L'ENVOI TO "LIFE'S HANDICAP"

My new-cut ashlar takes the light

Where crimson-blank the windows flare; By my own work, before the night, Great Overseer I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought,

Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine; Where I have failed to meet Thy thought I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

One instant's toil to Thee denied

Stands all Eternity's offence,

Of that I did with Thee to guide
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,

Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain,
Godlike to muse o'er his own trade
And Manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,

Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,

Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay!

One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy Worth-
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken;

Oh whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, Help me to need no aid from men That I may help such men as need!

L'ENVOI

THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year has

shot her yield,

And the ricks stand gray to the sun,

Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has

quit the clover,

And your English summer's done."

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long! how long?
Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea
In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks

the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,

It's "Hawsers warp her through!"

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

We're backing down on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Gunfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail— the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planetpowdered floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!