your light foot I wearied, And your knock that was the glad reveille of my day. Lo, now, when to your task in the great house, At morning through the portico you pass, One moment a glance, where by the pillared wall, Far voyaging island gods, begrimed with smoke, Sit now unworshipped.

the rude monument of faith forgot and races undivined. Sit now, disconsolate, remembering well the priest, the victim, and the songful crowd, the blaze of the blue noon, and that huge voice, incessant, of the breakers on the shore, as far as these from their ancestral shrine, so far, so foreign,

your divided friends wander estranged in body not in mind the house of tembenocca by robert louis stevenson

at my departure from the island of apamama for which you will look in vain in most atlases the king and i agreed since we both set up to be in the poetical way that we should celebrate our separation in verse whether or not his majesty has been true to his bargain the laggard posts of the pacific may perhaps inform me in six months perhaps not before a year

the following lines represent my part of the contract and it is hoped by their pictures of strange manners they may entertain a civilized audience nothing throughout has been invented or exaggerated the lady herein referred to as the author's muse has confined herself to stringing into rhyme facts or legends that i saw or heard during two months residence upon the island

r l s en voie let us who part like brothers part like bards and you in your tongue and measure i in mine our now division duly solemnize unlike the strains and yet the theme is one

the strains unlike and how unlike their fate you to the blinding palace-yard shall call the prefect of the singers and to him listening devout your valedictory verse deliver he his attribute fulfilled to the island chorus hand your measure on wed now with harmony

so them at last night after night in the open hall of dance shall thirty matted men to the clapped hand intone and bray and bark unfortunate paper and print alone shall honour mine the song

let now the king his ear arouse and toss the bosky ringlets from his brows the while our bond to implement my muse relates and praises his descent

i bride of the shark her valour first i sing who on the lone seas quickened of a king she from the shore and puny homes of men beyond the climbers sea discerning ken swam led by omens and devoid of fear beheld her monstrous paramour draw near

she gazed all round her to the heavenly pale the simple sea was void of isle or sail sole overhead the unsparing sun was reared when the deep bubbled and the brute appeared but she secure in the decrees of fate

made strong her bosom and received the mate and men declare from that marine embrace conceive the virtues of a stronger race two her stern descendant next i praise survivor of a thousand frays

In the hall of tongues who ruled the throng, Led and was trusted by the strong, And when spears were in the wood, Like a tower of vantage stood, Whom not till seventy years had sped, Unscarred of breast, erect of head, Still light of step, still bright of look, The hunter death had overtook. 3. 3.

his sons the brothers twain i sing of whom the elder reign'd a king no childeric he yet much declin'd from his rude sire's imperious mind until his day came when he died he liv'd he reign'd he versified

but chiefly him i celebrate that was the pillar of the state ruled wise of word and bold of mien the peaceful and the warlike scene and played alike the leader's part in lawful and unlawful art

his soldiers with emboldened ears heard him laugh among the spears he could deduce from age to age the web of island parentage best lay the rhyme best lead the dance for any festal circumstance

and fitly fashioned o'er an boat a palace or an armor coat none more availed than he to raise the strong suffumigating blaze or knot the wizard leaf

none more upon the untrodden windward shore of the isle beside the beating main to cure the sickly and constrain with muttered words and waving rods the gibbering and the whistling gods

but he though thus with hand and head he ruled commanded charmed and led and thus in virtue and in might towered to contemporary sight still in fraternal faith and love remained below to reach above gave and obeyed the apt command pilot and vassal of the land for

My Tembinok from men like these inherited his palaces, his right to rule, his powers of mind, his cocoa islands see enshrined. Stern-bearer of the sword and whip, a master passed in mastership. He learned without the spur of need to write, to cipher, and to read.

from all that touch on his prone shore augments his treasury of lore eager in age as erst in youth to catch an art to learn a truth to paint on the internal page a clearer picture of the age

his age you say but ah not so in his lone isle of long ago a royal lady of shalott sea sundered he beholds it not he only hears it far away the stress of equatorial day he suffers he records the while the vapid annals of the isle

Slaves bring him praise of his renown, Or cackle of the palm-tree town. The rarer ship and the rare boat he marks, And only hears remote, Where thrones and fortunes rise and reel, The thunder of the turning wheel. 5.

for the unexpected tears he shed at my departing may his lion head not whiten his revolving years no fresh occasion minister of tears at book or cards at work or sport him may the breeze across the palace court for ever fan and swelling near for ever the loud song divert his ear

SCHOONER EQUATOR AT SEA The Woodmen by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Al G. Pugg In all the grove, nor stream nor bird, Nor aught beside my blows was heard, And all the woods wore their noonday dress, The glory of their silentness.

From the island's summit to the seas, Trees mounted, and trees drooped, And trees groped upward in the gaps. The green inharboured talus and ravine by fathoms, By the multitude the rugged columns of the wood, And bunches of the branches stood, Thick as a mob, deep as a sea, And silent as eternity, With lowered axe, with backward head,

Late from this scene my labourer fled, And with a raveled tale to tell, returned. Some denizen of hell, Dead man or disinvested god, Had close behind him peered and trod, And triumphed when he turned to flee. How different fell the lines with me, Whose eye explored the dim arcade, Impatient of the uncoming shade. Shy elf,

Or dryad, pale and cold, Or mystic lingerer from of old, vainly, The fair and stately things, Impassive as departed kings, All still in the wood's stillness stood, And dumb, the rooted multitude Nodded and brooded, bloomed and dreamed, Unmeaning, undivined,

It seemed no other art, no hope they knew, Than clutch the earth and seek the blue. Mid vegetables king and priest, and stripling, The only beast, was at the beast's work killing, Hewed the stubborn roots across, bestrewed the glebe With the dislusted leaves, and bade the saplings fall in sheaves, Bursting across the tangled math, a ruin that I called a path,

A Golgotha that, later on, When rains had watered and suns shone, And seeds enriched the place, Should bear and be called Garden. Here and there I spied and plucked By the green hair A foe more resolute to live, The pooth than killing sensitive. Semiconscious, fled the attack, He shrank and tucked his branches back,

And straining by his anchor strand Captured and scratched the rooting hand I saw him crouch, I felt him bite And straight my eyes were touched with sight I saw the wood for what it was The lost and the victorious cause The deadly battle pitched in line Saw silent weapons cross and shine Silent defeat, silent assault A battle and a burial vault

Thick round me in the teeming mud, Briar and fern strove to the blood. The hooked liana in his gin Noosed his reluctant neighbours in. There the green murderer throve and spread Upon his smothering victims fed, And wantoned on his climbing coil. Contending roots fought for the soil Like frightened demons. With despair competing branches pushed for air,

green conquerors from overhead bestrode the bodies of their dead the caesars of the sylvan field unused to fail for doomed to yield for in the groins of branches lo the cancers of the orchid grow silent as in the listed ring two chartered wrestlers strain and cling dumb as by yellow hoogly's side the suffocating captives died

So hushed the woodland warfare goes, unceasing, And the silent foes grapple and smother, Strain and clasp without a cry, without a gasp. Here also sound thy fans, O God, Here too thy banners move abroad, Forest and city, sea and shore, And the whole earth thy threshing-floor. The drums of war, the drums of peace, Roll through our cities without cease,

and all the iron halls of life ring with the unremitting strife the common lot we scarce perceive crowds perish we nor mark nor grieve the bugle calls we mourn a few what corporals guard at waterloo what scanty hundreds more or less in the man-devouring wilderness what handful bled on delhi ridge

See, rather, London, on thy bridge, The pale battalions trampled by, Resolved to slay, resigned to die. Count, rather, all the maimed and dead In the unbrotherly war of bread. See, rather, under sultrier skies, What vegetable Londons rise, And teem, and suffer without sound.

or in your tranquil garden ground contented in the falling gloom saunter and see the roses bloom that these might live what thousands died all day the cruel hoe was plied the ambulance barrow rolled all day your wife the tender kind and gay donned her long gauntlets caught the spud and bathed in vegetable blood

and the long massacre now at end see where the lazy coils ascend see where the bonfire splutters red at even for the innocent dead why prate of peace when warriors all we clank in harness into hall and ever bare upon the board lies the necessary sword in the green field or quiet street

Besieged we sleep, beleaguered eat, Labour by day and waker nights, In war with rival appetites, The rose on roses feeds, the lark on larks, The sedentary clerk, or mourning with a diligent pen, Murders the babes of other men, And like the beasts of wood and park, Protects his whelps, defends his den. Unshamed the narrow aim I hold,

I feed my sheep, patrol my fold, breathe war on wolves and rival flocks, a pious outlaw on the rocks of God and mourning. And when time shall bow, or rivals break me, climb where no undubbed civilian dares, in my war harness, the loud stairs of honour, and my conqueror hail me a warrior, fallen in war. Vilema

Tropic Rain by Robert Louis Stevenson As the single pang of the blow, When the metal is mingled well, Rings and lives and resounds In all the bounds of the bell, So the thunder above spoke With a single tongue, So in the heart of the mountain The sound of it rumbled and clung.

sudden the thunder was drowned quenched was the levin light and the angel spirit of rain laughed out loud in the night loud as the maddened river raves in the cloven glen angel of rain you laughed and leaped on the roofs of men

and the sleepers sprang in their beds and joyed and feared as you fell you struck and my cabin quailed the roof of it roared like a bell you spoke and at once the mountain shouted and shook with brooks you ceased and the day returned rosy with virgin looks and methought that beauty and terror are only one not two and the world has room for love and death and thunder and dew

and all the sinnings of hell slumber in summer air and the face of god is a rock but the face of the rock is fair beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain and out of the cloud that smites beneficent rivers of rain

Let now your soul, in this substantial world, some anchor strike. Be here the body moored. The spectacle, immutably from now, the picture in your eye. And when time strikes, and the green scene goes on the instant blind, the ultimate helpers, where your horse today conveyed you dreaming, bear your body dead. Vilema.

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. We uncommiserate pass into the night by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox.org by Algie Pugg We uncommiserate pass into the night from the loud banquet and, departing, leave a tremor in men's memories, faint and sweet and frail as music.

Features of our face, the tones of the voice, the touch of the loved hand, perish and vanish, one by one, from earth. Meanwhile, in the hall of song, the multitude applauds the new performer. One, perchance, one ultimate survivor, lingers on, and smiles, and, to his ancient heart, recalls the long-forgotten. Ere the morrow die,

He too, returning, through the curtain comes, And the new age forgets us, and goes on. Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I?

Mary of a soul, he sailed on a day, over the sea to sky. Mull was astern, rum on the port, I on the starboard back. Glory of youth glowed in his soul. Where is that glory now? Sing me a song of a lad that is gone. Hey, could that lad be I? Mary of a soul, he sailed on a day, over the sea to sky. Give me again all that was there. Give me the sun that shone.

give me the eyes give me the soul give me the lad that's gone sing me a song of a lad that is gone say could that lad be i merry of soul he sailed on the day over the sea to sky below in breeze islands and seas mountains of rain and sun all that was good all that was fair all that was me is gone end of poem

This recording is in the public domain. To S. R. Crockett on receiving a dedication by Robert Louis Stevenson read for LibriVox.org by Algie Pug Blows the wind today and the sun and the rain are flying Blows the wind on the moors today and now Where about the graves of the martyrs the whelps are crying My heart remembers how

grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor hills of sheep and the howls of the silent vanished races and winds austere and pure be it granted me to behold you again in dying hills of home and to hear again the call hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying

and here no more at all.

the embers of the day are red beyond the murky hill the kitchen smokes the bed in the darkling house is spread the great sky darkens overhead and the great woods are shrill so far have i been led lord by thy will so far i have followed lord and wondered still the breeze from the embalmed land blows sudden toward the shore and claps my cottage door

i hear the signal lord i understand the night at thy command comes i will eat and sleep and will not question more the lemma end of poem end of songs of travel and other verses by robert louis stevenson

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