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diff --git a/6815.txt b/6815.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..758ed49 --- /dev/null +++ b/6815.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7693 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Old Spookses' Pass, by Isabella Valancy Crawford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Old Spookses' Pass + +Author: Isabella Valancy Crawford + +Posting Date: March 13, 2014 [EBook #6815] +Release Date: November, 2004 +First Posted: January 27, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD SPOOKSES' PASS *** + + + + +Produced by Vital Debroey, Juliet Sutherland, Charles +Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. +HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + + + + OLD SPOOKSES' PASS + MALCOLM'S KATIE, AND OTHER POEMS, + + BY + + ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. + + AUTHOR OF + A LITTLE BACCHANTE, OR SOME BLACK SHEEP, ETC., ETC., ETC. + + + + TO JOHN IRWIN CRAWFORD, ESQ., M. D., R. N. + THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED + BY HIS NIECE ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. + + + + + OLD SPOOKSES' PASS. + + + I. + + We'd camp'd that night on Yaller Bull Flat-- + Thar was Possum Billy, an' Tom, an' me. + Right smart at throwin' a lariat + Was them two fellers, as ever I see; + An' for ridin' a broncho, or argyin' squar + With the devil roll'd up in the hide of a mule, + Them two fellers that camp'd with me thar + Would hev made an' or'nary feller a fool. + + + II. + + Fur argyfyin' in any way, + Thet hed to be argy'd with sinew an' bone, + I never see'd fellers could argy like them; + But just right har I will hev to own + Thet whar brains come in in the game of life, + They held the poorest keerds in the lot; + An' when hands was shown, some other chap + Rak'd in the hull of the blam'd old pot! + + + III. + + We was short of hands, the herd was large, + An' watch an' watch we divided the night; + We could hear the coyotes howl an' whine, + But the darn'd critters kept out of sight + Of the camp-fire blazin'; an' now an' then + Thar come a rustle an' sort of rush, + A rattle a-sneakin' away from the blaze, + Thro' the rattlin', cracklin' grey sage bush. + + + IV. + + We'd chanc'd that night on a pootyish lot, + With a tol'ble show of tall, sweet grass-- + We was takin' Speredo's drove across + The Rockies, by way of "Old Spookses' Pass"-- + An' a mite of a creek went crinklin' down, + Like a "pocket" bust in the rocks overhead, + Consid'able shrunk, by the summer drought, + To a silver streak in its gravelly bed. + + + V. + + 'Twas a fairish spot fur to camp a' night; + An' chipper I felt, tho' sort of skeer'd + That them two cowboys with only me, + Couldn't boss three thousand head of a herd. + I took the fust of the watch myself; + An' as the red sun down the mountains sprang, + I roll'd a fresh quid, an' got on the back + Of my peart leetle chunk of a tough mustang. + + + VI. + + An' Possum Billy was sleepin' sound, + Es only a cowboy knows how to sleep; + An' Tommy's snores would hev made a old + Buffalo bull feel kind o' cheap. + Wal, pard, I reckin' thar's no sech time + For dwind'lin' a chap in his own conceit, + Es when them mountains an' awful stars, + Jest hark to the tramp of his mustang's feet. + + + VII. + + It 'pears to me that them solemn hills + Beckin' them stars so big an' calm, + An' whisper, "Make tracks this way, my friends, + We've ring'd in here a specimen man; + He's here alone, so we'll take a look + Thro' his ganzy an' vest, an' his blood an' bone, + An post ourselves as to whether his heart + Is _flesh_, or a rotten, made-up stone!" + + + VIII. + + An' it's often seemed, on a midnight watch, + When the mountains blacken'd the dry, brown sod, + That a chap, if he shut his eyes, might grip + The great kind hand of his Father-God. + I rode round the herd at a sort of walk-- + The shadders come stealin' thick an' black; + I'd jest got to leave tew that thar chunk + Of a mustang tew keep in the proper track. + + + IX. + + Ever see'd a herd ring'd in at night? + Wal, it's sort of cur'us,--the watchin' sky, + The howl of coyotes--a great black mass, + With thar an' thar the gleam of a eye + An' the white of a horn--an', now an' then, + An' old bull liftin' his shaggy head, + With a beller like a broke-up thunder growl-- + An' the summer lightnin', quick an' red, + + + X. + + Twistin' an' turnin' amid the stars, + Silent as snakes at play in the grass, + An' plungin' thar fangs in the bare old skulls + Of the mountains, frownin' above the Pass. + An' all so still, that the leetle creek, + Twinklin' an crinklin' from stone to stone, + Grows louder an' louder, an' fills the air + With a cur'us sort of a singin' tone. + It ain't no matter wharever ye be, + (I'll 'low it's a cur'us sort of case) + Whar thar's runnin' water, it's sure to speak + Of folks tew home an' the old home place; + + + XI. + + An' yer bound tew listen an' hear it talk, + Es yer mustang crunches the dry, bald sod; + Fur I reckin' the hills, an' stars, an' creek + Are all of 'em preachers sent by God. + An' them mountains talk tew a chap this way: + "Climb, if ye can, ye degenerate cuss!" + An' the stars smile down on a man, an say, + "Come higher, poor critter, come up tew us!" + + + XII. + + An' I reckin', pard, thar is One above + The highest old star that a chap can see, + An' He says, in a solid, etarnal way, + "Ye never can stop till ye get to ME!" + Good fur Him, tew! fur I calculate + HE ain't the One to dodge an' tew shirk, + Or waste a mite of the things He's made, + Or knock off till He's finished His great Day's work! + + + XIII. + + We've got to labor an' strain an' snort + Along thet road thet He's planned an' made; + Don't matter a mite He's cut His line + Tew run over a 'tarnal, tough up-grade; + An' if some poor sinner ain't built tew hold + Es big a head of steam es the next, + An' keeps slippin' an' slidin' 'way down hill, + Why, He don't make out that He's awful vex'd. + + + XIV. + + Fur He knows He made Him in that thar way, + Somewhars tew fit In His own great plan, + An' He ain't the Bein' tew pour His wrath + On the head of thet slimpsy an' slippery man, + An' He says tew the feller, "Look here, my son, + You're the worst hard case that ever I see, + But be thet it takes ye a million y'ars, + Ye never can stop till ye git tew ME!" + + + XV. + + Them's my idees es I pann'd them out; + Don't take no stock in them creeds that say, + Thar's a chap with horns thet's took control + Of the rollin' stock on thet up-grade way, + Thet's free to tote up es ugly a log + Es grows in his big bush grim an' black, + An' slyly put it across the rails, + Tew hist a poor critter clar off the track. + + + XVI. + + An' when he's pooty well busted an' smash'd, + The devil comes smilin' an' bowin' round, + Says tew the Maker, "Guess ye don't keer + Tew trouble with stock thet ain't parfactly sound; + Lemme tote him away--best ye can do-- + Neglected, I guess, tew build him with care; + I'll hide him in hell--better thet folks + Shouldn't see him laid up on the track for repair!" + + + XVII. + + Don't take no stock in them creeds at all; + Ain't one of them cur'us sort of moles + Thet think the Maker is bound to let + The devil git up a "corner" in souls. + Ye think I've put up a biggish stake? + Wal, I'll bet fur all I'm wuth, d'ye see? + He ain't wuth shucks thet won't dar tew lay + All his pile on his own idee! + + + XVIII. + + Ye bet yer boots I am safe tew win, + Es the chap thet's able tew smilin' smack + The ace he's been hidin' up his sleeve + Kerslap on top of a feller's jack! + Es I wus sayin', the night wus dark, + The lightnin' skippin' from star to star; + Thar wa'n't no clouds but a thread of mist, + No sound but the coyotes yell afar, + + + XIX. + + An' the noise of the creek as it called tew me, + "Pard, don't ye mind the mossy, green spot + Whar a creek stood still fur a drowzin' spell + Right in the midst of the old home lot? + Whar, right at sundown on Sabba'day, + Ye skinn'd yerself of yer meetin' clothes, + An dove, like a duck, whar the water clar + Shone up like glass through the lily-blows? + + + XX. + + "Yer soul wus white es yer skin them days, + Yer eyes es clar es the creek at rest; + The wust idee in yer head thet time + Wus robbin' a bluebird's swingin' nest. + Now ain't ye changed? declar fur it, pard; + Thet creek would question, it 'pears tew me, + Ef ye looked in its waters agin tew night, + 'Who may this old cuss of a sinner be?'" + + + XXI. + + Thet wus the style thet thet thar creek + In "Old Spookses' Pass," in the Rockies, talked; + Drowzily list'nin' I rode round the herd. + When all of a sudden the mustang balked, + An' shied with a snort; I never know'd + Thet tough leetle critter tew show a scare + In storm or dark; but he jest scrouch'd down, + With his nostrils snuffin' the damp, cool air, + + + XXII. + + An' his flanks a-quiver. Shook up? Wal, yes + Guess'd we hev heaps of tarnation fun; + I calculated quicker'n light + That the herd would be off on a healthy run. + But thar warn't a stir tew horn or hoof; + The herd, like a great black mist, lay spread, + While har an' thar a grazin' bull + Loom'd up, like a mighty "thunder head." + + + XXIII. + + I riz in my saddle an' star'd around-- + On the mustang's neck I felt the sweat; + Thar wus nuthin' tew see--sort of felt the har + Commencin' tew crawl on my scalp, ye bet! + Felt kind of cur'us--own up I did; + Felt sort of dry in my mouth an' throat. + Sez I, "Ye ain't goin' tew scare, old hoss, + At a prowlin' coss of a blamed coyote?" + + + XXIV. + + But 'twan't no coyote nor prowlin' beast. + Nor rattle a-wrigglin' through the grass, + Nor a lurkin' red-skin--'twan't my way + In a game like that to sing out, "I pass!" + But I know'd when I glimps'd the rollin' whites, + The sparks from the black of the mustang's eye, + Thar wus _somethin'_ waltzin' up thet way + Thet would send them critters off on the fly! + + + XXV. + + In the night-air's tremblin', shakin' hands + Felt it beatin' kerslap onto me, + Like them waves thet chas'd thet President chap + Thet went on the war-trail in old Judee. + The air wus bustin'--but silent es death; + An' lookin' up, in a second I seed + The sort of sky thet allers looks down + On the rush an' the roar of a night stampede. + + + XXVI. + + Tearin' along the indigo sky + Wus a drove of clouds, snarl'd an' black; + Scuddin' along to'ards the risin' moon, + Like the sweep of a darn'd hungry pack + Of preairie wolves to'ard a bufferler, + The heft of the herd, left out of sight; + I dror'd my breath right hard, fur I know'd + We wus in fur a'tarnal run thet night. + + + XXVII. + + Quiet? Ye bet! The mustang scrounch'd, + His neck stretch'd out an' his nostrils wide, + The moonshine swept, a white river down, + The black of the mighty mountain's side, + Lappin' over an' over the stuns an' brush + In whirls an' swirls of leapin' light, + Makin' straight fur the herd, whar black an' still, + It stretch'd away to the left an' right + + + XXVIII. + + On the level lot;--I tell ye, pard, + I know'd when it touch'd the first black hide, + Me an' the mustang would hev a show + Fur a breezy bit of an' evenin' ride! + One! it flow'd over a homely pine + Thet riz from a cranny, lean an' lank, + A cleft of the mountain;--reckinin' two, + It slapp'd onto an' old steer's heavin' flank, + + + XXIX. + + Es sound he slept on the skirt of the herd, + Dreamin' his dreams of the sweet blue grass + On the plains below; an' afore it touched + The other wall of "Old Spookses' Pass" + The herd wus up!--not one at a time, + _Thet_ ain't the style in a midnight run,-- + They wus up an' off like es all thair minds + Wus roll'd in the hide of only one! + + + XXX. + + I've fit in a battle, an' heerd the guns + Blasphemin' God with their devils' yell; + Heerd the stuns of a fort like thunder crash + In front of the scream of a red-hot shell; + But thet thar poundin' of iron hoofs, + The clatter of horns, the peltin' sweep + Of three thousand head of a runnin' herd, + Made all of them noises kind of cheap. + + + XXXI. + + The Pass jest open'd its giant throat + An' its lips of granite, an' let a roar + Of answerin' echoes; the mustang buck'd, + Then answer'd the bridle; an', pard, afore + The twink of a fire-bug, lifted his legs + Over stuns an' brush, like a lopin' deer-- + A smart leetle critter! An' thar wus I + 'Longside of the plungin' leadin' steer! + + + XXXII. + + A low-set critter, not much account + For heft or looks, but one of them sort + Thet kin fetch a herd at his darn'd heels + With a toss of his horns or a mite of a snort, + Fur a fight or a run; an' thar wus I, + Pressin' clus to the steel of his heavin' flank, + An' cussin' an' shoutin'--while overhead + The moon in the black clouds tremblin' sank, + + + XXXIII. + + Like a bufferler overtook by the wolves, + An' pull'd tew the ground by the scuddin' pack. + The herd rush'd oh with a din an' crash, + Dim es a shadder, vast an' black; + Couldn't tell ef a hide wus black or white, + But from the dim surges a-roarin' by + Bust long red flashes--the flamin' light + From some old steer's furious an' scareful eye. + + + XXXIV. + + Thet pass in the Rockies fairly roar'd; + An sudden' es winkin' came the bang + An rattle of thunder. Tew see the grit + Of thet peart little chunk of a tough mustang! + Not a buck nor a shy!--he gev a snort + Thet shook the foam on his steamin' hide, + An' leap'd along--Wal, pard, ye bet + I'd a healthy show fur a lively ride. + + + XXXV. + + An' them cowboys slept in the leetle camp, + Calm es three kids in a truckle bed; + Declar the crash wus enough tew put + Life in the dust of the sleepin' dead! + The thunder kept droppin' its awful shells, + One at a minute, on mountain an' rock: + The pass with its stone lips thunder'd back; + An' the rush an' roar an' whirlin' shock + Of the runnin' herd wus fit tew bust + A tenderfoot's heart hed he chanc'd along; + But I jest let out of my lungs an' throat + A rippin' old verse of a herdsman's song, + + + XXXVI. + + An' sidl'd the mustang closer up, + 'Longside of the leader, an' hit him flat + On his steamin' flank with a lightsome stroke + Of the end of my limber lariat; + He never swerv'd, an' we thunder'd on, + Black in the blackness, red in the red + Of the lightnin' blazin' with ev'ry clap + That bust from the black guns overhead! + + + XXXVII. + + The mustang wus shod, an' the lightnin' bit + At his iron shoes each step he run, + Then plung'd in the yearth--we rode in flame, + Fur the flashes roll'd inter only one, + Same es the bellers made one big roar; + Yet thro' the whirl of din an' flame + I sung an' shouted, an' call'd the steer + I sidl'd agin by his own front name, + + + XXXVIII. + + An' struck his side with my fist an' foot-- + 'Twas jest like hittin' a rushin' stone, + An' he thunder'd ahead--I couldn't boss + The critter a mossel, I'm free tew own. + The sweat come a-pourin' down my beard; + Ef ye wonder wharfor, jest ye spread + Yerself far a ride with a runnin' herd, + A yawnin' gulch half a mile ahead. + + + XXXIX. + + Three hundred foot from its grinnin' lips + Tew the roarin' stream on its stones below. + Once more I hurl'd the mustang up + Agin the side of the cuss call'd Joe; + Twan't a mite of use--he riz his heels + Up in the air, like a scuddin' colt; + The herd mass'd closer, an' hurl'd down + The roarin' Pass, like a thunderbolt. + + + XL. + + I couldn't rein off--seem'd swept along + In the rush an' roar an' thunderin' crash; + The lightnin' struck at the runnin' herd + With a crack like the stroke of a cowboy's lash. + Thar! I could see it; I tell ye, pard, + Things seem'd whittl'd down sort of fine-- + We wasn't five hundred feet from the gulch, + With its mean little fringe of scrubby pine. + + + XLI. + + What could stop us? I grit my teeth; + Think I pray'd--ain't sartin of thet; + When, whizzin' an' singin', thar came the rush + Right past my face of a lariat! + "Bully fur you, old pard!" I roar'd, + Es it whizz'd roun' the leader's steamin' chest, + An' I wheel'd the mustang fur all he was wuth + Kerslap on the side of the old steer's breast. + + + XLII. + + He gev a snort, an' I see him swerve-- + I foller'd his shoulder clus an' tight; + Another swerve, an' the herd begun + To swing around.--Shouts I, "All right + "Ye've fetch'd 'em now!" The mustang gave + A small, leettle whinney. I felt him flinch. + Sez I, "Ye ain't goin' tew weaken now, + Old feller, an' me in this darn'd pinch?" + + + XLIII. + + "No," sez he, with his small, prickin' ears, + Plain es a human could speak; an' me-- + I turn'd my head tew glimpse ef I could, + Who might the chap with the lariat be. + Wal, Pard, I weaken'd--ye bet yer life! + Thar wasn't a human in sight around, + But right in front of me come the beat + Of a hoss's hoofs on the tremblin' ground-- + + + XLIV. + + Steddy an' heavy--a slingin' lope; + A hefty critter with biggish bones + Might make jest sich--could hear the hoofs + Es they struck on the rattlin', rollin' stones-- + The jingle of bit--an' clar an' shrill + A whistle es ever left cowboy's lip, + An' cuttin' the air, the long, fine hiss + Of the whirlin' lash of a cowboy's whip. + + + XLV. + + I crowded the mustang back, ontil + He riz on his haunches--an' I sed, + "In the Maker's name, who may ye be?" + Sez a vice, "Old feller, jest ride ahead!" + "All right!" sez I, an' I shook the rein. + "Ye've turn'd the herd in a hansum style-- + Whoever ye be, I'll not back down!" + An' I didn't, neither,--ye bet yer pile! + + + XLVI. + + Clus on the heels of that unseen hoss, + I rode on the side of the turnin' herd, + An' once in a while I answer'd back + A shout or a whistle or cheerin' word-- + From lips no lightnin' was strong tew show. + 'Twas sort of scareful, that midnight ride; + But we'd got our backs tew the gulch--fur that + I'd hev foller'd a curiouser sort of guide! + + + XLVII. + + 'Twas kind of scareful tew watch the herd, + Es the plungin' leaders squirm'd an' shrank-- + Es I heerd the flick of the unseen lash + Hiss on the side of a steamin' flank. + Guess the feller was smart at the work! + We work'd them leaders round, ontil + They overtook the tail of the herd, + An' the hull of the crowd begun tew "mill." + + + XLVIII. + + Round spun the herd in a great black wheel, + Slower an' slower--ye've seen beneath + A biggish torrent a whirlpool spin, + Its waters black es the face of Death? + 'Pear'd sort of like that the "millin'" herd + We kept by the leaders--HIM and me, + Neck by neck, an' he sung a tune, + About a young gal, nam'd Betsey Lee! + + + XLIX. + + Jine in the chorus? Wal, yas, I did. + He sung like a regilar mockin' bird. + An' us cowboys allus sing out ef tew calm + The scare, ef we can, of a runnin' herd. + Slower an' slower wheel'd round the "mill"; + The maddest old steer of a leader slow'd; + Slower an' slower sounded the hoofs + Of the hoss that HIM in front of me rode. + + + L. + + Fainter an' fainter grow'd that thar song + Of Betsey Lee an' her har of gold; + Fainter an' fainter grew the sound + Of the unseen hoofs on the tore-up mold. + The leadin' steer, that cuss of a Joe + Stopp'd an' shook off the foam an' the sweat, + With a stamp and a beller--the run was done, + Wus glad of it, tew, yer free tew bet! + + + LI. + + The herd slow'd up;--an' stood in a mass + Of blackness, lit by the lightnin's eye: + An' the mustang cower'd es _something_ swept + Clus to his wet flank in passin' by. + "Good night tew ye, Pard!" "Good night," sez I, + Strainin' my sight on the empty air; + The har riz rustlin' up on my head, + Now that I hed time tew scare. + + + LII. + + The mustang flinch'd till his saddle girth + Scrap'd on the dust of the tremblin' ground-- + There cum a laugh--the crack of a whip, + A whine like the cry of a well pleas'd hound, + The noise of a hoss thet rear'd an' sprang + At the touch of a spur--then all was still; + But the sound of the thunder dyin' down + On the stony breast of the highest hill! + + + LIII. + + The herd went back to its rest an' feed, + Es quiet a crowd es ever wore hide; + An' them boys in camp never heerd a lisp + Of the thunder an' crash of that run an' ride. + An' I'll never forget, while a wild cat claws, + Or a cow loves a nibble of sweet blue grass, + The cur'us pardner that rode with me + In the night stampede in "Old Spookses Pass!" + + + + + THE HELOT. + + + I. + + Low the sun beat on the land, + Red on vine and plain and wood; + With the wine-cup in his hand, + Vast the Helot herdsman stood. + + + II. + + Quench'd the fierce Achean gaze, + Dorian foemen paus'd before, + Where cold Sparta snatch'd her bays + At Achaea's stubborn door. + + + III. + + Still with thews of iron bound, + Vastly the Achean rose, + Godward from the brazen ground, + High before his Spartan foes. + + + IV. + + Still the strength his fathers knew + (Dauntless when the foe they fac'd) + Vein and muscle bounded through, + Tense his Helot sinews brac'd. + + + V. + + Still the constant womb of Earth, + Blindly moulded all her part; + As, when to a lordly birth, + Achean freemen left her heart. + + + VI. + + Still, insensate mother, bore + Goodly sons for Helot graves; + Iron necks that meekly wore + Sparta's yoke as Sparta's slaves. + + + VII. + + Still, O God mock'd mother! she + Smil'd upon her sons of clay: + Nurs'd them on her breast and knee, + Shameless in the shameful day. + + + VIII. + + Knew not old Achea's fires + Burnt no more in souls or veins-- + Godlike hosts of high desires + Died to clank of Spartan chains. + + + IX. + + Low the sun beat on the land, + Purple slope and olive wood; + With the wine cup in his hand, + Vast the Helot herdsman stood. + + + X. + + As long, gnarl'd roots enclasp + Some red boulder, fierce entwine + His strong fingers, in their grasp + Bowl of bright Caecuban wine. + + + XI. + + From far Marsh of Amyclae, + Sentried by lank poplars tall-- + Thro' the red slant of the day, + Shrill pipes did lament and call. + + + XII. + + Pierc'd the swaying air sharp pines, + Thyrsi-like, the gilded ground + Clasp'd black shadows of brown vines, + Swallows beat their mystic round. + + + XIII. + + Day was at her high unrest; + Fever'd with the wine of light, + Loosing all her golden vest, + Reel'd she towards the coming night. + + + XIV. + + Fierce and full her pulses beat; + Bacchic throbs the dry earth shook; + Stirr'd the hot air wild and sweet; + Madden'd ev'ry vine-dark brook. + + + XV. + + Had a red grape never burst, + All its heart of fire out; + To the red vat all a thirst, + To the treader's song and shout: + + + XVI. + + Had the red grape died a grape; + Nor, sleek daughter of the vine, + Found her unknown soul take shape + In the wild flow of the wine: + + + XVII. + + Still had reel'd the yellow haze: + Still had puls'd the sun pierc'd sod + Still had throbb'd the vine clad days: + To the pulses of their God. + + + XVIII. + + Fierce the dry lips of the earth + Quaff'd the subtle Bacchic soul: + Felt its rage and felt its mirth, + Wreath'd as for the banquet bowl. + + + XIX. + + Sapphire-breasted Bacchic priest + Stood the sky above the lands; + Sun and Moon at East and West, + Brazen cymbals in his hands. + + XX. + + Temples, altars, smote no more, + Sharply white as brows of Gods: + From the long, sleek, yellow shore, + Oliv'd hill or dusky sod, + + + XXI. + + Gaz'd the anger'd Gods, while he, + Bacchus, made their temples his; + Flushed their marble silently + With the red light of his kiss. + + + XXII. + + Red the arches of his feet + Spann'd grape-gleaming vales; the earth + Reel'd from grove to marble street, + Mad with echoes of his mirth. + + + XXIII. + + Nostrils widen'd to the air, + As above the wine brimm'd bowl: + Men and women everywhere + Breath'd the fierce, sweet Bacchic soul. + + + XXIV. + + Flow'd the vat and roar'd the beam, + Laugh'd the must; while far and shrill, + Sweet as notes in Pan-born dream, + Loud pipes sang by vale and hill. + + + XXV. + + Earth was full of mad unrest, + While red Bacchus held his state; + And her brown vine-girdl'd breast + Shook to his wild joy and hate. + + + XXVI. + + Strife crouch'd red ey'd in the vine + In its tendrils Eros strayed; + Anger rode upon the wine; + Laughter on the cup-lip play'd. + + + XXVII. + + Day was at her chief unrest-- + Red the light on plain and wood + Slavish ey'd and still of breast, + Vast the Helot herdsman stood: + + + XXVIII. + + Wide his hairy nostrils blew, + Maddning incense breathing up; + Oak to iron sinews grew, + Round the rich Caecuban cup. + + + XXIX. + + "Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan said, + "Drink, until the Helot clod + "Feel within him subtly bred + "Kinship to the drunken God! + + + XXX. + + "Drink, until the leaden blood + "Stirs and beats about thy brain: + "Till the hot Caecuban flood + "Drown the iron of thy chain. + + + XXXI. + + "Drink, till even madness flies + "At the nimble wine's pursuit; + "Till the God within thee lies + "Trampled by the earth-born brute. + + + XXXII. + + "Helot drink--nor spare the wine; + "Drain the deep, the madd'ning bowl, + "Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine, + "Now I claim thy Helot soul. + + + XXXIII. + + "Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye + "Gave with vine that leaps and runs + "O'er her slopes, these slaves to be + "Mocks and warnings to her sons! + + + XXXIV. + + "Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes, + "(God-touch'd still their frank, bold blue) + "On the Helot--mark the rise + "Of the Bacchic riot through + + + XXXV. + + "Knotted vein, and surging breast: + "Mark the wild, insensate, mirth: + "God-ward boast--the driv'ling jest, + "Till he grovel to the earth. + + + XXXVI. + + "Drink, dull slave," the Spartan cried: + Meek the Helot touch'd the brim; + Scented all the purple tide: + Drew the Bacchic soul to him. + + + XXXVII. + + Cold the thin lipp'd Spartan smiled: + Couch'd beneath the weighted vine, + Large-ey'd, gaz'd the Spartan child, + On the Helot and the wine. + + + XXXVIII. + + Rose pale Doric shafts behind, + Stern and strong, and thro' and thro', + Weaving with the grape-breath'd wind, + Restless swallows call'd and flew. + + + XXXIX. + + Dropp'd the rose-flush'd doves and hung, + On the fountains murmuring brims; + To the bronz'd vine Hermos clung-- + Silver-like his naked limbs + + + XL. + + Flash'd and flush'd: rich copper'd leaves, + Whiten'd by his ruddy hair; + Pallid as the marble eaves, + Aw'd he met the Helot's stare. + + + XLI. + + Clang'd the brazen goblet down; + Marble-bred loud echoes stirr'd: + With fix'd fingers, knotted, brown, + Dumb, the Helot grasp'd his beard. + + + XLII. + + Heard the far pipes mad and sweet. + All the ruddy hazes thrill: + Heard the loud beam crash and beat, + In the red vat on the hill. + + + XLIII. + + Wide his nostrils as a stag's + Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss; + Red his lips as river flags, + From the strong, Caecuban kiss. + + + XLIV. + + On his swarthy temples grew, + Purple veins like cluster'd grapes; + Past his rolling pupils blew, + Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes. + + + XLV. + + Cold the haughty Spartan smiled-- + His the power to knit that day, + Bacchic fires, insensate, wild, + To the grand Achean clay. + + + XLVI. + + His the might--hence his the right! + Who should bid him pause? nor Fate + Warning pass'd before his sight, + Dark-robed and articulate. + + + XLVII. + + No black omens on his eyes, + Sinistre--God-sent, darkly broke; + Nor from ruddy earth nor skies, + Portends to him mutely spoke. + + + XLVIII. + + "Lo," he said, "he maddens now! + "Flames divine do scathe the clod; + "Round his reeling Helot brow + "Stings the garland of the God." + + + XLIX. + + "Mark, my Hermos--turn to steel + The soft tendons of thy soul! + Watch the God beneath the heel + Of the strong brute swooning roll! + + + L. + + "Shame, my Hermos! honey-dew + Breeds not on the Spartan spear; + Steel thy mother-eyes of blue, + Blush to death that weakling tear. + + + LI. + + "Nay, behold! breed Spartan scorn + Of the red lust of the wine; + Watch the God himself down-borne + By the brutish rush of swine! + + + LII. + + "Lo, the magic of the drink! + At the nimble wine's pursuit, + See the man-half'd satyr sink + All the human in the brute! + + + LIII. + + "Lo, the magic of the cup! + Watch the frothing Helot rave! + As great buildings labour up + From the corpse of slaughter'd slave, + + + LIV. + + "Build the Spartan virtue high + From the Helot's wine-dead soul; + Scorn the wild, hot flames that fly + From the purple-hearted bowl! + + + LV. + + "Helot clay! Gods! what its worth, + Balanc'd with proud Sparta's rock? + Ours--its force to till the earth; + Ours--its soul to gyve and mock! + + + LVI. + + "Ours, its sullen might. Ye Gods! + Vastly build the Achean clay; + Iron-breast our slavish clods-- + _Ours_ their Helot souls to slay! + + + LVII. + + "Knit great thews--smite sinews vast + Into steel--build Helot bones + Iron-marrowed:--such will last + Ground by ruthless Sparta's stones. + + + LVIII. + + "Crown the strong brute satyr wise! + Narrow-wall his Helot brain; + Dash the soul from breast and eyes, + Lash him toward the earth again. + + + LIX. + + "Make a giant for our need, + Weak to feel and strong to toil; + Dully-wise to dig or bleed + On proud Sparta's alien soil! + + + LX. + + "Gods! recall thy spark at birth, + Lit his soul with high desire; + Blend him, grind him with the earth, + Tread out old Achea's fire! + + + LXI. + + "Lo, my Hermos! laugh and mark, + See the swift mock of the wine; + Faints the primal, God-born spark, + Trodden by the rush of swine! + + + LXII. + + "Gods! ye love our Sparta--ye + Gave with vine that leaps and runs + O'er her slopes, these slaves to be + Mocks and warnings to her sons!" + + + LXIII. + + Cold the haughty Spartan smil'd. + Madd'ning from the purple hills + Sang the far pipes, sweet and wild. + Red as sun-pierc'd daffodils + + + LXIV. + + Neck-curv'd, serpent, silent, scaled + With lock'd rainbows, stole the sea; + On the sleek, long beaches; wail'd + Doves from column and from tree. + + + LXV. + + Reel'd the mote swarm'd haze, and thick + Beat the hot pulse of the air; + In the Helot, fierce and quick, + All his soul sprang from its lair. + + + LXVI. + + As the drowzing tiger, deep + In the dim cell, hears the shout + From the arena--from his sleep + Launches to its thunders out-- + + + LXVII. + + So to fierce calls of the wine + (Strong the red Caecuban bowl!) + From its slumber, deep, supine, + Panted up the Helot soul. + + + LXVIII. + + At his blood-flush'd eye-balls rear'd, + (Mad and sweet came pipes and songs), + Rous'd at last the wild soul glar'd, + Spear-thrust with a million wrongs. + + + LXIX. + + Past--the primal, senseless bliss; + Past--red laughter of the grapes; + Past--the wine's first honey'd kiss; + Past--the wine-born, wanton shapes! + + + LXX. + + Still the Helot stands--his feet + Set like oak roots: in his gaze + Black clouds roll and lightnings meet-- + Flames from old Achean days. + + + LXXI. + + Who may quench the God-born fire, + Pulsing at the soul's deep root? + Tyrants! grind it in the mire, + Lo, it vivifies the brute! + + + LXXII. + + Stings the chain-embruted clay, + Senseless to his yoke-bound shame; + Goads him on to rend and slay, + Knowing not the spurring flame. + + + LXXIII. + + Tyrants, changeless stand the Gods! + Nor their calm might yielded ye! + Not beneath thy chains and rods + Dies man's God-gift, Liberty! + + + LXXIV. + + Bruteward lash thy Helots--hold + Brain and soul and clay in gyves; + Coin their blood and sweat in gold, + Build thy cities on their lives. + + + LXXV. + + Comes a day the spark divine + Answers to the Gods who gave; + Fierce the hot flames pant and shine + In the bruis'd breast of the slave! + + + LXXVI. + + Changeless stand the Gods!--nor he + Knows he answers their behest; + Feels the might of their decree + In the blind rage of his breast. + + + LXXVII. + + Tyrants! tremble when ye tread + Down the servile Helot clods; + Under despot heel is bred + The white anger of the Gods! + + + LXXVIII. + + Thro' the shackle-canker'd dust, + Thro' the gyv'd soul, foul and dark + Force they, changeless Gods and just! + Up the bright eternal spark. + + + LXXIX. + + Till, like lightnings vast and fierce, + On the land its terror smites; + Till its flames the tyrants pierce, + Till the dust the despot bites! + + + LXXX. + + Day was at its chief unrest, + Stone from stone the Helot rose; + Fix'd his eyes--his naked breast + Iron-wall'd his inner throes. + + + LXXXI. + + Rose-white in the dusky leaves, + Shone the frank-ey'd Spartan child; + Low the pale doves on the eaves, + Made their soft moan, sweet and wild. + + + LXXXII. + + Wand'ring winds, fire-throated, stole, + Sybils whisp'ring from their books; + With the rush of wine from bowl, + Leap'd the tendril-darken'd brooks. + + + LXXXIII. + + As the leathern cestus binds + Tense the boxer's knotted hands; + So the strong wine round him winds, + Binds his thews to iron bands. + + + LXXXIV. + + Changeless are the Gods--and bred + All their wrath divine in him! + Bull-like fell his furious head, + Swell'd vast cords on breast and limb. + + + LXXXV. + + As loud-flaming stones are hurl'd + From foul craters--thus the gods + Cast their just wrath on the world, + From the mire of Helot clods. + + + LXXXVI. + + Still the furious Helot stood, + Staring thro' the shafted space; + Dry-lipp'd for the Spartan blood, + He of scourg'd Achea's race. + + + LXXXVII. + + Sprang the Helot--roar'd the vine, + Rent from grey, long-wedded stones-- + From pale shaft and dusky pine, + Beat the fury of his groans. + + + LXXXVIII. + + Thunders inarticulate: + Wordless curses, deep and wild; + Reach'd the long pois'd sword of Fate, + To the Spartan thro' his child. + + + LXXXIX. + + On his knotted hands, upflung + O'er his low'r'd front--all white, + Fair young Hermos quiv'ring hung; + As the discus flashes bright + + + XC. + + In the player's hand--the boy, + Naked--blossom-pallid lay; + Rous'd to lust of bloody joy, + Throbb'd the slave's embruted clay. + + + XCI. + + Loud he laugh'd--the father sprang + From the Spartan's iron mail! + Late--the bubbling death-cry rang + On the hot pulse of the gale! + + + XCII. + + As the shining discus flies, + From the thrower's strong hand whirl'd; + Hermos cleft the air--his cries + Lance-like to the Spartan hurl'd. + + + XCIII. + + As the discus smites the ground, + Smote his golden head the stone; + Of a tall shaft--burst a sound + And but one--his dying groan! + + + XCIV. + + Lo! the tyrant's iron might! + Lo! the Helot's yokes and chains! + Slave-slain in the throbbing light + Lay the sole child of his veins. + + + XCV. + + Laugh'd the Helot loud and full, + Gazing at his tyrant's face; + Low'r'd his front like captive bull, + Bellowing from the fields of Thrace. + + + XCVI. + + Rose the pale shaft redly flush'd, + Red with Bacchic light and blood; + On its stone the Helot rush'd-- + Stone the tyrant Spartan stood. + + + XCVII. + + Lo! the magic of the wine + From far marsh of Amyclae! + Bier'd upon the ruddy vine, + Spartan dust and Helot lay! + + + XCVIII. + + Spouse of Bacchus reel'd the day, + Red track'd on the throbbing sods; + Dead--but free--the Helot lay, + Just and changeless stand the Gods! + + + + + MALCOLM'S KATIE: A LOVE STORY + + PART I. + + Max plac'd a ring on little Katie's hand, + A silver ring that he had beaten out + From that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wage + For boyish labour, kept thro' many years. + "See, Kate," he said, "I had no skill to shape + Two hearts fast bound together, so I grav'd + Just K. and M., for Katie and for Max." + "But, look; you've run the lines in such a way, + That M. is part of K., and K. of M.," + Said Katie, smiling. "Did you mean it thus? + I like it better than the double hearts." + "Well, well," he said, "but womankind is wise! + Yet tell me, dear, will such a prophecy + Not hurt you sometimes, when I am away? + Will you not seek, keen ey'd, for some small break + In those deep lines, to part the K. and M. + For you? Nay, Kate, look down amid the globes + Of those large lilies that our light canoe + Divides, and see within the polish'd pool + That small, rose face of yours,--so dear, so fair,-- + A seed of love to cleave into a rock, + And bourgeon thence until the granite splits + Before its subtle strength. I being gone-- + Poor soldier of the axe--to bloodless fields, + (Inglorious battles, whether lost or won). + That sixteen summer'd heart of yours may say: + "'I but was budding, and I did not know + My core was crimson and my perfume sweet; + I did not know how choice a thing I am; + I had not seen the sun, and blind I sway'd + To a strong wind, and thought because I sway'd, + 'Twas to the wooer of the perfect rose-- + That strong, wild wind has swept beyond my ken-- + The breeze I love sighs thro' my ruddy leaves." + "O, words!" said Katie, blushing, "only words! + You build them up that I may push them down; + If hearts are flow'rs, I know that flow'rs can root-- + "Bud, blossom, die--all in the same lov'd soil; + They do so in my garden. I have made + Your heart my garden. If I am a bud + And only feel unfoldment--feebly stir + Within my leaves: wait patiently; some June, + I'll blush a full-blown rose, and queen it, dear, + In your lov'd garden. Tho' I be a bud, + My roots strike deep, and torn from that dear soil + Would shriek like mandrakes--those witch things I read + Of in your quaint old books. Are you content?" + "Yes--crescent-wise--but not to round, full moon. + Look at yon hill that rounds so gently up + From the wide lake; a lover king it looks, + In cloth of gold, gone from his bride and queen; + And yet delayed, because her silver locks + Catch in his gilded fringes; his shoulders sweep + Into blue distance, and his gracious crest, + Not held too high, is plum'd with maple groves;-- + One of your father's farms. A mighty man, + Self-hewn from rock, remaining rock through all." + "He loves me, Max," said Katie: "Yes, I know-- + A rock is cup to many a crystal spring. + Well, he is rich; those misty, peak-roof'd barns-- + Leviathans rising from red seas of grain-- + Are full of ingots, shaped like grains of wheat. + His flocks have golden fleeces, and his herds + Have monarchs worshipful, as was the calf + Aaron call'd from the furnace; and his ploughs, + Like Genii chained, snort o'er his mighty fields. + He has a voice in Council and in Church--" + "He work'd for all," said Katie, somewhat pain'd. + "Aye, so, dear love, he did; I heard him tell + How the first field upon his farm was ploughed. + He and his brother Reuben, stalwart lads, + Yok'd themselves, side by side, to the new plough; + Their weaker father, in the grey of life + (But rather the wan age of poverty + Than many winters), in large, gnarl'd hands + The plunging handles held; with mighty strains + They drew the ripping beak through knotted sod, + Thro' tortuous lanes of blacken'd, smoking stumps; + And past great flaming brush heaps, sending out + Fierce summers, beating on their swollen brows. + O, such a battle! had we heard of serfs + Driven to like hot conflict with the soil, + Armies had march'd and navies swiftly sail'd + To burst their gyves. But here's the little point-- + The polish'd di'mond pivot on which spins + The wheel of Difference--they OWN'D the rugged soil, + And fought for love--dear love of wealth and pow'r, + And honest ease and fair esteem of men; + One's blood heats at it!" "Yet you said such fields + Were all inglorious," Katie, wondering, said. + "Inglorious? yes; they make no promises + Of Star or Garter, or the thundering guns + That tell the earth her warriors are dead. + Inglorious! aye, the battle done and won + Means not--a throne propp'd up with bleaching bones; + A country sav'd with smoking seas of blood; + A flag torn from the foe with wounds and death; + Or Commerce, with her housewife foot upon + Colossal bridge of slaughter'd savages, + The Cross laid on her brawny shoulder, and + In one sly, mighty hand her reeking sword; + And in the other all the woven cheats + From her dishonest looms. Nay, none of these. + It means--four walls, perhaps a lowly roof; + Kine in a peaceful posture; modest fields; + A man and woman standing hand in hand + In hale old age, who, looking o'er the land, + Say: 'Thank the Lord, it all is mine and thine!' + It means, to such thew'd warriors of the Axe + As your own father;--well, it means, sweet Kate, + Outspreading circles of increasing gold, + A name of weight; one little daughter heir. + Who must not wed the owner of an axe, + Who owns naught else but some dim, dusky woods + In a far land; two arms indifferent strong--" + "And Katie's heart," said Katie, with a smile; + For yet she stood on that smooth, violet plain, + Where nothing shades the sun; nor quite believed + Those blue peaks closing in were aught but mist + Which the gay sun could scatter with a glance. + For Max, he late had touch'd their stones, but yet + He saw them seam'd with gold and precious ores, + Rich with hill flow'rs and musical with rills. + "Or that same bud that will be Katie's heart, + Against the time your deep, dim woods are clear'd, + And I have wrought my father to relent." + "How will you move him, sweet? why, he will rage + And fume and anger, striding o'er his fields, + Until the last bought king of herds lets down + His lordly front, and rumbling thunder from + His polish'd chest, returns his chiding tones. + How will you move him, Katie, tell me how?" + "I'll kiss him and keep still--that way is sure," + Said Katie, smiling. "I have often tried." + "God speed the kiss," said Max, and Katie sigh'd, + With pray'rful palms close seal'd, "God speed the axe!" + + * * * * * + + O, light canoe, where dost thou glide? + Below thee gleams no silver'd tide, + But concave heaven's chiefest pride. + + * * * * * + + Above thee burns Eve's rosy bar; + Below thee throbs her darling star; + Deep 'neath thy keel her round worlds are! + + * * * * * + + Above, below, O sweet surprise, + To gladden happy lover's eyes; + No earth, no wave--all jewell'd sides! + + * * * * * + + + PART II. + + The South Wind laid his moccasins aside, + Broke his gay calumet of flow'rs, and cast + His useless wampun, beaded with cool dews, + Far from him, northward; his long, ruddy spear + Flung sunward, whence it came, and his soft locks + Of warm, fine haze grew silver as the birch. + His wigwam of green leaves began to shake; + The crackling rice-beds scolded harsh like squaws: + The small ponds pouted up their silver lips; + The great lakes ey'd the mountains, whisper'd "Ugh!" + "Are ye so tall, O chiefs? Not taller than + Our plumes can reach." And rose a little way, + As panthers stretch to try their velvet limbs, + And then retreat to purr and bide their time. + At morn the sharp breath of the night arose + From the wide prairies, in deep struggling seas, + In rolling breakers, bursting to the sky; + In tumbling surfs, all yellow'd faintly thro' + With the low sun--in mad, conflicting crests, + Voic'd with low thunder from the hairy throats + Of the mist-buried herds; and for a man + To stand amid the cloudy roll and moil, + The phantom waters breaking overhead, + Shades of vex'd billows bursting on his breast, + Torn caves of mist wall'd with a sudden gold, + Reseal'd as swift as seen--broad, shaggy fronts, + Fire-ey'd and tossing on impatient horns + The wave impalpable--was but to think + A dream of phantoms held him as he stood. + The late, last thunders of the summer crash'd, + Where shrieked great eagles, lords of naked cliffs. + The pulseless forest, lock'd and interlock'd + So closely, bough with bough, and leaf with leaf, + So serf'd by its own wealth, that while from high + The moons of summer kiss'd its green-gloss'd locks; + And round its knees the merry West Wind danc'd; + And round its ring, compacted emerald; + The south wind crept on moccasins of flame; + And the fed fingers of th' impatient sun + Pluck'd at its outmost fringes--its dim veins + Beat with no life--its deep and dusky heart, + In a deep trance of shadow, felt no throb + To such soft wooing answer: thro' its dream + Brown rivers of deep waters sunless stole; + Small creeks sprang from its mosses, and amaz'd, + Like children in a wigwam curtain'd close + Above the great, dead, heart of some red chief, + Slipp'd on soft feet, swift stealing through the gloom, + Eager for light and for the frolic winds. + In this shrill moon the scouts of winter ran + From the ice-belted north, and whistling shafts + Struck maple and struck sumach--and a blaze + Ran swift from leaf to leaf, from bough to bough; + Till round the forest flash'd a belt of flame. + And inward lick'd its tongues of red and gold + To the deep, tranied inmost heart of all. + Rous'd the still heart--but all too late, too late. + Too late, the branches welded fast with leaves, + Toss'd, loosen'd, to the winds--too late the sun + Pour'd his last vigor to the deep, dark cells + Of the dim wood. The keen, two-bladed Moon + Of Falling Leaves roll'd up on crested mists + And where the lush, rank boughs had foiled the sun + In his red prime, her pale, sharp fingers crept + After the wind and felt about the moss, + And seem'd to pluck from shrinking twig and stem + The burning leaves--while groan'd the shudd'ring wood. + Who journey'd where the prairies made a pause, + Saw burnish'd ramparts flaming in the sun, + With beacon fires, tall on their rustling walls. + And when the vast, horn'd herds at sunset drew + Their sullen masses into one black cloud, + Rolling thund'rous o'er the quick pulsating plain, + They seem'd to sweep between two fierce red suns + Which, hunter-wise, shot at their glaring balls + Keen shafts, with scarlet feathers and gold barbs, + By round, small lakes with thinner, forests fring'd, + More jocund woods that sung about the feet + And crept along the shoulders of great cliffs; + The warrior stags, with does and tripping fawns, + Like shadows black upon the throbbing mist + Of Evening's rose, flash'd thro' the singing woods-- + Nor tim'rous, sniff'd the spicy, cone-breath'd air; + For never had the patriarch of the herd + Seen limn'd against the farthest rim of light + Of the low-dipping sky, the plume or bow + Of the red hunter; nor when stoop'd to drink, + Had from the rustling rice-beds heard the shaft + Of the still hunter hidden in its spears; + His bark canoe close-knotted in its bronze, + His form as stirless as the brooding air, + His dusky eyes too, fix'd, unwinking, fires; + His bow-string tighten'd till it subtly sang + To the long throbs, and leaping pulse that roll'd + And beat within his knotted, naked breast. + There came a morn. The Moon of Falling Leaves, + With her twin silver blades had only hung + Above the low set cedars of the swamp + For one brief quarter, when the sun arose + Lusty with light and full of summer heat, + And pointing with his arrows at the blue, + Clos'd wigwam curtains of the sleeping moon, + Laugh'd with the noise of arching cataracts, + And with the dove-like cooing of the woods, + And with the shrill cry of the diving loon + And with the wash of saltless, rounded seas, + And mock'd the white moon of the Falling Leaves. + "Esa! esa! shame upon you, Pale Face! + "Shame upon you, moon of evil witches! + "Have you kill'd the happy, laughing Summer? + "Have you slain the mother of the Flowers + "With your icy spells of might and magic? + "Have you laid her dead within my arms? + "Wrapp'd her, mocking, in a rainbow blanket. + "Drown'd her in the frost mist of your anger? + "She is gone a little way before me; + "Gone an arrow's flight beyond my vision; + "She will turn again and come to meet me, + "With the ghosts of all the slain flowers, + "In a blue mist round her shining tresses; + "In a blue smoke in her naked forests-- + "She will linger, kissing all the branches, + "She will linger, touching all the places, + "Bare and naked, with her golden fingers, + "Saying, 'Sleep, and dream of me, my children + "'Dream of me, the mystic Indian Summer; + "'I, who, slain by the cold Moon of Terror, + "'Can return across the path of Spirits, + "'Bearing still my heart of love and fire; + "'Looking with my eyes of warmth and splendour; + "'Whisp'ring lowly thro' your sleep of sunshine? + "'I, the laughing Summer, am not turn'd + "'Into dry dust, whirling on the prairies,-- + "'Into red clay, crush'd beneath the snowdrifts. + "'I am still the mother of sweet flowers + "'Growing but an arrow's flight beyond you-- + "'In the Happy Hunting Ground--the quiver + "'Of great Manitou, where all the arrows + "'He has shot from his great bow of Pow'r, + "'With its clear, bright, singing cord of Wisdom, + "'Are re-gather'd, plum'd again and brighten'd, + "'And shot out, re-barb'd with Love and Wisdom; + "'Always shot, and evermore returning. + "'Sleep, my children, smiling in your heart-seeds + "'At the spirit words of Indian Summer!'" + "Thus, O Moon of Falling Leaves, I mock you! + "Have you slain my gold-ey'd squaw, the Summer?" + The mighty morn strode laughing up the land, + And Max, the labourer and the lover, stood + Within the forest's edge, beside a tree; + The mossy king of all the woody tribes, + Whose clatt'ring branches rattl'd, shuddering, + As the bright axe cleav'd moon-like thro' the air, + Waking strange thunders, rousing echoes link'd + From the full, lion-throated roar, to sighs + Stealing on dove-wings thro' the distant aisles. + Swift fell the axe, swift follow'd roar on roar, + Till the bare woodland bellow'd in its rage, + As the first-slain slow toppl'd to his fall. + "O King of Desolation, art thou dead?" + Thought Max, and laughing, heart and lips, leap'd on + The vast, prone trunk. "And have I slain a King? + "Above his ashes will I build my house-- + No slave beneath its pillars, but--a King!" + Max wrought alone, but for a half-breed lad, + With tough, lithe sinews and deep Indian eyes, + Lit with a Gallic sparkle. Max, the lover, found + The labourer's arms grow mightier day by day-- + More iron-welded as he slew the trees; + And with the constant yearning of his heart + Towards little Kate, part of a world away, + His young soul grew and shew'd a virile front, + Full-muscl'd and large statur'd, like his flesh. + Soon the great heaps of brush were builded high, + And like a victor, Max made pause to clear + His battle-field, high strewn with tangl'd dead. + Then roar'd the crackling mountains, and their fires + Met in high heaven, clasping flame with flame. + The thin winds swept a cosmos of red sparks + Across the bleak, midnight sky; and the sun + Walk'd pale behind the resinous, black smoke. + And Max car'd little for the blotted sun, + And nothing for the startl'd, outshone stars; + For Love, once set within a lover's breast, + Has its own Sun--it's own peculiar sky, + All one great daffodil--on which do lie + The sun, the moon, the stars--all seen at once, + And never setting; but all shining straight + Into the faces of the trinity,-- + The one belov'd, the lover, and sweet Love! + It was not all his own, the axe-stirr'd waste. + In these new days men spread about the earth, + With wings at heel--and now the settler hears, + While yet his axe rings on the primal woods, + The shrieks of engines rushing o'er the wastes; + Nor parts his kind to hew his fortunes out. + And as one drop glides down the unknown rock + And the bright-threaded stream leaps after it, + With welded billions, so the settler finds + His solitary footsteps beaten out, + With the quick rush of panting, human waves + Upheav'd by throbs of angry poverty; + And driven by keen blasts of hunger, from + Their native strands--so stern, so dark, so dear! + O, then, to see the troubl'd, groaning waves, + Throb down to peace in kindly, valley beds; + Their turbid bosoms clearing in the calm + Of sun-ey'd Plenty--till the stars and moon, + The blessed sun himself, has leave to shine + And laugh in their dark hearts! So shanties grew + Other than his amid the blacken'd stumps; + And children ran, with little twigs and leaves + And flung them, shouting, on the forest pyres, + Where burn'd the forest kings--and in the glow + Paus'd men and women when the day was done. + There the lean weaver ground anew his axe, + Nor backward look'd upon the vanish'd loom, + But forward to the ploughing of his fields; + And to the rose of Plenty in the cheeks. + Of wife and children--nor heeded much the pangs + Of the rous'd muscles tuning to new work. + The pallid clerk look'd on his blister'd palms + And sigh'd and smil'd, but girded up his loins + And found new vigour as he felt new hope. + The lab'rer with train'd muscles, grim and grave, + Look'd at the ground and wonder'd in his soul, + What joyous anguish stirr'd his darken'd heart, + At the mere look of the familiar soil, + And found his answer in the words--"_Mine own!_" + Then came smooth-coated men, with eager eyes, + And talk'd of steamers on the cliff-bound lakes; + And iron tracks across the prairie lands; + And mills to crush the quartz of wealthy hills; + And mills to saw the great, wide-arm'd trees; + And mills to grind the singing stream of grain; + And with such busy clamour mingled still + The throbbing music of the bold, bright Axe-- + The steel tongue of the Present, and the wail + Of falling forests--voices of the Past. + Max, social-soul'd, and with his practised thews, + Was happy, boy-like, thinking much of Kate, + And speaking of her to the women-folk; + Who, mostly, happy in new honeymoons + Of hope themselves, were ready still to hear + The thrice told tale of Katie's sunny eyes + And Katie's yellow hair, and household ways: + And heard so often, "There shall stand our home-- + "On yonder slope, with vines about the door!" + That the good wives were almost made to see + The snowy walls, deep porches, and the gleam + Of Katie's garments flitting through the rooms; + And the black slope all bristling with burn'd stumps + Was known amongst them all as "Max's House." + + * * * * * + + O, Love builds on the azure sea, + And Love builds on the golden sand; + And Love builds on the rose-wing'd cloud, + And sometimes Love builds on the land. + + * * * * * + + O, if Love build on sparkling sea-- + And if Love build on golden strand-- + And if Love build on rosy cloud-- + To Love these are the solid land. + + * * * * * + + O, Love will build his lily walls, + And Love his pearly roof, will rear,-- + On cloud or land, or mist or sea-- + Love's solid land is everywhere! + + * * * * * + + + PART III. + + The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stood + Square shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill, + With many windows looking everywhere; + So that no distant meadow might lie hid, + Nor corn-field hide its gold--nor lowing herd + Browse in far pastures, out of Malcolm's ken. + He lov'd to sit, grim, grey, and somewhat stern, + And thro' the smoke-clouds from his short clay pipe + Look out upon his riches; while his thoughts + Swung back and forth between the bleak, stern past, + And the near future, for his life had come + To that close balance, when, a pendulum, + The memory swings between me "Then" and "Now"; + His seldom speech ran thus two diff'rent ways: + "When I was but a laddie, this I did"; + Or, "Katie, in the Fall I'll see to build + "Such fences or such sheds about the place; + "And next year, please the Lord, another barn." + Katie's gay garden foam'd about the walls, + 'Leagur'd the prim-cut modern sills, and rush'd + Up the stone walls--and broke on the peak'd roof. + And Katie's lawn was like a Poet's sward, + Velvet and sheer and di'monded with dew; + For such as win their wealth most aptly take + Smooth, urban ways and blend them with their own; + And Katie's dainty raiment was as fine + As the smooth, silken petals of the rose; + And her light feet, her nimble mind and voice, + In city schools had learn'd the city's ways, + And grafts upon the healthy, lonely vine + They shone, eternal blossoms 'mid the fruit. + For Katie had her sceptre in her hand + And wielded it right queenly there and here, + In dairy, store-room, kitchen--ev'ry spot + Where women's ways were needed on the place. + And Malcolm took her through his mighty fields, + And taught her lore about the change of crops; + And how to see a handsome furrow plough'd; + And how to choose the cattle for the mart; + And how to know a fair day's work when done; + And where to plant young orchards; for he said, + "God sent a lassie, but I need a son-- + "Bethankit for His mercies all the same." + And Katie, when he said it, thought of Max-- + Who had been gone two winters and two springs, + And sigh'd, and thought, "Would he not be your son?" + But all in silence, for she had too much + Of the firm will of Malcolm in her soul + To think of shaking that deep-rooted rock; + But hop'd the crystal current of his love + For his one child, increasing day by day, + Might fret with silver lip, until it wore + Such channels thro' the rock, that some slight stroke + Of circumstance might crumble down the stone. + The wooer, too, had come, Max prophesied; + Reputed wealthy; with the azure eyes + And Saxon-gilded locks--the fair, clear face, + And stalwart form that most women love. + And with the jewels of some virtues set + On his broad brow. With fires within his soul + He had the wizard skill to fetter down + To that mere pink, poetic, nameless glow, + That need not fright a flake of snow away-- + But if unloos'd, could melt an adverse rock + Marrow'd with iron, frowning in his way. + And Malcolm balanc'd him by day and night; + And with his grey-ey'd shrewdness partly saw + He was not one for Kate; but let him come, + And in chance moments thought: "Well, let it be-- + "They make a bonnie pair--he knows the ways + "Of men and things: can hold the gear I give, + "And, if the lassie wills it, let it be." + And then, upstarting from his midnight sleep, + With hair erect and sweat upon his brow, + Such as no labor e'er had beaded there; + Would cry aloud, wide-staring thro' the dark-- + "Nay, nay; she shall not wed him--rest in peace." + Then fully waking, grimly laugh and say: + "Why did I speak and answer when none spake?" + But still lie staring, wakeful, through the shades; + List'ning to the silence, and beating still + The ball of Alfred's merits to and fro-- + Saying, between the silent arguments: + "But would the mother like it, could she know? + "I would there was a way to ring a lad + "Like silver coin, and so find out the true; + "But Kate shall say him 'Nay' or say him 'Yea' + "At her own will." And Katie said him "Nay," + In all the maiden, speechless, gentle ways + A woman has. But Alfred only laugh'd + To his own soul, and said in his wall'd mind: + "O, Kate, were I a lover, I might feel + "Despair flap o'er my hopes with raven wings; + "Because thy love is giv'n to other love. + "And did I love--unless I gain'd thy love, + "I would disdain the golden hair, sweet lips, + "Air-blown form and true violet eyes; + "Nor crave the beauteous lamp without the flame; + "Which in itself would light a charnel house. + "Unlov'd and loving, I would find the cure + "Of Love's despair in nursing Love's disdain-- + "Disdain of lesser treasure than the whole. + "One cares not much to place against the wheel + "A diamond lacking flame--nor loves to pluck + "A rose with all its perfume cast abroad + "To the bosom of the gale. Not I, in truth! + "If all man's days are three score years and ten, + "He needs must waste them not, but nimbly seize + "The bright consummate blossom that his will + "Calls for most loudly. Gone, long gone the days + "When Love within my soul for ever stretch'd + "Fierce hands of flame, and here and there I found + "A blossom fitted for him--all up-fill'd + "With love as with clear dew--they had their hour + "And burn'd to ashes with him, as he droop'd + "In his own ruby fires. No Phoenix he, + "To rise again because of Katie's eyes, + "On dewy wings, from ashes such as his! + "But now, another Passion bids me forth. + "To crown him with the fairest I can find, + "And makes me lover--not of Katie's face, + "But of her father's riches! O, high fool, + "Who feels the faintest pulsing of a wish + "And fails to feed it into lordly life! + "So that, when stumbling back to Mother Earth, + "His freezing lip may curl in cold disdain + "Of those poor, blighted fools who starward stare + "For that fruition, nipp'd and scanted here. + "And, while the clay, o'ermasters all his blood-- + "And he can feel the dust knit with his flesh-- + "He yet can say to them, 'Be ye content; + "'I tasted perfect fruitage thro' my life, + "'Lighted all lamps of passion, till the oil + "'Fail'd from their wicks; and now, O now, I know + "'There is no Immortality could give + "'Such boon as this--to simply cease to be! + "'_There_ lies your Heaven, O ye dreaming slaves, + "'If ye would only live to make it so; + "'Nor paint upon the blue skies lying shades + "'Of--_what is not_. Wise, wise and strong the man + "'who poisons that fond haunter of the mind, + "'Craving for a hereafter with deep draughts + "'Of wild delights--so fiery, fierce, and strong, + "'That when their dregs are deeply, deeply drain'd, + "'What once was blindly crav'd of purblind Chance, + "'Life, life eternal--throbbing thro' all space + "'Is strongly loath'd--and with his face in dust, + "'Man loves his only Heav'n--six feet of Earth!' + "So, Katie, tho' your blue eyes say me 'Nay,' + "My pangs of love for gold must needs be fed, + "And shall be, Katie, if I know my mind." + Events were winds close nest'ling in the sails + Of Alfred's bark, all blowing him direct + To his wish'd harbour. On a certain day, + All set about with roses and with fire; + One of three days of heat which frequent slip, + Like triple rubies, in between the sweet, + Mild, emerald days of summer, Katie went, + Drawn by a yearning for the ice-pale blooms, + Natant and shining--firing all the bay + With angel fires built up of snow and gold. + She found the bay close pack'd with groaning logs, + Prison'd between great arms of close hing'd wood. + All cut from Malcolm's forests in the west, + And floated hither to his noisy mills; + And all stamp'd with the potent "G." and "M.," + Which much he lov'd to see upon his goods, + The silent courtiers owning him their king. + Out clear beyond the rustling ricebeds sang, + And the cool lilies starr'd the shadow'd wave. + "This is a day for lily-love," said Kate, + While she made bare the lilies of her feet; + And sang a lily song that Max had made, + That spoke of lilies--always meaning Kate. + + * * * * * + + "While Lady of the silver'd lakes, + Chaste Goddess of the sweet, still shrines. + The jocund river fitful makes, + By sudden, deep gloom'd brakes, + Close shelter'd by close weft and woof of vine, + Spilling a shadow gloomy-rich as wine, + Into the silver throne where thou dost sit, + Thy silken leaves all dusky round thee knit! + + * * * * * + + "Mild soul of the unsalted wave! + White bosom holding golden fire + Deep as some ocean-hidden cave + Are fix'd the roots of thy desire, + Thro' limpid currents stealing up, + And rounding to the pearly cup + Thou dost desire, + With all thy trembling heart of sinless fire, + But to be fill'd + With dew distill'd + From clear, fond skies, that in their gloom + Hold, floating high, thy sister moon, + Pale chalice of a sweet perfume, + Whiter-breasted than a dove-- + To thee the dew is--love!" + + * * * * * + + Kate bared her little feet, and pois'd herself + On the first log close grating on the shore; + And with bright eyes of laughter, and wild hair-- + A flying wind of gold--from log to log + Sped, laughing as they wallow'd in her track, + Like brown-scal'd monsters rolling, as her foot + Spurn'd each in turn with its rose-white sole. + A little island, out in middlewave, + With its green shoulder held the great drive brac'd + Between it and the mainland; here it was + The silver lilies drew her with white smiles; + And as she touch'd the last great log of all, + It reel'd, upstarting, like a column brac'd, + A second on the wave--and when it plung'd + Rolling upon the froth and sudden foam, + Katie had vanish'd, and with angry grind + The vast logs roll'd together,--nor a lock + Of drifting yellow hair--an upflung hand, + Told where the rich man's chiefest treasure sank + Under his wooden wealth. But Alfred, laid + With pipe and book upon the shady marge, + Of the cool isle, saw all, and seeing hurl'd + Himself, and hardly knew it, on the logs; + By happy chance a shallow lapp'd the isle + On this green bank; and when his iron arms + Dash'd the bark'd monsters, as frail stems of rice, + A little space apart, the soft, slow tide + But reach'd his chest, and in a flash he saw + Kate's yellow hair, and by it drew her up, + And lifting her aloft, cried out, "O, Kate!" + And once again said, "Katie! is she dead?" + For like the lilies broken by the rough + And sudden riot of the armor'd logs, + Kate lay upon his hands; and now the logs + Clos'd in upon him, nipping his great chest, + Nor could he move to push them off again + For Katie in his arms. "And now," he said, + "If none should come, and any wind arise + "To weld these woody monsters 'gainst the isle, + "I shall be crack'd like any broken twig; + "And as it is, I know not if I die, + "For I am hurt--aye, sorely, sorely hurt!" + Then look'd on Katie's lily face, and said, + "Dead, dead or living? Why, an even chance. + "O lovely bubble on a troubl'd sea, + "I would not thou shoulds't lose thyself again + "In the black ocean whence thy life emerg'd, + "But skyward steal on gales as soft as love, + "And hang in some bright rainbow overhead, + "If only such bright rainbow spann'd the earth." + Then shouted loudly, till the silent air + Rous'd like a frighten'd bird, and on its wings + Caught up his cry and bore it to the farm. + There Malcolm, leaping from his noontide sleep, + Upstarted as at midnight, crying out, + "She shall not wed him--rest you, wife, in peace!' + They found him, Alfred, haggard-ey'd and faint, + But holding Katie ever towards the sun, + Unhurt, and waking in the fervent heat. + And now it came that Alfred being sick + Of his sharp hurts and tended by them both, + With what was like to love, being born of thanks, + Had choice of hours most politic to woo, + And used his deed as one might use the sun, + To ripen unmellow'd fruit; and from the core + Of Katie's gratitude hop'd yet to nurse + A flow'r all to his liking--Katie's love. + But Katie's mind was like the plain, broad shield + Of a table di'mond, nor had a score of sides; + And in its shield, so precious and so plain, + Was cut, thro' all its clear depths--Max's name! + And so she said him "Nay" at last, in words + Of such true sounding silver, that he knew + He might not win her at the present hour, + But smil'd and thought--"I go, and come again! + "Then shall we see. Our three-score years and ten + "Are mines of treasure, if we hew them deep, + "Nor stop too long in choosing out our tools!" + + * * * * * + + + PART IV. + + From his far wigwam sprang the strong North Wind + And rush'd with war-cry down the steep ravines, + And wrestl'd with the giants of the woods; + And with his ice-club beat the swelling crests. + Of the deep watercourses into death, + And with his chill foot froze the whirling leaves + Of dun and gold and fire in icy banks; + And smote the tall reeds to the harden'd earth; + And sent his whistling arrows o'er the plains, + Scatt'ring the ling'ring herds--and sudden paus'd + When he had frozen all the running streams, + And hunted with his war-cry all the things + That breath'd about the woods, or roam'd the bleak + Bare prairies swelling to the mournful sky. + "White squaw," he shouted, troubl'd in his soul, + "I slew the dead, wrestl'd with naked chiefs + "Unplum'd before, scalped of their leafy plumes; + "I bound sick rivers in cold thongs of death, + "And shot my arrows over swooning plains, + "Bright with the Paint of death--and lean and bare. + "And all the braves of my loud tribe will mock + "And point at me--when our great chief, the Sun, + "Relights his Council fire in the moon + "Of Budding Leaves." "Ugh, ugh! he is a brave! + "He fights with squaws and takes the scalps of babes! + "And the least wind will blow his calumet-- + "Fill'd with the breath of smallest flow'rs--across + "The warpaint on my face, and pointing with + "His small, bright pipe, that never moved a spear + "Of bearded rice, cry, 'Ugh! he slays the dead!' + "O, my white squaw, come from thy wigwam grey, + "Spread thy white blanket on the twice-slain dead; + "And hide them, ere the waking of the Sun!" + + * * * * * + + High grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky, + And all was silent in the Wilderness; + In trance of stillness Nature heard her God + Rebuilding her spent fires, and veil'd her face + While the Great Worker brooded o'er His work. + + * * * * * + + "Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, + What doth thy bold voice promise me?" + + * * * * * + + "I promise thee all joyous things, + That furnish forth the lives of kings! + + * * * * * + + "For ev'ry silver ringing blow, + Cities and palaces shall grow!" + + * * * * * + + "Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, + Tell wider prophecies to me." + + * * * * * + + "When rust hath gnaw'd me deep and red; + A nation strong shall lift his head! + + * * * * * + + "His crown the very Heav'ns shall smite, + Aeons shall build him in his might!" + + * * * * * + + "Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree; + Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!" + + * * * * * + + Max smote the snow-weigh'd tree and lightly laugh'd. + "See, friend," he cried to one that look'd and smil'd, + "My axe and I--we do immortal tasks-- + We build up nations--this my axe and I!" + "O," said the other with a cold, short smile, + "Nations are not immortal! is there now + "One nation thron'd upon the sphere of earth, + "That walk'd with the first Gods, and saw + "The budding world unfold its slow-leav'd flow'r? + "Nay; it is hardly theirs to leave behind + "Ruins so eloquent, that the hoary sage + "Can lay his hand upon their stones, and say: + "'These once were thrones!' The lean, lank lion peals + "His midnight thunders over lone, red plains, + "Long-ridg'd and crested on their dusty waves, + "With fires from moons red-hearted as the sun; + "And deep re-thunders all the earth to him. + "For, far beneath the flame-fleck'd, shifting sands, + "Below the roots of palms, and under stones + "Of younger ruins, thrones, tow'rs and cities + "Honeycomb the earth. The high, solemn walls + "Of hoary ruins--their foundings all unknown + "(But to the round-ey'd worlds that walk + "In the blank paths of Space and blanker Chance). + "At whose stones young mountains wonder, and the seas' + "New-silv'ring, deep-set valleys pause and gaze; + "Are rear'd upon old shrines, whose very Gods + "Were dreams to the shrine-builders, of a time + "They caught in far-off flashes--as the child + "Half thinks he can remember how one came + "And took him in her hand and shew'd him that + "He thinks, she call'd the sun. Proud ships rear high + "On ancient billows that have torn the roots + "Of cliffs, and bitten at the golden lips + "Of firm, sleek beaches, till they conquer'd all, + "And sow'd the reeling earth with salted waves. + "Wrecks plunge, prow foremost, down still, solemn slopes, + "And bring their dead crews to as dead a quay; + "Some city built before that ocean grew, + "By silver drops from many a floating cloud, + "By icebergs bellowing in their throes of death, + "By lesser seas toss'd from their rocking cups, + "And leaping each to each; by dew-drops flung + "From painted sprays, whose weird leaves and flow'rs + "Are moulded for new dwellers on the earth, + "Printed in hearts of mountains and of mines. + "Nations immortal? where the well-trimm'd lamps + "Of long-past ages, when Time seem'd to pause + "On smooth, dust-blotted graves that, like the tombs + "Of monarchs, held dead bones and sparkling gems? + "She saw no glimmer on the hideous ring + "Of the black clouds; no stream of sharp, clear light + "From those great torches, pass'd into the black + "Of deep oblivion. She seem'd to watch, but she + "Forgot her long-dead nations. When she stirr'd + "Her vast limbs in the dawn that forc'd its fire + "Up the black East, and saw the imperious red + "Burst over virgin dews and budding flow'rs, + "She still forgot her molder'd thrones and kings, + "Her sages and their torches, and their Gods, + "And said, 'This is my birth--my primal day!' + "She dream'd new Gods, and rear'd them other shrines, + "Planted young nations, smote a feeble flame + "From sunless flint, re-lit the torch of mind; + "Again she hung her cities on the hills, + "Built her rich towers, crown'd her kings again, + "And with the sunlight on her awful wings + "Swept round the flow'ry cestus of the earth, + "And said, 'I build for Immortality!' + "Her vast hand rear'd her tow'rs, her shrines, her thrones; + "The ceaseless sweep of her tremendous wings + "Still beat them down and swept their dust abroad; + "Her iron finger wrote on mountain sides + "Her deeds and prowess--and her own soft plume + "Wore down the hills! Again drew darkly on + "A night of deep forgetfulness; once more + "Time seem'd to pause upon forgotten graves-- + "Once more a young dawn stole into her eyes-- + "Again her broad wings stirr'd, and fresh clear airs, + "Blew the great clouds apart;--again Time said, + "'This is my birth--my deeds and handiwork + "'Shall be immortal.' Thus and so dream on + "Fool'd nations, and thus dream their dullard sons. + "Naught is immortal save immortal--Death!" + Max paus'd and smil'd: "O, preach such gospel, friend, + "To all but lovers who most truly love; + "For _them_, their gold-wrought scripture glibly reads + "All else is mortal but immortal--Love!" + "Fools! fools!" his friend said, "most immortal fools!-- + "But pardon, pardon, for, perchance, you love?" + "Yes," said Max, proudly smiling, "thus do I + "Possess the world and feel eternity!" + Dark laughter blacken'd in the other's eyes: + "Eternity! why, did such Iris arch + "Ent'ring our worm-bored planet, never liv'd + "One woman true enough such tryst to keep!" + "I'd swear by Kate," said Max; "and then, I had + "A mother, and my father swore by her." + "By Kate? Ah, that were lusty oath, indeed! + "Some other man will look into her eyes, + "And swear me roundly, 'By true Catherine!' + "And Troilus swore by Cressed--so they say." + "You never knew my Kate," said Max, and pois'd + His axe again on high, "But let it pass-- + "You are too subtle for me; argument + "Have I none to oppose yours with--but this, + "Get you a Kate, and let her sunny eyes + "Dispel the doubting darkness in your soul." + "And have not I a Kate? pause, friend, and see. + "She gave me this faint shadow of herself + "The day I slipp'd the watch-star of our loves-- + "A ring--upon her hand--she loves me, too; + "Yet tho' her eyes be suns, no Gods are they + "To give me worlds, or make me feel a tide + "Of strong Eternity set towards my soul; + "And tho' she loves me, yet am I content + "To know she loves me by the hour--the year-- + "Perchance the second--as all women love." + The bright axe falter'd in the air, and ripp'd + Down the rough bark, and bit the drifted snow, + For Max's arm fell, wither'd in its strength, + 'Long by his side. "Your Kate," he said; "your Kate!" + "Yes, mine, while holds her mind that way, my Kate; + "I sav'd her life, and had her love for thanks; + "Her father is Malcolm Graem--Max, my friend, + "You pale! what sickness seizes on your soul?" + Max laugh'd, and swung his bright axe high again: + "Stand back a pace--a too far reaching blow + "Might level your false head with yon prone trunk-- + "Stand back and listen while I say, "You lie! + "That is my Katie's face upon your breast, + "But 'tis my Katie's love lives in my breast-- + "Stand back, I say! my axe is heavy, and + "Might chance to cleave a liar's brittle skull. + "Your Kate! your Kate! your Kate!--hark, how the woods + "Mock at your lie with all their woody tongues, + "O, silence, ye false echoes! not his Kate + "But mine--I'm certain I will have your life!" + All the blue heav'n was dead in Max's eyes; + Doubt-wounded lay Kate's image in his heart, + And could not rise to pluck the sharp spear out. + "Well, strike, mad fool," said Alfred, somewhat pale; + "I have no weapon but these naked hands." + "Aye, but," said Max, "you smote my naked heart! + "O shall I slay him?--Satan, answer me-- + "I cannot call on God for answer here. + "O Kate--!" + A voice from God came thro' the silent woods + And answer'd him--for suddenly a wind + Caught the great tree-tops, coned with high-pil'd snow, + And smote them to and fro, while all the air + Was sudden fill'd with busy drifts, and high + White pillars whirl'd amid the naked trunks, + And harsh, loud groans, and smiting, sapless boughs + Made hellish clamour in the quiet place. + With a shrill shriek of tearing fibres, rock'd + The half-hewn tree above his fated head; + And, tott'ring, asked the sudden blast, "Which way?" + And, answ'ring its windy arms, crash'd and broke + Thro' other lacing boughs, with one loud roar + Of woody thunder; all its pointed boughs + Pierc'd the deep snow--its round and mighty corpse, + Bark-flay'd and shudd'ring, quiver'd into death. + And Max--as some frail, wither'd reed, the sharp + And piercing branches caught at him, + As hands in a death-throe, and beat him to the earth-- + And the dead tree upon its slayer lay. + "Yet hear we much of Gods;--if such there be, + "They play at games of chance with thunderbolts," + Said Alfred, "else on me this doom had come. + "This seals my faith in deep and dark unfaith! + "Now Katie, are you mine, for Max is dead-- + "Or will be soon, imprison'd by those boughs, + "Wounded and torn, sooth'd by the deadly palms + "Of the white, trait'rous frost; and buried then + "Under the snows that fill those vast, grey clouds, + "Low-sweeping on the fretted forest roof. + "And Katie shall believe you false--not dead; + "False, false!--And I? O, she shall find me true-- + "True as a fabl'd devil to the soul + "He longs for with the heat of all hell's fires. + "These myths serve well for simile, I see. + "And yet--Down, Pity! knock not at my breast, + "Nor grope about for that dull stone my heart; + "I'll stone thee with it, Pity! Get thee hence, + "Pity, I'll strangle thee with naked hands; + "For thou dost bear upon thy downy breast + "Remorse, shap'd like a serpent, and her fangs + "Might dart at me and pierce my marrow thro'. + "Hence, beggar, hence--and keep with fools, I say! + "He bleeds and groans! Well, Max, thy God or mine + "Blind Chance, here play'd the butcher--'twas not I. + "Down, hands! ye shall not lift his fall'n head; + "What cords tug at ye? What? Ye'd pluck him up + "And staunch his wounds? There rises in my breast + "A strange, strong giant, throwing wide his arms + "And bursting all the granite of my heart! + "How like to quiv'ring flesh a stone may feel! + "Why, it has pangs! I'll none of them. I know + "Life is too short for anguish and for hearts-- + "So I wrestle with thee, giant! and my will + "Turns the thumb, and thou shalt take the knife. + "Well done! I'll turn thee on the arena dust, + "And look on thee--What? thou wert Pity's self, + "Stol'n in my breast; and I have slaughter'd thee-- + "But hist--where hast thou hidden thy fell snake, + "Fire-fang'd Remorse? Not in my breast, I know, + "For all again is chill and empty there, + "And hard and cold--the granite knitted up. + "So lie there, Max--poor fond and simple Max, + "'Tis well thou diest: earth's children should not call + "Such as thee father--let them ever be + "Father'd by rogues and villains, fit to cope + "With the foul dragon Chance, and the black knaves + "Who swarm'd in loathsome masses in the dust. + "True Max, lie there, and slumber into death." + + * * * * * + + + PART V. + + Said the high hill, in the morning: "Look on me-- + "Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold + "The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines + "Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars + "Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon, + "Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast + "Hang the soft purple fringes of the night; + "Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon, + "Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun + "Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands + "On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with + "His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry + "Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights; + "And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest, + "Shrill pipe their angry echoes: "'Sun, arise, + "'And show me that pale dove, beside her nest, + "'Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear + "'With iron talons for my hungry young.'" + And that mild dove, secure for yet a space, + Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neck + To watch dawn's ruby pulsing on her breast, + And see the first bright golden motes slip down + The gnarl'd trunks about her leaf-deep nest, + Nor sees nor fears the eagle on the peak. + + * * * * * + + "Aye, lassie, sing--I'll smoke my pipe the while, + "And let it be a simple, bonnie song, + "Such as an old, plain man can gather in + "His dulling ear, and feel it slipping thro' + "The cold, dark, stony places of his heart." + "Yes, sing, sweet Kate," said Alfred in her ear; + "I often heard you singing in my dreams + "When I was far away the winter past." + So Katie on the moonlit window lean'd, + And in the airy silver of her voice + Sang of the tender, blue "Forget-me-not." + + Could every blossom find a voice, + And sing a strain to me; + I know where I would place my choice, + Which my delight should be. + I would not choose the lily tall, + The rose from musky grot; + But I would still my minstrel call + The blue "Forget-me-not!" + + And I on mossy bank would lie + Of brooklet, ripp'ling clear; + And she of the sweet azure eye, + Close at my list'ning ear, + Should sing into my soul a strain + Might never be forgot-- + So rich with joy, so rich with pain + The blue "Forget-me-not!" + + Ah, ev'ry blossom hath a tale + With silent grace to tell, + From rose that reddens to the gale + To modest heather bell; + But O, the flow'r in ev'ry heart + That finds a sacred spot + To bloom, with azure leaves apart, + Is the "Forget-me-not!" + + Love plucks it from the mosses green + When parting hours are nigh, + And places it loves palms between, + With many an ardent sigh; + And bluely up from grassy graves + In some lov'd churchyard spot, + It glances tenderly and waves, + The dear "Forget-me-not!" + + And with the faint last cadence, stole a glance + At Malcolm's soften'd face--a bird-soft touch + Let flutter on the rugged silver snarls + Of his thick locks, and laid her tender lips + A second on the iron of his hand. + "And did you ever meet," he sudden ask'd, + Of Alfred, sitting pallid in the shade, + "Out by yon unco place, a lad,--a lad + "Nam'd Maxwell Gordon; tall, and straight, and strong; + "About my size, I take it, when a lad?" + And Katie at the sound of Max's name, + First spoken for such space by Malcolm's lips, + Trembl'd and started, and let down her brow, + Hiding its sudden rose on Malcolm's arm. + "Max Gordon? Yes. Was he a friend of yours?" + "No friend of mine, but of the lassie's here-- + "How comes he on? I wager he's a drone, + "And never will put honey in the hive." + "No drone," said Alfred, laughing; "when I left + "He and his axe were quarr'ling with the woods + "And making forests reel--love steels a lover's arm." + O, blush that stole from Katie's swelling heart, + And with its hot rose brought the happy dew + Into her hidden eyes. "Aye, aye! is that the way?" + Said Malcolm smiling. "Who may be his love?" + "In that he is a somewhat simple soul, + "Why, I suppose he loves--" he paused, and Kate + Look'd up with two "forget-me-nots" for eyes, + With eager jewels in their centres set + Of happy, happy tears, and Alfred's heart + Became a closer marble than before. + "--Why I suppose he loves--his lawful wife." + "His wife! his wife!" said Malcolm, in a maze, + And laid his heavy hand on Katie's head; + "Did you play me false, my little lass? + "Speak and I'll pardon! Katie, lassie, what?" + "He has a wife," said Alfred, "lithe and bronz'd, + "An Indian woman, comelier than her kind; + "And on her knee a child with yellow locks, + "And lake-like eyes of mystic Indian brown. + "And so you knew him? He is doing well." + "False, false!" said Katie, lifting up her head. + "O, you know not the Max my father means!" + "He came from yonder farm-house on the slope." + "Some other Max--we speak not of the same." + "He has a red mark on his temple set." + "It matters not--'tis not the Max we know." + "He wears a turquoise ring slung round his neck." + "And many wear them--they are common stones." + "His mother's ring--her name was Helen Wynde." + "And there be many Helens who have sons." + "O Katie, credit me--it is the man." + "O not the man! Why, you have never told + "Us of the true soul that the true Max has; + "The Max we know has such a soul, I know." + "How know you that, my foolish little lass?" + Said Malcolm, a storm of anger bound + Within his heart, like Samson with green withs-- + "Belike it is the false young cur we know!" + "No, no," said Katie, simply, and low-voic'd; + "If he were traitor I must needs be false, + "For long ago love melted our two hearts. + "And time has moulded those two hearts in one, + "And he is true since I am faithful still." + She rose and parted, trembling as she went, + Feeling the following steel of Alfred's eyes, + And with the icy hand of scorn'd mistrust + Searching about the pulses of her heart-- + Feeling for Max's image in her breast. + "To-night she conquers Doubt; to-morrow's noon + "His following soldiers sap the golden wall, + "And I shall enter and possess the fort," + Said Alfred, in his mind. "O Katie, child, + "Wilt thou be Nemesis, with yellow hair, + "To rend my breast? for I do feel a pulse + "Stir when I look into thy pure-barb'd eyes-- + "O, am I breeding that false thing, a heart? + "Making my breast all tender for the fangs + "Of sharp Remorse to plunge their hot fire in. + "I am a certain dullard! Let me feel + "But one faint goad, fine as a needle's point, + "And it shall be the spur in my soul's side + "To urge the madd'ning thing across the jags + "And cliffs of life, into the soft embrace + "Of that cold mistress, who is constant too, + "And never flings her lovers from her arms-- + "Not Death, for she is still a fruitful wife, + "Her spouse the Dead, and their cold marriage yields + "A million children, born of mould'ring flesh-- + "So Death and Flesh live on--immortal they! + "I mean the blank-ey'd queen whose wassail bowl + "Is brimm'd from Lethe, and whose porch is red + "With poppies, as it waits the panting soul-- + "She, she alone is great! No scepter'd slave + "Bowing to blind creative giants, she; + "No forces seize her in their strong, mad hands, + "Nor say, "'Do this--be that!'" Were there a God, + "His only mocker, she, great Nothingness! + "And to her, close of kin, yet lover too, + "Flies this large nothing that we call the soul." + + * * * * * + + "Doth true Love lonely grow? + Ah, no! ah, no! + Ah, were it only so-- + That it alone might show + Its ruddy rose upon its sapful tree, + Then, then in dewy morn, + Joy might his brow adorn + With Love's young rose as fair and glad as he." + + * * * * * + + But with Love's rose doth blow + Ah, woe! ah, woe! + Truth with its leaves of snow, + And Pain and Pity grow + With Love's sweet roses on its sapful tree! + Love's rose buds not alone, + But still, but still doth own + A thousand blossoms cypress-hued to see! + + * * * * * + + + PART VI. + + "Who curseth Sorrow knows her not at all. + Dark matrix she, from which the human soul + Has its last birth; whence, with its misty thews, + Close-knitted in her blackness, issues out; + Strong for immortal toil up such great heights, + As crown o'er crown rise through Eternity, + Without the loud, deep clamour of her wail, + The iron of her hands; the biting brine + Of her black tears; the Soul but lightly built + of indeterminate spirit, like a mist + Would lapse to Chaos in soft, gilded dreams, + As mists fade in the gazing of the sun. + Sorrow, dark mother of the soul, arise! + Be crown'd with spheres where thy bless'd children dwell, + Who, but for thee, were not. No lesser seat + Be thine, thou Helper of the Universe, + Than planet on planet pil'd!--thou instrument, + Close-clasp'd within the great Creative Hand!" + + * * * * * + + The Land had put his ruddy gauntlet on, + Of Harvest gold, to dash in Famine's face. + And like a vintage wain, deep dy'd with juice, + The great moon falter'd up the ripe, blue sky, + Drawn by silver stars--like oxen white + And horn'd with rays of light--Down the rich land + Malcolm's small valleys, fill'd with grain, lip-high, + Lay round a lonely hill that fac'd the moon, + And caught the wine-kiss of its ruddy light. + A cusp'd, dark wood caught in its black embrace + The valleys and the hill, and from its wilds, + Spic'd with dark cedars, cried the Whip-poor-will. + A crane, belated, sail'd across the moon; + On the bright, small, close link'd lakes green islets lay, + Dusk knots of tangl'd vines, or maple boughs, + Or tuft'd cedars, boss'd upon the waves. + The gay, enamell'd children of the swamp + Roll'd a low bass to treble, tinkling notes + Of little streamlets leaping from the woods. + Close to old Malcolm's mills, two wooden jaws + Bit up the water on a sloping floor; + And here, in season, rush'd the great logs down, + To seek the river winding on its way. + In a green sheen, smooth as a Naiad's locks, + The water roll'd between the shudd'ring jaws-- + Then on the river level roar'd and reel'd-- + In ivory-arm'd conflict with itself. + "Look down," said Alfred, "Katie, look and see + "How that but pictures my mad heart to you. + "It tears itself in fighting that mad love + "You swear is hopeless--hopeless--is it so?" + "Ah, yes!" said Katie, "ask me not again." + "But Katie, Max is false; no word has come, + "Nor any sign from him for many months, + "And--he is happy with his Indian wife." + She lifted eyes fair as the fresh grey dawn + with all its dews and promises of sun. + "O, Alfred!--saver of my little life-- + "Look in my eyes and read them honestly." + He laugh'd till all the isles and forests laugh'd. + "O simple child! what may the forest flames + "See in the woodland ponds but their own fires? + "And have you, Katie, neither fears nor doubts?" + She, with the flow'r soft pinkness of her palm + Cover'd her sudden tears, then quickly said: + "Fears--never doubts, for true love never doubts." + Then Alfred paus'd a space, as one who holds + A white doe by the throat and searches for + The blade to slay her. "This your answer still-- + "You doubt not--doubt not this far love of yours, + "Tho' sworn a false young recreant, Kate, by me?" + "He is as true as I am," Katie said; + "And did I seek for stronger simile, + "I could not find such in the universe!" + "And were he dead? what, Katie, were he dead-- + "A handful of brown dust, a flame blown out-- + "What then would love be strongly, true to--Naught?" + "Still, true to love my love would be," she said, + And faintly smiling, pointed to the stars. + "O fool!" said Alfred, stirr'd--as craters rock + "To their own throes--and over his pale lips + Roll'd flaming stone, his molten heart. "Then, fool-- + "Be true to what thou wilt--for he is dead. + "And there have grown this gilded summer past + "Grasses and buds from his unburied flesh. + "I saw him dead. I heard his last, loud cry: + "'O Kate!' ring thro' the woods; in truth I did." + She half-raised up a piteous, pleading hand, + Then fell along the mosses at his feet. + "Now will I show I love you, Kate," he said, + "And give you gift of love; you shall not wake + "To feel the arrow, feather-deep, within + "Your constant heart. For me, I never meant + "To crawl an hour beyond what time I felt + "The strange, fang'd monster that they call Remorse + "Fold found my waken'd heart. The hour has come; + "And as Love grew, the welded folds of steel + "Slipp'd round in horrid zones. In Love's flaming eyes + "Stared its fell eyeballs, and with Hydra head + "It sank hot fangs in breast, and brow and thigh. + "Come, Kate! O Anguish is a simple knave + "Whom hucksters could outwit with small trade lies, + "When thus so easily his smarting thralls, + "May flee his knout! Come, come, my little Kate; + "The black porch with its fringe of poppies waits-- + "A propylaleum hospitably wide. + "No lictors with their fasces at its jaws, + "Its floor as kindly to my fire-vein'd feet + "As to thy silver, lilied, sinless ones. + "O you shall slumber soundly, tho' the white, + "Wild waters pluck the crocus of your hair; + "And scaly spies stare with round, lightless eyes + "At your small face laid on my stony breast. + "Come, Kate! I must not have you wake, dear heart, + "To hear you cry, perchance, on your dead Max." + He turn'd her still, face close upon his breast, + And with his lips upon her soft, ring'd hair, + Leap'd from the bank, low shelving o'er the knot + Of frantic waters at the long slide's foot. + And as the sever'd waters crash'd and smote + Together once again,--within the wave + Stunn'd chamber of his ear there peal'd a cry: + "O Kate! stay, madman; traitor, stay! O Kate!" + + * * * * * + + Max, gaunt as prairie wolves in famine time, + With long drawn sickness, reel'd upon the bank-- + Katie, new-rescu'd, waking in his arms. + On the white riot of the waters gleam'd, + The face of Alfred, calm, with close-seal'd eyes, + And blood red on his temple where it smote + The mossy timbers of the groaning slide. + "O God!" said Max, as Katie's opening eyes + Looked up to his, slow budding to a smile + Of wonder and of bliss, "My Kate, my Kate!" + She saw within his eyes a larger soul + Than that light spirit that before she knew, + And read the meaning of his glance and words. + "Do as you will, my Max. I would not keep + "You back with one light-falling finger-tip!" + And cast herself from his large arms upon + The mosses at his feet, and hid her face + That she might not behold what he would do; + Or lest the terror in her shining eyes + Might bind him to her, and prevent his soul + Work out its greatness; and her long, wet hair + Drew, mass'd, about her ears, to shut the sound + Of the vex'd waters from her anguish'd brain. + Max look'd upon her, turning as he look'd. + A moment came a voice in Katie's soul: + "Arise, be not dismay'd; arise and look; + "If he should perish, 'twill be as a God, + "For he would die to save his enemy." + But answer'd her torn heart: "I cannot look-- + "I cannot look and see him sob and die; + "In those pale, angry arms. O, let me rest + "Blind, blind and deaf until the swift pac'd end. + "My Max! O God--was that his Katie's name?" + Like a pale dove, hawk-hunted, Katie ran, + Her fear's beak in her shoulder; and below, + Where the coil'd waters straighten'd to a stream, + Found Max all bruis'd and bleeding on they bank, + But smiling with man's triumph in his eyes, + When he has on fierce Danger's lion neck + Plac'd his right hand and pluck'd the prey away. + And at his feet lay Alfred, still and while, + A willow's shadow tremb'ling on his face, + "There lies the false, fair devil, O my Kate, + "Who would have parted us, but could not, Kate!" + "But could not, Max," said Katie. "Is he dead?" + But, swift perusing Max's strange, dear face, + Close clasp'd against his breast--forgot him straight + And ev'ry other evil thing upon + The broad green earth. + + * * * * * + + + PART VII + + Again rang out the music of the axe, + And on the slope, as in his happy dreams, + The home of Max with wealth of drooping vines + On the rude walls, and in the trellis'd porch + Sat Katie, smiling o'er the rich, fresh fields; + And by her side sat Malcolm, hale and strong; + Upon his knee a little, smiling child, + Nam'd--Alfred, as the seal of pardon set + Upon the heart of one who sinn'd and woke + to sorrow for his sins--and whom they lov'd + With gracious joyousness--nor kept the dusk + Of his past deeds between their hearts and his. + Malcolm had follow'd with his flocks and herds + When Max and Katie, hand in hand, went out + From his old home; and now, with slow, grave smile + He said to Max, who twisted Katie's hair + About his naked arm, bare from his toil: + "It minds me of old times, this house of yours; + "It stirs my heart to hearken to the axe, + "And hear the windy crash of falling trees; + "Aye, these fresh forests make an old man young." + "Oh, yes!" said Max, with laughter in his eyes; + "And I do truly think that Eden bloom'd + "Deep in the heart of tall, green maple groves, + "With sudden scents of pine from mountain sides + "And prairies with their breasts against the skies. + "And Eve was only little Katie's height." + "Hoot, lad! you speak as ev'ry Adam speaks + "About his bonnie Eve; but what says Kate?" + "O Adam had not Max's soul,' she said; + "And these wild woods and plains are fairer far + "Than Eden's self. O bounteous mothers they! + "Beck'ning pale starvelings with their fresh, green hands, + "And with their ashes mellowing the earth, + "That she may yield her increase willingly. + "I would not change these wild and rocking woods, + "Dotted by little homes of unbark'd trees, + "Where dwell the fleers from the waves of want,-- + "For the smooth sward of selfish Eden bowers, + "Nor--Max for Adam, if I knew my mind!" + + + + + OLD SPENSE. + + You've seen his place, I reckon, friend? + 'Twas rather kind ov tryin'. + The way he made the dollars fly, + Such gimcrack things a-buyin'-- + He spent a big share ov a fortin' + On pesky things that went a snortin' + + And hollerin' over all the fields, + And ploughin' ev'ry furrow; + We sort ov felt discouraged, for + Spense wusn't one to borrow; + An' wus--the old chap wouldn't lend + A cent's wuth to his dearest friend! + + Good land! the neighbours seed to wunst + Them snortin', screamin' notions + Wus jest enough tew drown the yearth + In wrath, like roarin' oceans, + "An' guess'd the Lord would give old Spense + Blue fits for fightin' Pruvidence!" + + Spense wus thet harden'd; when the yearth + Wus like a bak'd pertater; + Instead ov prayin' hard fur rain, + He fetched an irrigator. + "The wicked flourish like green bays!" + Sed folks for comfort in them days. + + I will allow his place was grand + With not a stump upon it, + The loam wus jest as rich an' black + Es school ma'am's velvet bunnit; + But tho' he flourish'd, folks all know'd + What spiritooal ear-marks he show'd. + + Spense had a notion in his mind, + Ef some poor human grapples + With pesky worms thet eat his vines, + An' spile his summer apples, + It don't seem enny kind ov sense + Tew call that "cheekin' Pruvidence!" + + An' ef a chap on Sabbath sees + A thunder cloud a-strayin' + Above his fresh cut clover an' + Gets down tew steddy prayin', + An' tries tew shew the Lord's mistake, + Instead ov tacklin' tew his rake, + + He ain't got enny kind ov show + Tew talk ov chast'ning trials; + When thet thar thunder cloud lets down + It's sixty billion vials; + No! when it looks tew rain on hay, + First take yer rake an' then yer pray! + + Old Spense was one 'ov them thar chaps + Thet in this life of tussle + An' rough-an'-tumble, sort ov set + A mighty store on muscle; + B'liev'd in hustlin' in the crop, + An' prayin' on the last load top! + + An' yet he hed his p'ints--his heart + Wus builded sort ov spacious; + An' solid--ev'ry beam an' plank, + An', Stranger, now, veracious. + A wore-out hoss he never shot, + But turn'd him in the clover lot! + + I've seed up tew the meetin' house; + The winkin' an' the nudgin', + When preacher sed, "No doubt that Dives + Been drefful mean an' grudgin'; + Tew church work seal'd his awful fate + Whar thar ain't no foolin' with the gate!" + + I mind the preacher met old Spense, + Beneath the maples laggin', + The day was hot, an' he'd a pile + Ov 'cetrees in his waggin'; + A sack of flour, a hansum hog, + Sum butter and his terrier dog. + + Preacher, he halted up his hoss, + Ask'd for Miss Spense an' Deely, + Tew limber up his tongue a mite, + And sez right slick an' mealy: + "Brother, I really want tew know + Hev you got religion? Samson, whoa!" + + Old Spense, he bit a noble chaw, + An' sort ov meditated; + Samson he nibbl'd at the grass, + An' preacher smil'd and waited; + Ye'd see it writ upon his face-- + "I've got Spense in a tightsome place!" + + The old man curl'd his whip-lash round + An alto-vic'd muskitter, + Preacher, sort ov triumphant, strok'd + His ornary old critter. + Spense p'ints tew flour, an' hog, an' jar, + Sez he, "I've got religion thar! + + "Them's goin' down tew Spinkses place, + Whar old man Spinks is stayin'; + The bank he dealt at bust last month, + An' folks is mostly sayin': + Him bein' ag'd, an' poor, an' sick, + They'll put him in the poor-house slick! + + "But no, they don't! Not while I own + The name ov Jedediah; + Yer movin'? How's yer gran'ma Green, + An' yer cousin, Ann Maria? + Boss, air they? Yas, sirree, I dar + Tew say, I've got religion thar!" + + Preacher, he in his stirrups riz, + His visage kind ov cheerin'; + An' keerful look'd along the road, + Over sugarbush an' clearin'; + Thar wa'n't a deacon within sight; + Sez he, "My brother, guess you're right." + + "You keep your waggon Zionward, + With that religion on it; + I calculate we'll meet"--jest here + A caliker sun bonnet, + On a sister's head, cum round the Jog, + An' preacher dispars'd like mornin' fog! + + One day a kind ov judgment come, + The lightnin'-rod conductor + Got broke--the fluid struck his aunt, + An' in the root-house chuck'd her. + It laid her up for quite a while, + An' the judgment made the neighbors smile. + + Old Spense he swore a mighty swar, + He didn't mince nor chew it; + For when he spoke, 'most usual, + It had a backbone tew it. + He sed he'd find a healthy plan + Tew square things with the agent man, + + Who'd sold him thet thar useless rod + To put upon his roofin'; + An' ef he found him round the place, + He'd send the scamp a-hoofin'. + "You sort ov understand my sense?" + "Yes, pa,"--said pooty Deely Spense. + + "Yes, pa," sez she, es mild es milk + Tew thet thar strong oration, + An' when a woman acts like _that_-- + It's bin my observation-- + (An' reckin that you'll find it sound) + She means tew turn creation round, + + An' fix the univarse the way + She sort ov feels the notion. + So Deely let the old man rave, + Nor kick'd up no commotion; + Tho' thet cute agent man an' she + Were know'd es steady company. + + He'd chance around when Spense was out, + A feller sort o' airy; + An' poke around free's the wind, + With Deely in the dairy. + (Old Spense hed got a patent churn, + Thet gev the Church a drefful turn). + + I am a married man myself, + More sot on steddy plowin', + An' cuttin' rails, than praisin' gals, + Yet honestly allowin'-- + A man must be main hard tew please + Thet didn't freeze tew Deely's cheese. + + I reckon tho' old Spense hed sign'd + With Satan queer law papers, + He'd fill'd that dairy up chock full + Of them thar patent capers. + Preacher once took fur sermon text-- + "Rebellious patent vats.--What next?" + + I've kind of stray'd from thet thar scare + That cum on Spense--tho', reely, + I'll allus hold it was a shine + Of thet thar pooty Deely: + Thar's them es holds thro' thin an' thick, + 'Twas a friendly visit from Old Nick. + + Es time went on, old Spense he seem'd + More sot on patent capers; + So he went right off tew fetch a thing + He'd read ov in the papers. + 'Twas a moony night in airly June, + The Whip-poor-wills wus all in tune; + + The Katydids wus callin' clar, + The fire bugs was glowin', + The smell ov clover fill'd the air. + Thet day old Spense'd bin mowin'-- + With a mower yellin' drefful screams, + Like them skreeks we hear in nightmare dreams. + + Miss Spense wus in the keepin'-room, + O'erlookin' last yar's cherries; + The Help wus settin' on the bench, + A-hullin' airly berries; + The hir'd man sot on the step, + An' chaw'd, an' watch'd the crickets lep. + + Not one ov them thar folks thet thought + Ov Deely in the dairy: + The Help thought on the hir'd man, + An' he ov Martin's Mary; + Miss Spense she ponder'd thet she'd found + Crush'd sugar'd riz a cent a pound. + + I guess hed you an' I bin thar, + A peepin' thro' the shutter + Ov thet thar dairy, we'd a swore + Old Spense's cheese an' butter + Wus gilded, from the manner thet + Deely she smil'd on pan an' vat. + + The Agent he had chanc'd around, + In evenin's peaceful shadder; + He'd glimps'd Spense an' his tarrier go + Across the new-mown medder-- + To'ard Crampville--so he shew'd his sense, + By slidin' o'er the garden fence, + + An' kind of unassumin' glode, + Beneath the bendin' branches, + Tew the dairy door whar Deely watch'd-- + A-twitterin' an' anxious. + It didn't suit Miss Deely's plan + Her pa should catch that Agent man. + + I kind ov mind them days I went + With Betsy Ann a-sparking'. + Time hed a'drefful sneakin way + Ov passin' without markin' + A single blaze upon a post, + An' walkin' noiseless es a ghost! + + I guess thet Adam found it thus, + Afore he hed to grapple + With thet conundrum Satan rais'd + About the blam'd old apple; + He found Time sort ov smart tew pass + Afore Eve took tew apple sass. + + Thar ain't no changes cum about + Sence them old days in Eden, + Except thet lovers take a spell + Of mighty hearty feedin'. + Now Adam makes his Eve rejice + By orderin' up a lemon ice. + + He ain't got enny kind ov show + To hear the merry pealins' + Of them thar weddin' bells, unless + He kind ov stirs her feelins'-- + By treatin' her tew ginger pop, + An' pilin' peanuts in a-top. + + Thet Agent man know'd how to run + The business real handy; + An' him an' Deely sot an' laugh'd, + An' scrunch'd a pile o' candy; + An' talk'd about the singin' skule-- + An' stars--an' Spense's kickin' mule-- + + An' other elevatin' facts + In Skyence an' in Natur. + An' Time, es I wus sayin', glode + Past, like a champion skater,-- + When--Thunder! round the orchard fence. + Come thet thar tarrier dog an' Spense, + + An' made straight for the dairy door. + Thar's times in most experrence, + We feel how trooly wise 'twould be + To make a rapid clearance; + Nor wait tew practice them thar rules + We larn tew city dancin' skules. + + The Agent es a gen'ral plan + Wus polish'd es the handles + Ov my old plough; an' slick an' smooth + Es Betsey's tallow candles. + But when he see'd old Spense--wal, neow, + He acted homely es a ceow! + + His manners wusn't in the grain, + His wool wus sorter shoddy; + His courage wus a poorish sort, + It hadn't got no body. + An' when he see'd old Spense, he shook + Es ef he'd see'd his gran'ma's spook. + + Deely she wrung her pooty hands, + She felt her heart a-turnin' + Es poor es milk when all the cream + Is taken off fur churnin'. + When all to once her eyes fell pat + Upon old Spense's patent vat! + + The Agent took no sort ov stock + Thet time in etiquettin; + It would hev made a punkin laugh + Tew see his style of gettin'! + In thet thar empty vat he slid, + An' Deely shet the hefty lid. + + Old Spense wus smilin' jest es clar + Es stars in the big "Dipper"; + An' Deely made believe tew hum + "Old Hundred" gay an' chipper, + But thinkin' what a tightsome squeeze + The vat wus fur the Agent's knees. + + Old Spense he sed, "I guess, my gal, + "Ye've been a sort ov dreamin'; + "I see ye haven't set the pans, + "Nor turn'd the mornin's cream in; + "Now ain't ye spry? Now, darn my hat + "Ef the milk's run inter thet thar vat." + + Thar's times one's feelin's swell like bread + In summer-time a-risin', + An' Deely's heart swole in a way + Wus mightily surprising + When Spense gripp'd one ov them thar pans + Ov yaller cream in his big han's! + + The moon glode underneath a cloud, + The breeze sigh'd loud an' airy; + The pans they faintlike glimmer'd on + The white walls ov the dairy. + Deely she trembl'd like an ash, + An' lean'd agin the old churn dash. + + "Tarnation darksome," growl'd old Spense, + Arf liftin' up the cover-- + He turn'd the pan ov cream quite spry + On Deely's Agent lover. + Good sakes alive! a curdlin' skreek + From thet thar Agent man did break! + + All drippin' white he ros'd tew view. + His curly locks a-flowin' + With clotted cream, an' in the dusk, + His eyes with terror glowin'. + He made one spring--'tis certain, reely, + He never sed "Good night" tew Deely. + + Old Spense he riz up from the ground, + An' with a kind ov wonder, + He look'd inter thet patent vat, + An' simply sed, "By thunder"! + Then look'd at Deely hard, and sed, + "The milk will sop clar thro' his hed"! + + Folks look'd right solemn when they heard + The hull ov thet thar story, + An' sed, "It might be plainly seen + Twas clar agin the glory + Of Pruvidence to use a vat + Thet Satan in had boldly sat"! + + They shook their heads when Spense declar'd + 'Twas Deely's beau in hidin'; + They guess'd they know'd a thing or two, + An' wasn't so confidin':-- + 'Twas the "Devourin' Lion" cum + Tew ask old Spense testep down hum! + + Old Spense he kinder spil'd the thing + Fur thet thar congregation, + By holdin' on tew life in spite + Ov Satan's invitation; + An' hurts thar feelin's ev'ry Spring, + Buyin' some pesky patent thing. + + The Agent man slid out next day, + To peddle round young Hyson; + And Deely fur a fortnight thought + Ov drinkin' sum rat pison; + Didn't put no papers in her har; + An' din'd out ov the pickle jar. + + Then at Aunt Hesby's sewin' bee + She met a slick young feller, + With a city partin' tew his har + An' a city umbereller. + He see'd her hum thet night, an' he + Is now her steddy company! + + + + + THE ROMAN ROSE-SELLER + + + Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see + My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries + Drop honey amber, and their petals throw + Rich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrine + Where snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow, + As crimson lips of Love may seek to warm + A sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn. + Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day; + Patricians, buy my royal roses; strew + His way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'd + A tide of musky roses from his bed to do + A wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thou + To-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses, + To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look, + I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems, + The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower; + Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia, + Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yet + It is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smells + Than those death hath not touched. To-day they bear + The shield of Claudius with his spear upon it, + Close upon Caesar's chariot--heap, heap it up + With roses such as these; 'tis true he's dead + And there's the canker! but, Romans, he + Died glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtues + Are these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow. + No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess! + Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and not + A white one, though thy chaste hands attend + On Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour--be it that + Which ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods; + Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth; + Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star upon + The solemn sky which bridges same sad life, + So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pure + As Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek, + And know no quality of love, thou art + A sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love! + I would my roses could but chorus Thee. + No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here-- + I give thee this last blossom: A bee as red + As Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets; + A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'd + Its new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stole + The dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinks + A bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yet + It hath some beauty left! a little scarlet--for + The Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life, + Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I make + My roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beat + In god-like silver bursts of sound; I go + To see great Caesar leading Glory home, + From Campus Martius to the Capitol! + + + + + THE WOOING OF GHEEZIS. + + + The red chief Gheezis, chief of the golden wampum, lay + And watched the west-wind blow adrift the clouds, + With breath all flowery, that from his calumet + Curl'd like to smoke about the mountain tops. + Gheezis look'd from his wigwam, blue as little pools + Drained from the restless mother-wave, that lay + Dreaming in golden hollows of her sands; + And deck'd his yellow locks with feath'ry clouds, + And took his pointed arrows and so stoop'd + And leaning with his red hands on the hills, + Look'd with long glances all along the earth. + "Mudjekeewis, West-Wind, in amongst the forest, + "I see a maid, gold-hued as maize full ripe; her eyes + "Laugh under the dusk boughs like watercourses; + "Her moccasins are wrought with threads of light: her hands + "Are full of blue eggs of the robin, and of buds + "Of lilies, and green spears of rice: O Mudjekeewis, + "Who is the maid, gold-hued as maize full-ripen'd?" + "O sun, O Gheezis, that is Spring, is Segwun--woo her!" + "I cannot, for she hides behind the behmagut-- + "The thick leav'd grape-vine, and there laughs upon me." + "O Gheezis," cried Segwun from behind the grape-vine. + "Thy arms are long but all too short to reach me, + "Thou art in heaven and I upon the earth!" + Gheezis, with long, golden fingers tore the grape-vine, + But Segwun laughed upon him from behind + A maple, shaking little leaves of gold fresh-budded. + "Gheezis, where are thy feet, O sun, O chief?" + "Follow," sigh'd Mudjekeewis, "Gheezis must wed + "With Spring, with Segwun, or all nature die." + The red chief Gheezis swift ran down the hills, + And as he ran the pools and watercourses + Snatch'd at his yellow hair; the thickets caught + Its tendrils on their brambles; and the buds + That Segwun dropp'd, opened as they touched. + His moccasins were flame, his wampum gold; + His plumes were clouds white as the snow, and red + As Sumach in the moon of falling leaves. + He slipp'd beside the maple, Segwun laugh'd. + "O Gheezis, I am hid amid the lily-pads, + "And thou hast no canoe to seek me there; farewell!" + "I see thine eyes, O Segwun, laugh behind the buds; + "The Manitou is love, and gives me love, and love + "Gives all of power." His moccasins wide laid + Red tracks upon the waves: When Segwun leap'd + Gold-red and laughing from the lily-pads, + To flit before him like a fire-fly, she found + The golden arms of Gheezis round her cast, the buds + Burst into flower in her hands, and all the earth + Laughing where Gheezis look'd; and Mudjekeewis, + Heart friend of Gheezis, laugh'd, "Now life is come + "Since Segwun and red Gheezis wed and reign!" + + + + + BABY'S DREAMS. + + + What doth the moon so lily white, + Busily weave this Summer night? + Silver ropes and diamond strands + For Baby's pink and dimpl'd hands; + Cords for her rosy palms to hold, + While she floats, she flies, + To Dream Land set with its shores of gold, + And its buds like stars shaken out of the skies; + Where the trees have tongues and the flowers have lips + To coax, to kiss, + The velvet cheek of the Babe who slips + Thro' the Dream gate up to a land like this. + + What is the mild sea whisp'ring clear + In the rosy shell of Baby's ear? + See! she laughs in her dimpl'd sleep-- + What does she hear from the shining deep? + + * * * * * + + "Thy father comes a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, + Safely comes a-sailing from islands fair and far. + O Baby, bid thy mother cease her tears and bitter wailing + The sailor's wife's his only port, his babe his beacon star!" + + Softly the Wind doth blow, + What say its murmurs low? + What doth it bring + On the wide soft plume of its dewy wing? + "Only scented blisses + Of innocent, sweet kisses, + For such cheeks as this is + Of Baby in her nest. + From all the dreaming flowers, + A nodding in their bowers; + Or bright on leafy towers, + Where the fairy monarchs rest." + "But chiefly I bring, + On my fresh sweet mouth, + Her father's kiss, + As he sails out of the south. + He hitherward blew it at break of day, + I lay it, Babe, on thy tender lip; + I'll steal another and hie away, + And kiss it to him on his wave-rock'd ship." + + I saw a fairy twine + Of star-white Jessamine; + A dainty seat shaped like an airy swing; + With two round yellow stars, + Against the misty bars + Of Night; she nailed it high + In the pansy-purple sky, + With four taps of her little rainbow wing. + To and fro + That swing I'll blow. + + The baby moon in the amethyst sky + Will laugh at us as we float and fly, + And stretch her silver arms and try + To catch the earth-babe swinging by. + + + + + MARY'S TRYST. + + + Young Mary stole along the vale, + To keep her tryst with Ulnor's lord; + A warrior clad in coat of mail + Stood darkling by the brawling ford. + + "O let me pass; O let me pass, + Dark falls the night on hill and lea; + Flies, flies the bright day swift and fast, + From lordly bower and greenwood tree. + The small birds twitter as they fly + To dewy bough and leaf-hid nest; + Dark fold the black clouds on the sky, + And maiden terrors throng my breast!" + + "And thou shalt pass, thou bonnie maid, + If thou wilt only tell to me-- + Why hiest thou forth in lonesome shade; + Where may thy wish'd-for bourne be?" + "O let me by, O let me by, + My granddam dwells by Ulnor's shore; + She strains for me her failing eye-- + Beside her lowly ivied door." + + "I rode by Ulnor's shore at dawn, + I saw no ancient dame and cot; + I saw but startl'd doe and fawn-- + Thy bourne thou yet hast told me not." + "O let me pass--my father lies + Long-stretch'd in coffin and in shroud,-- + Where Ulnor's turrets climb the skies, + Where Ulnor's battlements are proud!" + + "I rode by Ulnor's walls at noon; + I heard no bell for passing sprite; + And saw no henchman straik'd for tomb; + Thou hast not told thy bourne aright." + "O let me pass--a monk doth dwell + In lowly hut by Ulnor's shrine; + I seek the holy friar's cell, + That he may shrive this soul of mine." + + "I rode by Ulnor's shrine this day, + I saw no hut--no friar's cowl; + I heard no holy hermit pray-- + I heard but hooting of the owl!" + "O let me pass--time flies apace-- + And since thou wilt not let me be; + I tryst with chief of Ulnor's race, + Beneath the spreading hawthorn tree!" + + "I rode beside the bonnie thorn, + When this day's sun was sinking low; + I saw a damsel like the morn, + I saw a knight with hound and bow; + The chief was chief of Ulnor's name, + The maid was of a high degree; + I saw him kiss the lovely dame, + I saw him bend the suitor's knee! + + "I saw the fond glance of his eye + To her red cheek red roses bring; + Between them, as my steed flew by, + I saw them break a golden ring." + "O wouldst thou know, thou curious knight, + Where Mary's bourne to-night will be? + Since thou has seen such traitor sight, + Beneath the blooming hawthorn tree." + + Fair shone the yellow of her locks, + Her cheek and bosom's drifted snow; + She leap'd adown the sharp grey rocks, + She sought the sullen pool below. + The knight his iron vizard rais'd, + He caught young Mary to his heart; + She lifted up her head and gaz'd-- + She drew her yellow locks apart. + + * * * * * + + The roses touch'd her lovely face; + The lilies white did faint and flee; + The knight was chief of Ulnor's race,-- + His only true love still was she! + + + + + "IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS SOUL!" + + + Long time one whisper'd in his ear-- + "Give me my strong, pure soul; behold + 'Tis mine to give what men hold dear-- + The treasure of red gold." + + "I bribe thee not with crown and throne, + Pale spectres they of kingly pow'r! + I give thee gold--red gold alone + Can crown a king each hour!" + + He frown'd, perchance he felt a throe, + Gold-hunger gnawing at his heart-- + A passing pang--for, stern and low, + He bade the fiend depart! + + Again there came the voice and said: + "Gold for that soul of thine were shame; + Thine be that thing for which have bled + Both Gods and men,--high Fame. + + "And in long ages yet to sweep + Their gloom and glory on the day; + When mould'ring kings, forgot, shall sleep + In ashes, dust, and clay: + + "Thy name shall, starlike, pulse and burn + On heights most Godlike; and divine, + Immortal bays thy funereal urn + Shall lastingly entwine!" + + He sigh'd; perchance he felt the thrill, + The answ'ring pulse to Fame's high call; + But answer made his steadfast will-- + "I will not be thy thrall!" + + Again there came the voice and cried: + "Dost thou my kingly bribes disdain? + Yet shalt thou barter soul and pride + For things ignobly vain! + + "Two shameless eyes--two false, sweet eyes-- + A sinful brow of sinless white, + Shall hurl, thy soul from high clear skies + To ME, and Stygian night. + + "Beneath the spell of gilded hair, + Thy palms, like sickly weeds, shall die! + God-strong Resolves, a sensuous air + Shall mock and crucify. + + "Go to! my thrall at last thou art! + Ere bud to rounded blossom change; + Thou wilt for wanton lips and heart + Most false, thy soul exchange!" + + + + + THE LAND OF KISSES + + + Where is the Land of Kisses, + Can you tell, tell, tell? + Ah, yes; I know its blisses + Very well! + 'Tis not beneath the swinging + Of the Jessamine, + Where gossip-birds sit singing + In the vine! + + Where is the Land of Kisses, + Do you know, know, know? + Is it such a land as this is? + No, truly no! + Nor is it 'neath the Myrtle, + Where each butterfly + Can brush your lady's kirtle, + Flitting by! + + Where is the Land of Kisses, + Can you say, say, say? + Yes; there a red lip presses + Mine ev'ry day! + But 'tis not where the Pansies + Open purple eyes, + And gossip all their fancies + To the skies! + + I know the Land of Kisses + Passing well, well, well; + Who seeks it often misses-- + Let me tell. + Fly, lover, like a swallow, + Where your lady goes; + You'll find it if you follow, + 'Neath the Rose. + + + + + SAID THE THISTLE-DOWN. + + + "If thou wilt hold my silver hair, + O Lady sweet and bright; + I'll bring thee, maiden darling, where + Thy lover is to-night. + Lay down thy robe of cloth of gold-- + Gold, weigheth heavily, + Thy necklace wound in jewell'd fold, + And hie thee forth with me." + + "O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down, + I've laid my robe aside; + My necklace and my jewell'd crown, + And yet I cannot glide + Along the silver crests of night + With thee, light thing, with thee. + Rain would I try the airy flight, + What sayest thou to me?" + + "If thou wilt hold my silver hair, + O maiden fair and proud; + We'll float upon the purple air + High as yon lilied cloud. + There is a jewel weighs thy heart; + If thou with me wouldst glide + That cold, cold jewel place apart-- + The jewel of thy pride!" + + "O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down + That jewel part I've set; + With golden robe and shining crown + And cannot follow yet! + Fain would I clasp thy silver tress + And float on high with thee; + Yet somewhat me to earth doth press-- + What sayest thou to me? + + "If thou wilt hold my silver hair + O lady, sweet and chaste; + We'll dance upon the sparkling air + And to thy lover haste. + A lily lies upon thy breast + Snow-white as it can be-- + It holds thee strong--sweet, with the rest + Yield lilied chastity." + + "O Thistle-down, false Thistle-down + I've parted Pride and Gold; + Laid past my jewels and my crown-- + My golden robings' fold. + I will not lay my lily past-- + Love's light as vanity + When to the mocking wind is cast + The lily, Chastity." + + + + + BOUCHE-MIGNONNE. + + + Bouche-Mignonne liv'd in the mill; + Past the vineyards shady; + Where the sun shone on a rill + Jewell'd like a lady. + Proud the stream with lily-bud, + Gay with glancing swallow; + Swift its trillion-footed flood, + Winding ways to follow. + Coy and still when flying wheel + Rested from its labour; + Singing when it ground the meal + Gay as lute or tabor. + "Bouche-Mignonne" it called, when, red + In the dawn were glowing, + Eaves and mill-wheel, "leave thy bed, + "Hark to me a-flowing!" + + Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quick + Glossy tresses braided; + Curious sunbeams cluster'd thick + Vines her casement shaded. + Deep with leaves and blossoms white + Of the morning glory, + Shaking all their banners bright + From the mill, eaves hoary. + Swallows turn'd glossy throats, + Timorous, uncertain, + When to hear their matin notes, + Peep'd she thro' her curtain, + Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear, + With its silver laughter-- + Shook the mill from flooring sere + Up to oaken ratter. + "Bouche-Mignonne" it cried "come down! + "Other flowers are stirring; + "Pierre with fingers strong and brown + "Sets the wheel a-birring." + + Bouche-Mignonne her distaff plies + Where the willows shiver, + Round the mossy mill-wheel flies; + Dragon-flies a-quiver-- + Flash a-thwart the lily-beds, + Pierce the dry reed's thicket: + Where the yellow sunlight treads + Chants the friendly cricket. + Butterflies about her skim + (Pouf! their simple fancies!) + In the willow shadows dim + Take her eyes for pansies! + Buzzing comes a velvet bee + Sagely it supposes + Those red lips beneath the tree + Are two crimson roses! + Laughs the mill-stream wise and bright + It is not so simple + Knew it, since she first saw light + Ev'ry blush and dimple! + "Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries + "Pierre as the bee is silly + "Thinks two morning stars thine eyes-- + "And thy neck a lily!" + + Bouche-Mignonne when shadows crept + From the vine-dark hollows; + When the mossy mill-wheel slept + Curv'd the airy swallows. + When the lilies clos'd white lids + Over golden fancies-- + Homeward drove her goats and kids + Bright the gay moon dances. + With her light and silver feet, + On the mill-stream flowing, + Come a thousand perfumes sweet, + Dewy buds are blowing. + Comes an owl and grely flits + Jewell'd ey'd and hooting-- + Past the green tree where she sits + Nightingales are fluting + Soft the wind as rust'ling silk + On a courtly lady, + Tinkles down the flowing milk + Huge and still and shady-- + Stands the mill-wheel resting still. + From its loving labor, + Dances on the tireless rill + Gay as lute or tabor! + "Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries + "Do not blush and tremble; + "If the night has ears and eyes + "I'll for thee disemble! + "Loud and clear and sweet I'll sing + "Oh my far way straying, + "I will hide the whisper'd thing + "Pierre to thee is saying. + "Bouche-Mignonne, good night, good night! + "Ev'ry silver hour + "I will toss my lilies white + "'Gainst thy maiden bower!" + + + + + BESIDE THE SEA. + + + One time he dream'd beside a sea, + That laid a mane of mimic stars; + In fondling quiet on the knee, + Of one tall, pearl'd, cliff--the bars; + Of golden beaches upward swept, + Pine-scented shadows seaward crept. + + The full moon swung her ripen'd sphere + As from a vine; and clouds as small + As vine leaves in the opening year + Kissed the large circle of her ball. + The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees + Thro' vine leaves drift the golden bees. + + He dream'd beside this purple sea, + Low sang its tranced voice, and he-- + He knew not if the wordless strain + Made prophecy of joy or pain; + He only knew far stretch'd that sea, + He knew its name--Eternity! + + A shallop with a rainbow sail, + On the bright pulses of the tide, + Throbb'd airily; a fluting gale + Kiss'd the rich gilding of its side; + By chain of rose and myrtle fast, + A light sail touch'd the slender mast. + + "A flower-bright rainbow thing," he said + To one beside him, "far too frail + "To brave dark storms that lurk ahead, + "To dare sharp talons of the gale. + "Belov'd, thou woulds't not forth with me + "In such a bark on such a sea?" + + "First tell me of its name?" she bent + Her eyes divine and innocent + On his. He raised his hand above + Its prow, and answ'ring swore, "'Tis Love!" + "Now tell," she ask'd, "how is it built, + Of gold or worthless timber gilt?" + + "Of gold," he said. "Whence named?" asked she, + The roses of her lips apart, + She paus'd--a lily by the sea-- + Came his swift answer, "From my heart!" + She laid her light palm in his hand. + "Let loose the shallop from the strand!" + + + + + THE HIDDEN ROOM. + + + I marvel if my heart, + Hath any room apart, + Built secretly its mystic walls within; + With subtly warded key. + Ne'er yielded unto me-- + Where even I have surely never been. + + Ah, surely I know all + The bright and cheerful hall + With the fire ever red upon its hearth; + My friends dwell with me there, + Nor comes the step of Care + To sadden down its music and its mirth. + + Full well I know as mine, + The little cloister'd shrine + No foot but mine alone hath ever trod; + There come the shining wings-- + The face of one who brings + The pray'rs of men before the throne of God. + + And many know full well, + The busy, busy cell, + Where I toil at the work I have to do, + Nor is the portal fast, + Where stand phantoms of the past, + Or grow the bitter plants of darksome rue. + + I know the dainty spot + (Ah, who doth know it not?) + Where pure young Love his lily-cradle made; + And nestled some sweet springs + With lily-spangled wings-- + Forget-me-nots upon his bier I laid. + + Yet marvel I, my soul, + Know I thy very whole, + Or dost thou hide a chamber still from me? + Is it built upon the wall? + Is it spacious? is it small? + Is it God, or man, or I who holds the key? + + + + + FARMER DOWNS CHANGES HIS OPINION OF NATURE. + + + "No," said old Farmer Downs to me, + "I ain't the facts denyin', + That all young folks in love must be, + As birds must be a-flyin'. + Don't go agin sech facts, because + I'm one as re-specks Natur's laws. + + "No, sir! Old Natur knows a thing + Or two, I'm calculatin', + She don't make cat-fish dance and sing, + Or sparrow-hawks go skatin'; + She knows her business ev'ry time, + You bet your last an' lonely dime! + + "I guess, I'm posted pooty fair + On that old gal's capers; + She allers acts upon the square + Spite o' skyentific papers. + (I borrows one most ev'ry week + From Jonses down to "Pincher's Creek.") + + "It sorter freshens up a man + To read the newest notions, + Tho' I don't freeze much tew that thar plan, + About the crops ratotions; + You jest leave Natur do her work, + She'll do it! she ain't one tew shirk! + + "I'm all fur lettin Natur go + The way she's sot on choosin'. + Ain't that the figger of a beau + That's talkin' thar tew Susan? + Down by the orchard snake-fence? Yes. + All right, it's Squire Sims, I guess. + + "He's jest the one I want tew see + Come sparkin'; guess they're lyin', + That say that of old age he be + Most sartinly a-dyin'-- + He's no sech thing! Good sakes alive, + The man is only seventy-five! + + "An' she's sixteen. I'm not the man + Tew act sort of inhuman, + An' meanly spile old Natur's plan + To jine a man and woman + In wedlock's bonds. Sirree, she makes, + This grand old Natur, no mistakes. + + "They're standin' pooty clus; the leaves + Is round 'em like a bower, + The Squire's like the yaller sheaves + An' she's the Corn Flower, + Natur's the binder, allus true, + Tew make one heart of them thar two. + + "Yas--as I was a-sayin', friend, + I'm all for Natur's teachins; + _She_ ain't one in the bitter end + Tew practice over-reachins. + You trust her, and she'll treat you well, + Don't doubt her by the leastest spell. + + "I'm not quite clar but subsoil looks + Jest kinder not quite pious; + I sorter think them farmin' books, + Will in the long run sky us, + Right in the mud; the way they balk + Old Natur with thar darn fool talk! + + "When Susie marries Squire Sims, + I'll lease his upland farm; + I'll get it cheap enough from him-- + Jest see his long right arm + About her waist--looks orful big! + Why, gosh! he's bought a new brown wig! + + "Wal, that's the way old Natur acts + When bald folks go a-sparkin'; + The skyentists can't alter facts + With all their hard work larkin', + A sparkin man _will_ look his best-- + That's Natur--tain't no silly jest! + + "Old Natur, you and me is twins; + I never will git snarly + With you, old gal. Why, darn my shins! + That's only Jonses Charlie. + She's cuddlin' right agin his vest! + Eh? What? "Old Natur knows what's best!" + + "Oh, does she? Wal, p'raps 'tis so; + Jest see the rascal's arm + About her waist! You've got tew go + Young man, right off this farm; + Old Natur knows a pile, no doubt, + But you an' her hed best get out! + + "You, Susie, git right hum. I'm mad + Es enny bilin' crater! + In futur, sick or well or sad + I'll take no stock in Natur. + I'm that disgusted with her capers + I'll run the farm by skyence papers." + + + + + THE BURGOMEISTER'S WELL. + + + A peaceful spot, a little street, + So still between the double roar + Of sea and city that it seemed + A rest in music, set before + Some clashing chords--vibrating yet + With hurried measures fast and sweet; + For so the harsh chords of the town, + And so the ocean's rythmic beat. + + A little street with linden trees + So thickly set, the belfry's face + Was leaf-veiled, while above them pierced, + Four slender spires flamboyant grace. + Old porches carven when the trees, + Were seedlings yellow in the sun + Five hundred years ago that bright + Upon the quaint old city shone. + + A fountain prim, and richly cut + In ruddy granite, carved to tell + How a good burgomeister rear'd + The stone above the people's well. + A sea-horse from his nostrils blew + Two silver threads; a dragon's lip + Dropp'd di'monds, and a giant hand + Held high an urn on finger tip. + + 'Twas there I met my little maid, + There saw her flaxen tresses first; + She filled the cup for one who lean'd + (A soldier, crippl'd and athirst) + Against the basin's carven rim; + Her dear small hand's white loveliness + Was pinkly flush'd, the gay bright drops + Plash'd on her brow and silken dress. + + I took the flagon from her hand, + Too small, dear hand, for such a weight. + From cobweb weft and woof is spun + The tapestry of Life and Fate! + The linden trees had gilded buds, + The dove wheeled high on joyous wing, + When on that darling hand of hers + I slipped the glimmer of a ring. + Ah, golden heart, and golden locks + Ye wove so sweet, so sure a spell! + That quiet day I saw her first + Beside the Burgomeister's Well! + + + + + SAID THE WIND. + + + "Come with me," said the Wind + To the ship within the dock + "Or dost thou fear the shock + Of the ocean-hidden rock, + When tempests strike thee full and leave thee blind; + And low the inky clouds, + Blackly tangle in thy shrouds; + And ev'ry strained cord + Finds a voice and shrills a word, + That word of doom so thunderously upflung + From the tongue + Of every forked wave, + Lamenting o'er a grave + Deep hidden at its base, + Where the dead whom it has slain + Lie in the strict embrace + Of secret weird tendrils; but the pain + Of the ocean's strong remorse + Doth fiercely force + The tale of murder from its bosom out + In a mighty tempest clangour, and its shout + In the threat'ning and lamenting of its swell + Is as the voice of Hell, + Yet all the word it saith + Is 'Death.'" + + "Come with me," sang the Wind, + "Why art thou, love, unkind? + Thou are too fair, O ship, + To kiss the slimy lip + Of the cold and dismal shore; and, prithee, mark, + How chill and dark + Shew the vast and rusty linkings of the chain, + Hoarse grating as with pain, + Which moors thee + And secures thee + From the transports of the soft wind and the main. + Aye! strain thou and pull, + Thy sails are dull + And dim from long close furling on thy spars, + But come thou forth with me, + And full and free, + I'll kiss them, kiss them, kiss them, till they be + White as the Arctic stars, + Or as the salt-white pinions of the gulf!" + + "Come with me," sang the Wind, + "O ship belov'd, and find + How golden-gloss'd and blue + Is the sea. + How thrush-sweet is my voice; how dearly true + I'll keep my nuptial promises to thee. + O mine to guide thy sails + By the kisses of my mouth; + Soft as blow the gales, + On the roses in the south. + O mine to guide thee far + From ruddy coral bar, + From horizon to horizon thou shalt glimmer like a star; + Thou shalt lean upon my breast, + And I shall rest, + And murmur in thy sails, + Such fond tales, + That thy finest cords + Will, syren-like, chant back my mellow words + With such renew'd enchantment unto me + That I shall be, + By my own singing, closer bound to thee!" + + "Come with me," sang the Wind, + "Thou knowest, love, my mind, + No more I'll try to woo thee, + Persuade thee or pursue thee, + For thou art mine; + Since first thy mast, a tall and stately pine + Beneath Norwegian skies, + Sang to my sighs. + Thou, thou wert built for me, + Strong lily of the sea! + Thou cans't not choose, + The calling of my low voice to refuse; + And if Death + Were the sole, sad, wailing burthen of my breath, + Thy timbers at my call, + Would shudder in their thrall, + Thy sails outburst to touch my stormy lip; + Like a giant quick in a grave, + Thy anchor heave, + And close upon my thunder-pulsing breast, O ship, + Thou would'st tremble, nor repine, + That being mine, + Thy spars, + Like long pale lights of falling stars, + Plunged in the Stygian blackness of the sea, + And to billowy ruin cast + Thy tall and taper mast, + Rushed shrieking headlong down to an abyss. + O ship! O love! if Death + Were such sure portion, thou could'st not refuse + But thou would'st choose + As mine to die, and call such choosing bliss; + For thou for me + Wert plann'd from all eternity!" + + + + + THE GHOSTS OF THE TREES. + + + The silver fangs of the mighty axe, + Bit to the blood of our giant boles; + It smote our breasts and smote our backs, + Thunder'd the front-cleared leaves-- + As sped in fire, + The whirl and flame of scarlet leaves + With strong desire + Leaped to the air our captive souls. + + While down our corpses thunder'd, + The air at our strong souls gazed and wondered + And cried to us, "Ye + Are full of all mystery to me! + I saw but thy plumes of leaves, + Thy strong, brown greaves; + The sinewy roots and lusty branches, + And fond and anxious, + I laid my ear and my restless breast + By each pride-high crest; + And softly stole + And listen'd by limb and listen'd by bole, + Nor ever the stir of a soul, + Heard I in ye-- + Great is the mystery!" + + The strong, brown eagle plung'd from his peak, + From the hollow iron of his beak; + The wood pigeon fell; its breast of blue + Cold with sharp death all thro' and thro', + To our ghosts he cried. + "With talons of steel, + I hold the storm; + Where the high peaks reel, + My young lie warm. + In the wind-rock'd spaces of air I bide; + My wings too wide-- + Too angry-strong for the emerald gyves, + Of woodland cell where the meek dove thrives. + And when at the bar, + Of morn I smote with my breast its star, + And under-- + My wings grew purple, the jealous thunder, + With the flame of the skies + Hot in my breast, and red in my eyes; + From peak to peak of sunrise pil'd + That set space glowing, + With flames from air-based crater's blowing-- + I downward swept, beguiled + By the close-set forest gilded and spread + A sea for the lordly tread, + Of a God's wardship-- + I broke its leafy turf with my breast; + My iron lip + I dipp'd in the cool of each whispering crest; + From thy leafy steeps, + I saw in my deeps, + Red coral the flame necked oriole-- + But never the stir of a soul + Heard I in ye-- + Great is the mystery!" + + + From its ferny coasts, + The river gazed at our strong, free ghosts, + And with rocky fingers shed + Apart the silver curls of its head; + Laid its murmuring hands, + On the reedy bands; + And at gaze + Stood in the half-moon's of brown, still bays; + Like gloss'd eyes of stags + Its round pools gaz'd from the rusty flags, + At our ghostly crests + At the bark-shields strong on our phantom breasts; + And its tide + Took lip and tongue and cried. + "I have push'd apart + The mountain's heart; + I have trod the valley down; + With strong hands curled, + Have caught and hurled, + To the earth the high hill's crown! + + My brow I thrust, + Through sultry dust, + That the lean wolf howl'd upon; + I drove my tides, + Between the sides, + Of the bellowing canon. + + From chrystal shoulders, + I hurled my boulders, + On the bridge's iron span. + When I rear'd my head + From its old time bed, + Shook the pale cities of man! + + I have run a course + With the swift, wild horse; + I have thunder'd pace for pace, + With the rushing herds-- + I have caught the beards + Of the swift stars in the race! + + Neither moon nor sun + Could me out-run; + Deep cag'd in my silver bars, + I hurried with me, + To the shouting sea, + Their light and the light of the stars! + + The reeling earth + In furious mirth + With sledges of ice I smote. + I whirled my sword + Where the pale berg roar'd, + I took the ship by the throat! + + With stagnant breath + I called chill Death + My guest to the hot bayou. + I built men's graves, + With strong thew'd waves + That thing that my strength might do. + + I did right well-- + Men cried "From Hell + The might of Thy hand is given!" + By loose rocks stoned + The stout quays groaned, + Sleek sands by my spear were riven. + + O'er shining slides, + On my gloss'd tides, + The brown cribs close woven roll'd; + The stout logs sprung, + Their height among + My loud whirls of white and gold! + + The great raft prest, + My calm, broad breast-- + A dream thro' my shady trance, + The light canoe-- + A spirit flew-- + The pulse of my blue expanse. + + Wing'd swift the ships. + My foaming lips + Made rich with dewy kisses, + All night and morn, + Field's red with corn, + And where the mill-wheel hisses. + + And shivers and sobs, + With lab'ring throbs, + With its whirls my strong palms play'd. + I parted my flags, + For thirsty stags, + On the necks of arches laid. + + To the dry-vined town + My tide roll'd down-- + Dry lips and throats a-quiver, + Rent sky and sod + With shouts "From God + The strength of the mighty river!" + + I, list'ning, heard + The soft-song'd bird; + The beetle about thy boles. + The calling breeze, + In thy crests, O Trees-- + Never the voices of souls!" + + * * * * * + + We, freed souls, of the Trees look'd down + On the river's shining eyes of brown; + And upward smiled + At the tender air and its warrior child, + The iron eagle strong and wild. + + * * * * * + + "No will of ours, + The captive souls of our barky tow'rs; + "His the deed + Who laid in the secret earth the seed; + And with strong hand + Knitted each woody fetter and band. + Never, ye + Ask of the tree, + The "Wherefore" or "Why" the tall trees stand, + Built in their places on the land + Their souls unknit; + With any wisdom or any wit, + The subtle "Why," + Ask ye not of earth or sky-- + But one command it. + + + + + GISLI: THE CHIEFTAIN. + + + To the Goddess Lada prayed + Gisli, holding high his spear + Bound with buds of spring, and laughed + All his heart to Lada's ear. + + Damp his yellow beard with mead, + Loud the harps clang'd thro the day; + With bruised breasts triumphant rode + Gisli's galleys in the bay. + + Bards sang in the banquet hall, + Set in loud verse Gisli's fame, + On their lips the war gods laid + Fire to chaunt their warrior's name. + + To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd, + Buds upon his tall spear's tip; + Laughter in his broad blue eyes, + Laughter on his bearded lip. + + To the Spring-queen Gisli pray'd, + She, with mystic distaff slim, + Spun her hours of love and leaves, + Made the stony headlands dim-- + + Dim and green with tender grass, + Blew on ice-fields with red mouth; + Blew on lovers hearts; and lured + White swans from the blue-arched south. + + To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd, + Groan'd far icebergs tall and blue + As to Lada's distaff slim, + All their ice-locked fires flew. + + To the Love-queen Gisli prayed, + She, with red hands, caught and spun. + Yellow flames from crater lips, + flames from the waking sun. + + To the Love-queen Gisli prayed, + She with loom and beam and spell, + All the subtle fires of earth + Wove, and wove them strong and well. + + To the Spring-queen Gisli prayed, + Low the sun the pale sky trod; + Mute her ruddy hand she raised + Beckon'd back the parting God. + + To the Love-queen Gisli prayed-- + Weft and woof of flame she wove-- + Lada, Goddess of the Spring! + Lada, Goddess strong of Love! + + Sire of the strong chieftain's prayer, + Victory with his pulse of flame; + Mead its mother--loud he laughed, + Calling on great Lada's name. + + "Goddess Lada--Queen of Love! + "Here stand I and quaff to thee-- + "Deck for thee with buds my spear-- + "Give a comely wife to me! + + "Blow not to my arms a flake + "Of crisp snow in maiden guise; + "Mists of pallid hair and tips + "Of long ice-spears in her eyes! + + "When my death-sail skims the foam-- + "Strain my oars on Death's black sea-- + "When my foot the "Glass-Hill" seeks-- + "Such a maid may do for me! + + "Now, O Lada, mate the flesh! + "Mate the fire and flame of life, + "Tho' the soul go still unwed, + "Give the flesh its fitting wife! + + "As the galley runs between, + "Skies with billows closely spun: + "Feeling but the wave that leaps + "Closest to it in the sun." + + "Throbs but to the present kiss + "Of the wild lips of the sea; + "Thus a man joys in his life-- + "Nought of the Beyond knows he! + + "Goddess! here I cast bright buds, + "Spicy pine boughs at thy feet; + "Give the flesh its fitting mate + "Life is strong and life is sweet!" + + To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd-- + Weft and woof of flame she wove: + Lada, Goddess of the Spring-- + Lada, Goddess strong of Love! + + * * * * * + + + PART II. + + From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town, + Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down. + + His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind, + His shade like a dusky God striding behind. + + Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near, + Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear. + + As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky, + The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high. + + In fjords roared the ice below the dumb stroke + Of the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke. + + It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay-- + The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day. + + It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose-- + It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes. + + It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle--grew dull + The cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull. + + "Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli "and drive + "Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive. + + "Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed, + "It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead! + + "Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy breast! + "Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the West. + + "With thy long, hissing oars, beat loud the north sea. + "The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and me. + + "No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the sky, + "Or the brows of the great Gods, bold wind, love I! + + "As Gylfag, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank + "Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-thew'd, lank. + + "Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in its hair, + "Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro' the breast of the air! + + * * * * * + + + PART III. + + The shouting of Gisli, the chieftain, + Rock'd the blue hazes, and cloven + In twain by sharp prow of the west wind, + To north and to south fled the thick mist. + + As in burnish'd walls of Valhalla, + In cleft of the mist stood the chieftain, + And up to the blue shield of Heaven, + Flung the load shaft of his laughter. + + Smote the mist, with shrill spear the swift wind. + Grey shapes fled like ghosts on the Hell way; + Bay'd after their long locks hoarse Gylfag, + Stared at them, triumphant, the eagles. + + To mate and to eaglets, the eagle + Shriek'd, "Gone is my foe of the deep mist, + "Rent by the vast hands of the kind Gods, + "Who knows the knife-pangs of our hunger!" + + Shrill whistled the winds as his dun wings + Strove with it feather by feather; + Loud grated the rock as his talons + Its breast spurned slowly his red eyes. + + Like fires seemed to flame in the swift wind, + At his sides the darts of his hunger-- + At his ears the shriek of his eaglets-- + In his breast the love of the quarry. + + Unfurl'd to the northward and southward + His wings broke the air, and to eastward + His breast gave its iron; and God-ward + Pierc'd the shrill voice of his hunger. + + Bared were his great sides as he laboured + Up the first steep blue of the broad sky; + His gaze on the fields of his freedom, + To the God's spoke the prayers of his gyres. + + Bared were his vast sides as he glided + Black in the sharp blue of the north sky: + Black over the white of the tall cliffs, + Black over the arrow of Gisli. + + * * * * * + + + THE SONG OF THE ARROW. + + What know I, + As I bite the blue veins of the throbbing sky; + To the quarry's breast + Hot from the sides of the sleek smooth nest? + + What know I + Of the will of the tense bow from which I fly? + What the need or jest, + That feathers my flight to its bloody rest. + + What know I + Of the will of the bow that speeds me on high? + What doth the shrill bow + Of the hand on its singing soul-string know? + + Flame-swift speed I-- + And the dove and the eagle shriek out and die; + Whence comes my sharp zest + For the heart of the quarry? the Gods know best. + + Deep pierc'd the red gaze of the eagle-- + The breast of a cygnet below him; + Beneath his dun wing from the eastward + Shrill-chaunted the long shaft of Gisli! + + Beneath his dun wing from the westward + Shook a shaft that laugh'd in its biting-- + Met in the fierce breast of the eagle + The arrows of Gisli and Brynhild! + + * * * * * + + + PART IV: + + A ghost along the Hell-way sped, + The Hell-shoes shod his misty tread; + A phantom hound beside him sped. + + Beneath the spandrils of the Way, + World's roll'd to-night--from night to day; + In space's ocean Suns were spray. + + Group'd world's, eternal eagles, flew; + Swift comets fell like noiseless dew, + Young earths slow budded in the blue. + + The waves of space inscrutable, + With awful pulses rose and fell-- + Silent and godly--terrible. + + Electric souls of strong Suns laid, + Strong hands along the awful shade + That God about His God-work made. + + Ever from all ripe worlds did break, + Men's voices, as when children speak, + Eager and querulous and weak. + + And pierc'd to the All-worker thro' + His will that veil'd Him from the view + "What hast thou done? What dost thou do?" + + And ever from His heart did flow + Majestical, the answer low-- + The benison "Ye shall not know!" + + The wan ghost on the Hell-way sped, + Nor yet Valhalla's lights were shed + Upon the white brow of the Dead. + + Nor sang within his ears the roll + Of trumpets calling to his soul; + Nor shone wide portals of the goal. + + His spear grew heavy on his breast, + Dropp'd, like a star his golden crest; + Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest! + + His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak, + He scal'd the knit mists of a peak, + That ever parted grey and bleak. + + And, as by unseen talons nipp'd, + To deep Abysses slowly slipp'd; + Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripp'd. + + By whirling winds from ashy ring, + Of dank weeds blackly smoldering, + The peak sprang upward a quivering + + And perdurable, set its face + Against the pulsing breast of space + But for a moment to its base. + + Refluent roll'd the crest new sprung, + In clouds with ghastly lightnings stung,-- + Faint thunders to their black feet clung. + + His faithful hound ran at his heel-- + His thighs and breast were bright with steel-- + He saw the awful Hellway reel. + + But far along its bleak peaks rang + A distant trump--its airy clang + Like light through deathly shadows sprang. + + He knew the blast--the voice of love! + Cleft lay the throbbing peak above + Sail'd light, wing'd like a silver dove. + + On strove the toiling ghost, his soul + Stirr'd like strong mead in wassail bowl, + That quivers to the shout of "Skoal!" + + Strode from the mist close-curv'd and cold + As is a writhing dragon's fold; + A warrior with shield of gold. + + A sharp blade glitter'd at his hip, + Flamed like a star his lance's tip; + His bugle sang at bearded lip. + + Beneath his golden sandels flew + Stars from the mist as grass flings dew; + Or red fruit falls from the dark yew. + + As under shelt'ring wreaths of snow + The dark blue north flowers richly blow-- + Beneath long locks of silver glow. + + Clear eyes, that burning on a host + Would win a field at sunset lost, + Ere stars from Odin's hand were toss'd. + + He stretch'd his hand, he bowed his head: + The wan ghost to his bosom sped-- + Dead kiss'd the bearded lips of Dead! + + "What dost thou here, my youngest born? + "Thou--scarce yet fronted with life's storm-- + "Why art thou from the dark earth torn? + + "When high Valhalla puls'd and rang + "With harps that shook as grey bards sang-- + "'Mid the loud joy I heard the clang. + + "Of Death's dark doors--to me alone + "Smote in thy awful dying groan-- + "My soul recall'd its blood and bone. + + "Viewless the cord which draws from far + "To the round sun some mighty star; + "Viewless the strong-knit soul-cords are! + + "I felt thy dying gasp--thy soul + "Towards mine a kindred wave in roll, + "I left the harps--I left the bowl. + + "I sought the Hellway--I--the blest; + "That thou, new death-born son should rest + "Upon the strong rock of my breast. + + "What dost thou here, young, fair and bold? + "Sleek with youth's gloss thy locks of gold; + "Thy years by flow'rs might yet be told! + + "What dost thou at the ghostly goal, + "While yet thy years were to thy soul, + "As mead yet shallow in the bowl?" + + His arm about the pale ghost cast, + The warrior blew a clear, loud blast; + Like frighten'd wolves the mists fled past. + + Grew firm the way; worlds flame to light + The awful peak that thrusts its height, + With swift throbs upward, like a flight. + + Of arrows from a host close set + Long meteors pierc'd its breast of jet-- + Again the trump his strong lips met-- + + And at its blast blew all the day, + In broad winds on the awful Way; + Sun smote at Sun across the grey; + + As reindeer smite the high-pil'd snow + To find the green moss far below-- + They struck the mists thro' which did glow + + Bright vales--and on a sea afar, + Lay at a sunlit harbour bar, + A galley gold-sail'd like a star! + + Spake the pale ghost as onward sped + Heart-press'd to heart the valiant dead; + Soft the green paths beneath their tread. + + "I lov'd, this is my tale, and died-- + The fierce chief hunger'd for my bride-- + The spear of Gisli pierc'd my side! + + "And she--her love fill'd all my need-- + Her vows were sweet and strong as mead; + Look, father--doth my heart still bleed? + + "I built her round with shaft and spear, + I kept her mine for one brief year-- + She laugh'd above my blood stain'd bier! + + "Upon a far and ice-peak'd coast + My galleys by long winds were toss'd-- + There Gisli feasted with his host. + + "Of warriors triumphant--he + Strode out from harps and revelry; + And sped his shaft above the sea! + + "Look, father, doth my heart bleed yet? + His arrow Brynhild's arrow met-- + My gallies anchor'd in their rest. + + "Again their arrows meet--swift lies + That pierc'd me from their smiling eyes; + How fiercely hard a man's heart dies! + + "She false--he false! There came a day + Pierc'd by the fierce chief's spear I lay-- + My ghost rose shrieking from its clay. + + "I saw on Brynhild's golden vest + The shining locks of Gisli rest; + I sought the Hell-way to the Blest. + + "Father, put forth thy hand and tear + Their twin shafts from my heart, all bare + To thee--they rankle death--like there! + + * * * * * + + Said the voice of Evil to the ear of Good, + "Clasp thou my strong, right hand, + "Nor shall our clasp be known or understood + "By any in the land." + + "I, the dark giant, rule strongly on the earth, + "Yet thou, bright one, and I + "Sprang from the one great mystery--at one birth + "We looked upon the sky! + + "I labour at my bleak, my stern toil accurs'd + Of all mankind--nor stay, + To rest, to murmur "I hunger" or "I thirst!" + Nor for my joy delay. + + "My strength pleads strongly with thee; doth any beat + With hammer and with stone + Past tools to use them to his deep defeat-- + To turn them on his throne? + + "Then I of God the mystery--toil thou with me + Brother; but in the sight + Of men who know not, I, the stern son shall be + Of Darkness--Thou of Light!" + + + + + THE SHELL. + + + O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to me + Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea? + I press my ear, O little shell, against thy rosy lips; + Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships? + + What, not a word? Ah hearken, shell, I've shut the cottage door; + There's scarce a sound to drown thy voice, so silent is the moor, + A bell may tinkle far away upon its purple rise; + A bee may buz among the heath--a lavrock cleave the skies. + + But if you only breathe the name I name upon my knees, + Ah, surely I should catch the word above such sounds as these. + And Grannie's needles click no more, the ball of yarn is done, + And she's asleep outside the door where shines the merry sun. + + One night while Grannie slept, I dreamed he came across the moor, + And stood, so handsome, brown and tall, beside the open door: + I thought I turned to pick a rose that by the sill had blown, + (He liked a rose) and when I looked, O shell, I was alone! + + Across the moor there dwells a wife; she spaed my fortune true, + And said I'd plight my troth with one who ware a jacket blue; + That morn before my Grannie woke, just when the lapwing stirred, + I sped across the misty rise and sought the old wife's word. + + With her it was the milking time, and while she milk'd the goat, + I ask'd her then to spae my dream, my heart was in my throat-- + But that was just because the way had been so steep and long, + And not because I had the fear that anything was wrong. + + "Ye'll meet, ye'll meet," was all she said; "Ye'll meet when it is mirk." + I gave her tippence that I meant for Sabbath-day and kirk; + And then I hastened back again; it seemed that never sure + The happy sun delay'd so long to gild the purple moor. + + That's six months back, and every night I sit beside the door, + And while I knit I keep my gaze upon the mirky moor; + I keep old Collie by my side--he's sure to spring and bark, + When Ronald comes across the moor to meet me in the dark. + + I _know_ the old wife spaed me true, for did she not fore-tell + I'd break a ring with Ronald Grey beside the Hidden Well? + It came to pass at shearing-time, before he went to sea + (We're nighbours' bairns) how _could_ she know that Ronald cared + for me. + + So night by night I watch for him--by day I sing and work, + And try to never mind the latch--he's coming in the dark; + Yet as the days and weeks and months go slipping slowly thro', + I wonder if the wise old wife has spaed my fortune true! + + Ah, not a word about his ship? Well, well, I'll lay thee by. + I see a heron from the marsh go sailing in the sky, + The purple moor is like a dream, a star is twinkling clear-- + Perhaps the meeting that she spaed is drawing very near! + + + + + TWO SONGS OF SPAIN. + + + Fountain, cans't thou sing the song + My Juan sang to me + The moonlit orange groves among? + Then list the words from me, + And mark thee, by the morning's light, + Or by the moon's soft beam, + Or when my eyes with smiles are bright, + Or when I wake or dream. + O, Fountain, thou must sing the song + My Juan sang to me; + Yet stay--the only words I know + Are "Inez, Love and Thee!" + + Fountain, on my light guitar + I'll play the strain to thee, + And while I watch yon laughing star, + The words will come to me. + And mark thee, when my heart is sad, + And full of sweet regrets, + Or when it throbs to laughter glad, + Like feet to castanets. + O, Fountain, thou must sing the song + My Juan sang to me; + Yet stay--the only words I know + Are "Inez, Love, and Thee!" + + Fountain, clap thy twinkling hands + Beneath yon floating moon, + And twinkle to the starry bands + That dance upon the gloom, + For I am glad, for who could crave, + The joyous night to fill, + A richer treasure than I have + In Juan's seguedille? + So, Fountain, mark, no other song + Dare ever sing, to me, + Tho' only four short words I know, + Just, "Inez, Love and Thee!" + + * * * * * + + Morello strikes on his guitar, + When over the olives the star + Of eve, like a rose touch'd with gold, + Doth slowly its sweet rays unfold. + Perchance 'tis in some city square, + And the people all follow us there. + Don, donna, slim chulo, padrone, + The very dog runs with his bone; + One half of the square is in the shade, + On the other the red sunset fades; + The fount, as it flings up its jets, + Responds to my brisk castanets; + I wear a red rose at my ear; + And many a whisper I hear: + "If she were a lady, behold, + None other should share my red gold!" + + "St. Anthony save us, what eyes! + How gem-like her little foot flies!" + "These dancers should all be forbid + To dance in the streets of Madrid." + "If I were a monarch I'd own + No other to sit on my throne!" + Two scarlet streamers tie my hair; + They burn like red stars on the air; + My dark eyes flash, my clear cheek burns, + My kirtle eddies in swift turns, + My golden necklet tinkles sweet; + Yes, yes, I love the crowded street! + + + + + THE CITY TREE. + + + I stand within the stony, arid town, + I gaze for ever on the narrow street; + I hear for ever passing up and down, + The ceaseless tramp of feet. + + I know no brotherhood with far-lock'd woods, + Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap; + Where o'er moss'd roots, in cool, green solitudes, + Small silver brooklets lap. + + No em'rald vines creep wistfully to me, + And lay their tender fingers on my bark; + High may I toss my boughs, yet never see + Dawn's first most glorious spark. + + When to and fro my branches wave and sway, + Answ'ring the feeble wind that faintly calls, + They kiss no kindred boughs but touch alway + The stones of climbing walls. + + My heart is never pierc'd with song of bird; + My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest, + Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard, + When wild birds build a nest. + + There never glance the eyes of violets up, + Blue into the deep splendour of my green: + Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup, + My quivering leaves between. + + Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight + Of wood-bine breathings, honey sweet, and warm; + With kin embattl'd rear my glorious height + To greet the coming storm! + + Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains + The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast; + The level, silver lances of great rains, + Blown onward by the blast. + + Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy, + Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves: + Defender of small flowers that trembling lie + Against my barky greaves. + + Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above, + Balanced on wings that could not choose between + The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love, + And my own tender green. + + And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight, + In the close prison of the drooping air: + When sun-vex'd noons are at their fiery height, + My shade is broad, and there + + Come city toilers, who their hour of ease + Weave out to precious seconds as they lie + Pillow'd on horny hands, to hear the breeze + Through my great branches die. + + I see no flowers, but as the children race + With noise and clamour through the dusty street, + I see the bud of many an angel face-- + I hear their merry feet. + + No violets look up, but shy and grave, + The children pause and lift their chrystal eyes + To where my emerald branches call and wave-- + As to the mystic skies. + + + + + LATE LOVED--WELL LOVED. + + + He stood beside her in the dawn + (And she his Dawn and she his Spring), + From her bright palm she fed her fawn, + Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing: + Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast + Shrill silver calls to hound and dove: + Her young locks wove them with the blast. + To the flush'd, azure shrine above, + The light boughs o'er her golden head + Toss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm. + The perfume of their prayer was spread + On the sweet wind in breath of balm. + + "Dawn of my heart," he said, "O child, + Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine: + O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled, + Let fair love leap from mine to thine!" + "The Dawn is young," she smiled and said, + "Too young for Love's dear joy and woe; + Too young to crown her careless head + With his ripe roses. Let me go-- + Unquestion'd for a longer space, + Perchance, when day is at the flood, + In thy true palm I'll gladly place + Love's flower in its rounding bud. + But now the day is all too young, + The Dawn and I are playmates still." + She slipped the blossomed boughs among, + He strode beyond the violet hill. + + Again they stand (Imperial noon + Lays her red sceptre on the earth), + Where golden hangings make a gloom, + And far off lutes sing dreamy mirth. + The peacocks cry to lily cloud, + From the white gloss of balustrade: + Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud, + Tall statues whitely strike the shade, + And pulse in the dim quivering light + Until, most Galatea-wise-- + Each looks from base of malachite + With mystic life in limbs and eyes. + + Her robe, (a golden wave that rose, + And burst, and clung as water clings + To her long curves) about her flows. + Each jewel on her white breast sings + Its silent song of sun and fire. + No wheeling swallows smite the skies + And upward draw the faint desire, + Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes. + In the white kisses of the tips + Of her long fingers lies a rose, + Snow-pale beside her curving lips, + Red by her snowy breast it glows. + + "Noon of my soul," he says, "behold! + The day is ripe, the rose full blown, + Love stands in panoply of gold, + To Jovian height and strength now grown, + No infant he, a king he stands, + And pleads with thee for love again." + "Ah, yes!" she says, "in known lands, + He kings it--lord of subtlest pain; + The moon is full, the rose is fair-- + Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red: + "I know the rose that love should wear, + Must redden as the heart had bled! + The moon is mellow bright, and I + Am happy in its perfect glow. + The slanting sun the rose may dye-- + But for the sweet noon--let me go." + She parted--shimm'ring thro' the shade, + Bent the fair splendour of her head: + "Would the rich noon were past," he said, + Would the pale rose were flush'd to red!" + + Again. The noon is past and night + Binds on his brow the blood red Mars-- + Down dusky vineyards dies the fight, + And blazing hamlets slay the stars. + Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats + Of thunderous cannon burst--and high + Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes: + The flame-dimm'd splendours of the sky. + He, dying, lies beside his blade: + Clear smiling as a warrior blest + With victory smiles, thro' sinister shade + Gleams the White Cross upon her breast. + + "Soul of my soul, or is it night + Or is it dawn or is it day? + I see no more nor dark nor light, + I hear no more the distant fray." + "'Tis Dawn," she whispers: "Dawn at last! + Bright flush'd with love's immortal glow + For me as thee, all earth is past! + Late loved--well loved, now let us go!" + + + + + LA BOUQUETIERE. + + + Buy my roses, citizens,-- + Here are roses golden white, + Like the stars that lovers watch + On a purple summer night. + Here are roses ruddy red, + Here are roses Cupid's pink; + Here are roses like his cheeks-- + Deeper--like his lips, I think. + Vogue la galere! what if they die, + Roses will bloom again--so, buy! + + Here is one--it should be white; + As tho' in a playful mind, + Flora stole the winter snow + From the sleeping north'rn wind + And lest he should wake and rage, + Breath'd a spell of ardent pow'r + On the flake, and flung it down + To the earth, a snow-white flow'r. + Vogue la galere! 'tis stain'd with red? + That only means--a woman's dead! + + Buy my flowers, citizens,-- + Here's a Parma violet; + Ah! why is my white rose red? + 'Tis the blood of a grisette; + She sold her flowers by the quay; + Brown her eyes and fair her hair; + Sixteen summers old, I think-- + With a quaint, Provincial air. + Vogue la galere! she's gone the way + That flesh as well as flow'rs must stray. + + She had a father old and lame; + He wove his baskets by her side; + Well, well! 'twas fair enough to see + Her look of love, his glance of pride; + He wore a beard of shaggy grey, + And clumsy patches on his blouse; + She wore about her neck a cross, + And on her feet great wooden shoes. + Vogue la galere! we have no cross, + Th' Republic says it's gold is dross! + + They had a dog, old, lame, and lean; + He once had been a noble hound; + And day by day he lay and starv'd, + Or gnaw'd some bone that he had found. + They shar'd with him the scanty crust, + That barely foil'd starvation's pain; + He'd wag his feeble tail and turn + To gnaw that polish'd bone again. + Vogue la galere! why don't ye greet + My tale with laughter, prompt and meet? + + No fear! ye'll chorus me with laughs + When draws my long jest to its close-- + And have for life a merry joke, + "The spot of blood upon the rose." + She sold her flow'rs--but what of that? + The child was either good or dense; + She starv'd--for one she would not sell, + Patriots, 'twas her innocence! + Vogue la galere! poor little clod! + Like us, she could not laugh at God. + + A week ago I saw a crowd + Of red-caps; and a Tricoteuse + Call'd as I hurried swiftly past-- + "They've taken little Wooden Shoes!" + Well, so they had. Come, laugh, I say; + Your laugh with mine should come in pat! + For she, the little sad-fac'd child, + Was an accurs'd aristocrat! + Vogue la galere! the Republic's said + Saints, angels, nobles, all are dead. + + "The old man, too!" shriek'd out the crowd; + She turn'd her small white face about; + And ye'd have laugh'd to see the air + With which she fac'd that rabble rout! + I laugh'd, I know--some laughter breeds + A merry moisture in the eye: + My cheeks were wet, to see her hand + Try to push those brawny patriots by. + Vogue la galere! we'll laugh nor weep + When Death, not God, calls _us_ to sleep. + + "Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only I + That noble am--take only me; + I only am his foster-child,-- + He nurs'd me on his knee! + See! he is guiltless of the crime + Of noble birth--and lov'd me not, + Because I claim an old descent, + But that he nurs'd me in his cot!" + Vogue la galere! 'tis well no God + Exists, to look upon this sod! + + "Believe her not!" he shriek'd; "O, no! + I am the father of her life!" + "Poor Jean!" she said; "believe him not, + His mind with dreams is rife. + Farewell, dear Jean!" she said. I laugh'd, + Her air was so sedately grand. + "Thou'st been a faithful servant, so + Thou well may'st kiss my hand." + Vogue la galere! the sun is red-- + And will be, Patriots, when we're dead. + + "Child! my dear child!" he shriek'd; she turn'd + And let the patriots close her round; + He was so lame, he fell behind-- + He and the starving hound. + "Let him go free!" yell'd out the mob; + "Accurs'd be these nobles all! + The, poor old wretch is craz'd it seems; + Blood, Citizens, _will_ pall. + Vogue la galere! We can't buy wine, + So let blood flow--be't thine or mine." + + I ply my trade about the Place; + Where proudly reigns La Guillotine; + I pile my basket up with bloom, + With mosses soft and green. + This morning, not an hour ago, + I stood beside a Tricoteuse; + And saw the little fair head fall + Off the little Wooden Shoes. + Vogue la galere! By Sanson's told, + Into his basket, dross and gold. + + She died alone. A woman drew + As close beside her as she might; + And in that woman's basket lay + A rose all snowy white. + But sixteen summers old--a child + As one might say--to die alone; + Ah, well--it is the only way + These nobles can atone! + Vogue la galere! here is my jest-- + My white rose redden'd from her breast! + + Buy my roses, Citizens! + Here's a vi'let--here's a pink-- + Deeper tint than Cupid's cheek; + Deeper than his lips, I think. + Flora's nymphs on rosy feet + Ne'er o'er brighter blossoms sprang! + Ne'er a songster sweeter blooms, + In his sweetest rhyming sang! + Vogue la galere! Roses must die-- + Roses will grow again--so, buy! + + + + + CURTIUS. + + + How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how? + Methought, while on the shadow'd terraces + I walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came, + Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry. + "O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said; + And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord, + Gen'ral to ev'ry soul." And then my heart + (I being here alone) beat strangely loud; + Responsive to the cry--and my still soul, + Inform'd me thus: "Not such a harmony + Could spring from aught within the souls of men, + But that which is most common to all souls. + Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile, + To tell thee as I listen'd to the cry, + How on the silver flax which blew about + The ivory distaff in my languid hand, + I found large tears; such big and rounded drops + As gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs, + And I was sudden anger'd, for I thought: + "Why should a gen'ral wail come home to me + With such vibration in my trembling heart, + That such great tears should rise and overflow?" + Then shook them on the marble where I pac'd; + Where instantly they vanished in the sun, + As di'monds fade in flames, 'twas foolish, Curtius! + And then methought how strange and lone it seem'd, + For till thou cam'st I seem'd to be alone, + On the vin'd terrace, prison'd in the gold + Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole + Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps + To take my alms and bless the Gods and me; + No orphans touched the fringes of my robe + With innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the gold + I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke + The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose + Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek. + Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets + To catch first tidings from the Oracles. + The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades, + Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and high + A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky, + And kept my doves from cooing at my feet. + My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds, + Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath'd + Around it as I sang--but with that wail + Dying across the vines and purple slopes, + And breaking on its strings, I did not care + To waken music, nor in truth could force + My voice or fingers to it, so I stray'd + Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall, + And pleased myself by filling it with thee! + 'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome, + Say all the armourers; all Rome and I + Know _thee_, the lordliest bearer of a sword. + Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost + From out the helmet, and a ruby gone + From the short sword hilt--trifles both which can + Be righted by to-morrow's noon--"to-morrow's noon!" + Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice + When spake I those three words: "to-morrow's noon?" + O, I am full of dreams--methought there was. + "Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine! + If lov'd I dismal thoughts I well could deem + Thou saw'st not the blue of my fond eyes, + But looked between the lips of that dread pit-- + O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the air + With chills of death--we'll not speak of it, Curtius. + When I had dimm'd thy shield with kissing it, + I went between the olives to the stalls; + White Audax neigh'd out to me as I came, + As I had been Hippona to his eyes; + New dazzling from the one, small, mystic cloud + That like a silver chariot floated low + In the ripe blue of noon, and seem'd to pause, + Stay'd by the hilly round of yon aged tree. + He stretch'd the ivory arch of his vast neck, + Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor + With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth; + Shook the long silver of his burnish'd mane, + Until the sunbeams smote it into light, + Such as a comet trails across the sky. + I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous fires + Leap from his eyes. I do truly think + That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees + Against his sides--the bridle in his jaws + In thy lov'd hand, to pleasure thee he'd spring + Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast + Of Death and Chaos--of Death and Chaos!-- + What omens seem to strike my soul to-day? + What is there in this blossom hour should knit + An omen in with ev'ry simple word? + Should make yon willows with their hanging locks + Dusk sybils, mutt'ring sorrows to the air? + The roses clamb'ring round yon marble Pan, + Wave like red banners floating o'er the dead? + The dead--there 'tis again. My Curtius, come + And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles + And what sent hither that long cry of woe. + Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear. + While on thy charger's throbbing neck I lean'd, + Romeward there pass'd across the violet slopes, + Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides, + And horns as cusp'd and white as Dian's bow, + And lordly breasts which laid the honey'd thyme + Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees + Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose, + For the great temple they; and as they pass'd + With quiet gait, I heard their drivers say: + The bulls were for the Altars, when should come + Word from the Oracles, as to the Pit, + O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see + How black and fearful is its glutton throat; + I will not look! + O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men + Wav'd their long goads, still juicy from the vine, + And plum'd with bronzy leaves, and each to each, + Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides, + The mighty curving of the lordly breasts, + The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads, + And laugh'd and said, "The Gods will have it thus, + The choicest of the earth for sacrifice; + Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!" + Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words, + To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill'd, + As Daphne's leaves, thrill to a wind so soft, + One might not feel it on the open palm; + I cannot choose but laugh--for what have I + To do with altars and with sacrifice? + + + + + THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER CHERRY. + + + The Farmer quit what he was at, + The bee-hive he was smokin': + He tilted back his old straw hat-- + Says he, "Young man, you're jokin'! + O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,) + Ain't ye a cheeky sinner? + Come, if I give my gal thar, + Where would _you_ find her dinner? + + "Now look at _me_; I settl'd down + When I was one and twenty, + Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown, + And stony land a plenty. + Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine, + And look at them thar cattle: + I tell ye since that early time + I've fit a tidy battle. + + "It kinder wrestles down a man + To fight the stuns and mire: + But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar plan + Of David and Goliar. + Want was the mean old Philistine + That strutted round the clearin', + Of pebbles I'd a hansum line, + And flung 'em nothin' fearin'. + + "They hit him square, right whar they ought, + Them times I _had_ an arm! + I lick'd the giant and I bought + A hundred acre farm. + My gal was born about them days, + I was mowin' in the medder; + When some one comes along and says-- + "The wife's gone thro' the shadder!" + + "Times thought it was God's will she went-- + Times thought she work'd too slavin'-- + And for the young one that was sent, + I took to steady savin'. + Jest cast your eye on that thar hill + The sugar bush just tetches, + And round by Miller Jackson's mill, + All round the farm stretches. + + "'Ain't got a mind to give that land + To any snip-snap feller + That don't know loam from mud or sand, + Or if corn's blue or yaller. + I've got a mind to keep her yet-- + Last Fall her cheese and butter + Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget + Her pretty pride and flutter. + + "Why, you be off! her little face + For me's the only summer; + Her gone, 'twould be a queer, old place, + The Lord smile down upon her! + All goes with her, the house and lot-- + You'd like to get 'em, very! + I'll give 'em when this maple bears + A bouncin' ripe-red cherry!" + + The Farmer fixed his hat and specks + And pursed his lips together, + The maple wav'd above his head, + Each gold and scarlet feather: + The Teacher's Honest heart sank down: + How could his soul be merry? + He knew--though teaching in a town, + No maple bears a cherry. + + Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, + Like Saul to David's singing, + Nodded its jewelled crown, as he + Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing; + A something rosy--not a leaf + Stirs up amid the branches; + A miracle _may_ send relief + To lovers fond and anxious! + + O rosy is the velvet cheek + Of one 'mid red leaves sitting! + The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek + With the needles in her knitting. + "O Pa!" The Farmer prick'd his ears, + Whence came that voice so merry? + (The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears) + "The maple bears a cherry!" + + The Farmer tilted back his hat: + "Well, gal--as I'm a human, + I'll always hold as doctrine that + Thar's nothin' beats a woman! + When crown'd that maple is with snow, + And Christmas bells are merry, + I'll let you have her, Jack--that's so! + Be sure you're good to Cherry!" + + + + + SOME OF FARMER STEBBIN'S OPINIONS. + + + No, Parson, 'tain't been in my style, + (Nor none ov my relations) + Tew dig about the gnarly roots + Ov prophetic spekkleations, + Tew see what Malachai meant; + Or Solomon was hintin'; + Or reound what jog o' Futur's road + Isaiah was a-squintin'. + + I've lost my rest a-keepin' out + The hogs from our cowcumbers; + But never lost a wink, you bet, + By wrastlin' over Numbers. + I never took no comfort when + The year was bald with losses, + A-spekkleatin' on them chaps + That rode them varus hosses. + + It never gave my soul a boost + When grief an' it was matin', + Tew figger out that that thar Pope + Wus reely twins with Satan. + I took no stock in countin' up + How menny hed ov cattle + From Egypt's ranches Moses drove; + I never fit a battle + On p'ints that frequently gave rise + Tew pious spat an' grumble, + An' makes the brethren clinch an' yell + In spiritooal rough-an'-tumble. + + I never bet on Paul agin + The argyments ov Peter, + I never made the good old Book + A kind ov moral teeter; + Tew pass a choreless hour away, + An' get the evenin' over; + I swallered it jest as it stood, + From cover clar tew cover. + + Hain't had no time tew disputate, + Except with axe an' arm, + With stump an' rampike and with stuns, + Upon my half clar'd farm. + An' when sech argyments as them-- + Fill six days out ov seven; + A man on Sabbath wants tew crawl + By quiet ways tew heaven. + + Again he gets the waggon out, + An' hitches up the sorrels, + An' rides ten miles tew meetin', he + Ain't braced for pious quarrels: + No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rolls + From corduroy to puddle, + An' that thar farmer gets his brains + Inter an easy muddle. + + His back is stiff from six days' toil-- + So God takes hold an' preaches, + In boughs ov rustlin' maple an' + In whisperin' leaves ov beeches: + Sez He tew that thar farmin' chap + (Likewise tew the old woman), + "I guess I'm built tew comprehend + That you an' her be's human!" + + "So jest take hold on this har day, + Recowperate yer muscle; + Let up a mite this day on toil, + 'Taint made for holy bustle. + Let them old sorrels jog along, + With mighty slack-like traces; + Half dreamin', es my sunbeams fleck + Their venerable faces. + + "I guess they did their share, ov work, + Since Monday's dew was hoary; + Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trot + Upon the road tew Glory! + Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thick + My lily-buds air blowin': + An' whar My trees cast shadders on + My silver creeklet flowin'. + + "An' while their red, rough tongues push back + The stems ov reed an' lily, + Jest let 'em dream ov them thar days + When they was colt an' filly, + An' spekkleate, es fetlock deep + They eye my cool creek flowin', + On whar I loosed it from My hand, + Where be its crisp waves goin'. + An' how in snow-white lily cup + I built them yaller fires, + An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle up + Agin the waggon tires. + + "An' throw a forrard eye along + Where that bush roadway passes, + A-spekkleating on the chance-- + Ov nibbling road-side grasses. + Jest let them lines rest on thar necks-- + Restrain yer moral twitters-- + An' paste this note inside yer hat-- + I talk tew all My critters! + + "Be they on four legs or on two, + In broadcloth, scales or feathers, + No matter what may be the length + Ov all their mental tethers: + In ways mayn't suit the minds ov them + That thinks themselves thar betters. + I talk tew them in simple style, + In words ov just three letters,-- + Spell'd out in lily-blow an' reed, + In soft winds on them blowin', + In juicy grass by wayside streams, + In coolin' waters flowin'. + + "An' so jest let them sorrels laze + My ripplin' silver creek in; + They're listenin' in thar own dumb way, + An' I--Myself--am speakin'; + Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soul + In no sort ov dejection; + You'll get tew meetin' quick enough, + In time for the--collection." + + + + + THE DEACON AND HIS DAUGHTER. + + + He saved his soul and saved his pork, + With old time preservation; + He did not hold with creosote, + Or new plans of salvation; + He said that "Works would show the man," + "The smoke-house tell upon the ham!" + + He didn't, when he sunk a well, + Inspect the stuns and gravel; + To prove that Moses was a dunce, + Unfit for furrin travel; + He marvell'd at them works of God-- + An' broke 'em up to mend the road! + + And when the Circus come around, + He hitch'd his sleek old horses; + And in his rattling wagon took + His dimpl'd household forces-- + The boys to wonder at the Clown, + And think his fate Life's highest crown. + + He wondered at the zebras wild, + Nor knew 'em painted donkeys; + An' when he gave the boys a dime + For cakes to feed the monkeys, + He never thought, in any shape, + He had descended from an ape! + + And when he saw some shallow-pate, + With smallest brain possession, + He uttered no filosofy + On Nature's retrogression. + To ancient types, by Darwin's rule, + He simply said, "Wal, darn a fool." + + He never had an enemy, + But once a year to meetin', + When he and Deacon Maybee fought + On questions of free seatin'; + Or which should be the one t' rebuke + Pastor for kissin' sister Luke. + + His farm was well enough, but stones + Kind of stern, ruthless facts is; + An' he jest made out to save a mite, + An' pay his righteous taxes, + An' mebbe tote some flour an' pork + To poor old critters past their work. + + But on the neatest thing he hed + Around the place or dwellin', + I guess he never paid a red + Of taxes. No mush melon + Was rounder, sweeter, pinker than + The old Man's daughter, Minta Ann. + + I've been at Philadelfy's show + An' other similar fusses, + An' seen a mighty sight of stone, + Minarveys and Venusses; + An' Sikeys clad in flowers an' wings, + But not much show of factory things. + + I've seen the hull entire crowd + Of Jove's female relations, + An' I feel to make a solemn swear + On them thar "Lamentations," + That as a sort of general plan + I'd rather spark with Minta Ann! + + You'd ought to see her dimpled chin, + With one red freckle on it, + Her brown eyes glancing underneath + Her tilted shaker bonnet. + I vow, I often did desire, + They'd set the plaguey thing a-fire! + + You'd ought to hear that gal sing + On Sabbath, up to meetin', + You'd kind of feel high lifted up, + Your soul for Heaven fleetin'. + And then--came supper, down she'd tie + You to this earth with pumpkin pie! + + I tell you, stranger, 'twas a sight + For poetry and speeches, + To see her sittin' on the stoop, + A-peelin' scarlet peaches, + Inter the kettle at her feet,-- + I tell you, 'twas a show complete! + + Drip, droppin' thro' the rustlin' vine, + The sunbeams came a flittin'; + An' sort of danced upon the floor, + Chas'd by the tabby kitten; + Losh! to see the critter's big surprise, + When them beams slipped into Minta's eyes! + + An' down her brow her pretty hair + Cum curlin', crinklin', creepin', + In leetle, yaller mites of rings, + Inter them bright eyes, peepin', + Es run the tendrils of the vine, + To whar the merry sunbeams shine. + + But losh! her smile was dreadful shy, + An' kept her white lids under; + Jest as when darkens up the sky + An' growls away the thunder; + Them skeery speckled trout will hide + Beneath them white pond lilies' pride! + + An' then her heart, 'twas made clar through + Of Californy metal, + Chock full of things es sugar sweet + Es a presarvin' kettle. + The beaux went crazed fur menny a mile + When I got thet kettle on the bile. + + The good old deacon's gone to whar + Thar ain't no wild contentions + On Buildin' Funds' Committees and + No taxes nor exemptions. + Yet still I sort of feel he preaches, + And Minta Ann preserves my peaches. + + + + + SAID THE SKYLARK. + + + "O soft, small cloud, the dim, sweet dawn adorning, + Swan-like a-sailing on its tender grey; + Why dost thou, dost thou float, + So high, the wing'd, wild note + Of silver lamentation from my dark and pulsing throat + May never reach thee, + Tho' every note beseech thee + To bend thy white wings downward thro' the smiling of the morning, + And by the black wires of my prison lightly stray? + + "O dear, small cloud, when all blue morn is ringing + With sweet notes piped from other throats than mine; + If those glad singers please + The tall and nodding trees-- + If to them dance the pennants of the swaying columbine, + If to their songs are set + The dance of daffodil and trembling violet-- + Will they pursue thee + With tireless wings as free and bold as thine? + Will they woo thee + With love throbs in the music of their singing? + Ah, nay! fair Cloud, ah, nay! + Their hearts and wings will stay + With yellow bud of primrose and soft blush of the May; + Their songs will thrill and die, + Tranc'd in the perfume of the rose's breast. + While I must see thee fly + With white, broad, lonely pinions down the sky. + + "O fair, small cloud, unheeding o'er me straying, + Jewell'd with topaz light of fading stars; + Thy downy edges red + As the great eagle of the Dawn sails high + And sets his fire-bright head + And wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast; + And thou canst blush while I + Must pierce myself with song and die + On the bald sod behind my prison bars; + Nor feel upon my crest + Thy soft, sunn'd touches delicately playing! + + "O fair, small cloud, grown small as lily flow'r! + Even while I smite the bars to see thee fade; + The wind shall bring thee + The strain I sing thee-- + I, in wired prison stay'd, + Worse than the breathless primrose glade. + That in my morn, + I shrilly sang to scorn; + I'll burst my heart up to thee in this hour! + + "O fair, small cloud, float nearer yet and hear me! + A prison'd lark once lov'd a snowy cloud, + Nor did the Day + With sapphire lips, and kiss + Of summery bliss, + Draw all her soul away; + Vainly the fervent East + Deck'd her with roses for their bridal feast; + She would not rest + In his red arms, but slipp'd adown the air + And wan and fair, + Her light foot touch'd a purple mountain crest, + And touching, turn'd + Into swift rain, that like to jewels burn'd; + In the great, wondering azure of the sky; + And while a rainbow spread + Its mighty arms above, she, singing, fled + To the lone-feather'd slave, + In his sad weird grave, + Whose heart upon his silver song had sped + To her in days of old, + In dawns of gold, + And murmuring to him, said: + "O love, I come! O love, I come to cheer thee-- + Love, to be near thee!"" + + + + + WAR. + + + Shake, shake the earth with giant tread, + Thou red-maned Titian bold; + For every step a man lies dead, + A cottage hearth is cold. + Take up the babes with mailed hands, + Transfix them with thy spears, + Spare not the chaste young virgin-bands, + Tho' blood may be their tears. + + Beat down the corn, tear up the vine, + The waters turn to blood; + And if the wretch for bread doth whine, + Give him his kin for food. + Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth, + They make so rich a mould, + Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth-- + They'll turn to yellow gold. + + On with thy thunders, shot and shell, + Send screaming, featly hurl'd; + Science has made them in her cell, + To _civilize_ the world. + Not, not alone where Christian men + Pant in the well-arm'd strife; + But seek the jungle-throttled glen-- + The savage has a life. + + He has a soul--so priests will say-- + Go! save it with thy sword; + Thro' his rank forests force thy way, + Thy war cry, "For the Lord!" + Rip up his mines, and from his strands + Wash out the gold with blood-- + Religion raises blessing hands, + "War's evil worketh good!" + + When striding o'er the conquer'd land, + Silence thy rolling drum, + And led by white-robed choiring bands + With loud _"Te Deum"_ come. + Seek the grim chancel, on its wall + Thy blood-stiff banner hang; + They lie who say thy blood is gall. + Thy tooth the serpent's fang. + + See! the white Christ is lifted high, + Thy conqu'ring sword to bless; + Smiles the pure monarch of the sky-- + _Thy_ king can do no less. + Drink deep with him the festal wine, + Drink with him drop for drop; + If, like the sun, his throne doth shine, + _Thou_ art that throne's prop. + + If spectres wait upon the bowl, + Thou needs not be afraid, + Grin hell-hounds for thy bold black soul, + His purple be thy shade. + Go! feast with Commerce, be her spouse; + She loves thee, thou art hers-- + For thee she decks her board and house. + Then how may others curse + + If she, mild-seeming matron, leans + Upon thine iron neck, + And leaves with thee her household scenes + To follow at thy beck-- + Bastard in brotherhood of kings, + Their blood runs in thy veins, + For them the crowns, the sword that swings, + For thee to hew their chains. + + For thee the rending of the prey-- + They, jackals to the lion, + Tread after in the gory way + Trod by the mightier scion. + O slave! that slayest other slaves, + O'er vassals crowned, a king! + War, build high thy throne with graves, + High as the vulture's wing! + + + + + THE SWORD. + + + THE FORGING OF THE SWORD. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + The mountain roots were stirr'd, + Like the heart-beats of a bird; + Like flax the tall trees wav'd, + So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + So loud the hammers fell, + The thrice seal'd gates of Hell, + Burst wide their glowing jaws; + Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + Kind mother Earth was rent, + Like an Arab's dusky tent, + And monster-like she fed-- + On her children; at the forging of the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + So loud the blows they gave, + Up sprang the panting wave; + And blind and furious slew, + Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + The startled air swift whirl'd + The red flames round the world, + From the Anvil where was smitten, + The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + The Maid and Matron fled, + And hid them with the dead; + Fierce prophets sang their doom, + More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword. + + At the forging of the Sword-- + Swift leap'd the quiet hearts, + In the meadows and the marts; + The tides of men were drawn, + By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword! + + * * * * * + + Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword; + On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; + In such red flames thy metal fused! + From such deep hells that metal brought; + O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, + But dumbly rul'st, king and lord! + + Less than the Gods by some small span, + Slim sword, how great thy lieges be! + Glint but in _one_ wild camp-fire's light, + Thy God-like vassals rush to thee. + O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, + But dumbly rul'st, king and lord! + + Sharp, God, how vast thy altars be! + Green vallies, sacrificial cups, + Flow with the purple lees of blood; + Its smoke is round the mountain tops. + O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, + But dumbly rul'st, king and lord! + + O amorous God, fierce lover thou! + Bright sultan of a million brides, + Thou know'st no rival to _thy_ kiss, + Thy loves are _thine_ whate're betides, + O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, + But dumbly rul'st, king and lord. + + Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more, + Thy steel no more shall sting and shine, + Pass thro' the fusing fires again; + And learn to prune the laughing vine. + Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord, + The plough and hook we'll own as lord! + + + + + ROSES IN MADRID. + + + Roses, Senors, roses! + Love is subtly hid + In the fragrant roses, + Blown in gay Madrid. + Roses, Senors, roses! + Look, look, look, and see + Love hanging in the roses, + Like a golden bee! + Ha! ha! shake the roses-- + Hold a palm below; + Shake him from the roses, + Catch the vagrant so! + + High I toss the roses + From my brown palm up; + Like the wine that bubbles + From a golden cup. + Catch the roses, Senors, + Light on finger tips; + He who buys red roses, + Dreams of crimson lips! + Tinkle! my fresh roses, + With the rare dews wet; + Clink! my crisp, red roses, + Like a castanet! + + Roses, Senors, roses, + Come, Hidalgo, buy! + Proudly wait my roses + For thy rose's eye + Be thy rose as stately + As a pacing deer; + Worthy are my roses + To burn behind her ear. + Ha I ha! I can see thee, + Where the fountains foam, + Twining my red roses + In her golden comb! + + Roses, Donnas, roses, + None so fresh as mine, + Pluck'd at rose of morning + By our Lady's shrine. + Those that first I gather'd + Laid I at her feet, + That is why my roses + Still are fresh and sweet. + Roses, Donnas, roses! + Roses waxen fair! + Acolytes my roses, + Censing ladies' pray'r! + + Roses, roses, roses! + Hear the tawny bull + Thund'ring in the circus-- + Buy your arms full. + Roses by the dozen! + Roses by the score! + Pelt the victor with them-- + Bull or Toreador! + + + + + BETWEEN THE WIND AND RAIN. + + + "The storm is in the air," she said, and held + Her soft palm to the breeze; and looking up, + Swift sunbeams brush'd the crystal of her eyes, + As swallows leave the skies to skim the brown, + Bright woodland lakes. "The rain is in the air. + "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the rose, + "That suddenly she loosens her red heart, + "And sends long, perfum'd sighs about the place? + "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the Swift, + "That from the airy eave, she, shadow-grey, + "Smites the blue pond, and speeds her glancing wing + "Close to the daffodils? What hast thou told small bells, + "And tender buds, that--all unlike the rose-- + "They draw green leaves close, close about their breasts + "And shrink to sudden slumber? The sycamores + "In ev'ry leaf are eloquent with thee; + "The poplars busy all their silver tongues + "With answ'ring thee, and the round chestnut stirs + "Vastly but softly, at thy prophecies. + "The vines grow dusky with a deeper green-- + "And with their tendrils snatch thy passing harp, + "And keep it by brief seconds in their leaves. + "O Prophet Wind, thou tellest of the rain, + "While, jacinth blue, the broad sky folds calm palms, + "Unwitting of all storm, high o'er the land! + "The little grasses and the ruddy heath + "Know of the coming rain; but towards the sun + "The eagle lifts his eyes, and with his wings + "Beats on a sunlight that is never marr'd + "By cloud or mist, shrieks his fierce joy to air + "Ne'er stir'd by stormy pulse." + "The eagle mine," I said: "O I would ride + "His wings like Ganymede, nor ever care + "To drop upon the stormy earth again,-- + "But circle star-ward, narrowing my gyres, + "To some great planet of eternal peace.". + "Nay," said my wise, young love, "the eagle falls + "Back to his cliff, swift as a thunder-bolt; + "For there his mate and naked eaglets dwell, + "And there he rends the dove, and joys in all + "The fierce delights of his tempestuous home. + "And tho' the stormy Earth throbs thro' her poles-- + "With tempests rocks upon her circling path-- + "And bleak, black clouds snatch at her purple hills-- + "While mate and eaglets shriek upon the rock-- + "The eagle leaves the hylas to its calm, + "Beats the wild storm apart that rings the earth, + "And seeks his eyrie on the wind-dash'd cliff. + "O Prophet Wind! close, close the storm and rain!" + + Long sway'd the grasses like a rolling wave + Above an undertow--the mastiff cried; + Low swept the poplars, groaning in their hearts; + And iron-footed stood the gnarl'd oaks, + And brac'd their woody thews against the storm. + Lash'd from the pond, the iv'ry cygnets sought + The carven steps that plung'd into the pool; + The peacocks scream'd and dragg'd forgotten plumes. + On the sheer turf--all shadows subtly died, + In one large shadow sweeping o'er the land; + Bright windows in the ivy blush'd no more; + The ripe, red walls grew pale--the tall vane dim; + Like a swift off'ring to an angry God, + O'erweighted vines shook plum and apricot, + From trembling trellis, and the rose trees pour'd + A red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves, + On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote set + A stream of silver wings and violet breasts, + The hawk-like storm swooping on their track. + "Go," said my love, "the storm would whirl me off + "As thistle-down. I'll shelter here--but you-- + "You love no storms!" "Where thou art," I said, + "Is all the calm I know--wert thou enthron'd + "On the pivot of the winds--or in the maelstrom, + "Thou holdest in thy hand my palm of peace; + "And, like the eagle, I would break the belts + "Of shouting tempests to return to thee, + "Were I above the storm on broad wings. + "Yet no she-eagle thou! a small, white, lily girl + "I clasp and lift and carry from the rain, + "Across the windy lawn." + With this I wove + Her floating lace about her floating hair, + And crush'd her snowy raiment to my breast, + And while she thought of frowns, but smil'd instead, + And wrote her heart in crimson on her cheeks, + I bounded with her up the breezy slopes, + The storm about us with such airy din, + As of a thousand bugles, that my heart + Took courage in the clamor, and I laid + My lips upon the flow'r of her pink ear, + And said: "I love thee; give me love again!" + And here she pal'd, love has its dread, and then + She clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light, + Till all the daffodils I trod were pale + Beside the small flow'r red upon my breast. + And ere the dial on the slope was pass'd, + Between the last loud bugle of the Wind + And the first silver coinage of the Rain, + Upon my flying hair, there came her kiss, + Gentle and pure upon my face--and thus + Were we betroth'd between the Wind and Rain. + + + + + JOY'S CITY. + + + Joy's City hath high battlements of gold; + Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs; + She hath her palaces high reared and bold, + And tender shades of perfumed lily bowers; + But ever day by day, and ever night by night, + An Angel measures still our City of Delight. + + He hath a rule of gold, and never stays, + But ceaseless round the burnish'd ramparts glides; + He measures minutes of her joyous days, + Her walls, her trees, the music of her tides; + The roundness of her buds--Joy's own fair city lies, + Known to its heart-core by his stern and thoughtful eyes. + + Above the sounds of timbrel and of song, + Of greeting friends, of lovers 'mid the flowers, + The Angel's voice arises clear and strong: + "O City, by so many leagues thy bow'rs + Stretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blue + So many cubits rise thy tow'rs beyond the view." + + Why dost thou, Angel, measure Joy's fair walls? + Unceasing gliding by their burnish'd stones; + Go, rather measure Sorrow's gloomy halls; + Her cypress bow'rs, her charnel-house of bones; + Her groans, her tears, the rue in her jet chalices; + But leave unmeasured more, Joy's fairy palaces. + + The Angel spake: "Joy hath her limits set, + But Sorrow hath no bounds--Joy is a guest + Perchance may enter; but no heart puls'd yet, + Where Sorrow did not lay her down to rest; + She hath no city by so many leagues confin'd, + I cannot measure bounds where there are none to find." + + + + + THE CANOE. + + + My masters twain made me a bed + Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; + Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder + Of dreams of rest; and me they spread + With furry skins, and laughing said, + "Now she shall lay her polish'd sides, + As queens do rest, or dainty brides, + Our slender lady of the tides!" + + My masters twain their camp-soul lit, + Streamed incense from the hissing cones, + Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd + Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd + Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, + Half way about each grim bole knit, + Like a shy child that would bedeck + With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck; + Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, + The awful plumes shake on his crest, + And fearful drops his timid face, + Nor dares complete the sweet embrace. + + Into the hollow hearts of brakes, + Yet warm from sides of does and stags, + Pass'd to the crisp dark river flags; + Sinuous, red as copper snakes, + Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, + Glided and hid themselves in night. + + My masters twain, the slaughtered deer + Hung on fork'd boughs--with thongs of leather. + Bound were his stiff, slim feet together-- + His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; + The wand'ring firelight drew near + And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, + On the sharp splendor of his branches; + On the white foam grown hard and sere + On flank and shoulder. + Death--hard as breast of granite boulder, + And under his lashes + Peer'd thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes. + + My masters twain sang songs that wove + (As they burnish'd hunting blade and rifle) + A golden thread with a cobweb trifle-- + Loud of the chase, and low of love. + + "O Love, art thou a silver fish? + Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, + Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, + Casting at thee the light-wing'd wish, + And at the last shall we bring thee up + From the crystal darkness under the cup + Of lily folden, + On broad leaves golden? + + "O Love! art thou a silver deer, + Swift thy starr'd feet as wing of swallow, + While we with rushing arrows follow; + And at the last shall we draw near, + And over thy velvet neck cast thongs-- + Woven of roses, of stars, of songs? + New chains all moulden + Of rare gems olden!" + + They hung the slaughter'd fish like swords + On saplings slender--like scimitars + Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, + Blaz'd in the light--the scaly hordes. + + They piled up boughs beneath the trees, + Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; + Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, + The camp fire blush'd to the tender breeze. + + The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, + With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty-- + Dream'd of the dead stag stout and lusty; + A bat by the red flames wove its round. + + The darkness built its wigwam walls + Close round the camp, and at its curtain + Press'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain, + As white locks of tall waterfalls. + + + + + "MY AIN BONNIE LASS O' THE GLEN." + + + Ae blink o' the bonnie new mune, + Ay tinted as sune as she's seen, + Wad licht me to Meg frae the toun, + Tho' mony the brae-side between: + Ae fuff o' the saftest o' win's, + As wilyart it kisses the thorn, + Wad blaw me o'er knaggies an' linns-- + To Meg by the side o' the burn! + + My daddie's a laird wi' a ha'; + My mither had kin at the court; + I maunna gang wooin' ava'-- + Or any sic frolicsome sport. + Gin I'd wed--there's a winnock kept bye; + Wi' bodies an' gear i' her loof-- + Gin ony tak her an' her kye, + Hell glunsh at himsel' for a coof! + + My daddie's na doylt, tho' he's auld, + The winnock is pawkie an' gleg; + When the lammies are pit i' the fauld, + They're fear'd that I'm aff to my Meg. + My mither sits spinnin'--ae blink + O' a smile in her kind, bonnie 'ee; + She's minded o' mony a link + She, stowlins, took o'er the lea + + To meet wi' my daddie himsel' + Tentie jinkin' by lea an' by shaw; + She fu's up his pipe then hersel', + So I may steal cannie awa'. + O leeze me o' gowany swaird, + An' the blink o' the bonnie new mune! + An' the cowt stown out o' the yaird + That trots like a burnie in June! + + My Meg she is waitin' abeigh-- + Ilk spunkie that flits through the fen + Wad jealously lead me astray + Frae my ain bonnie lass o' the glen! + My forbears may groan i' the mools, + My daddie look dour an' din; + Wee Love is the callant wha rules, + An' my Meg is the wifie I'll win! + + + + + THE WHITE BULL. + + + Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid, + Flash'd blue 'neath its lid; + As the cry and the clamour ran round, + "The king has been crown'd! + And the brow of his bride has been bound + With the crown of a queen!" + And between + Te Deum and salvo, the roar + Of the crowd in the square, + Shook tower and bastion and door, + And the marble of altar and floor; + And high in the air, + The wreaths of the incense were driven + To and fro, as are riven + The leaves of a lily, and cast + By the jubilant shout of the blast + To and fro, to and fro, + And they fell in the chancel and nave, + As the lily falls back on the wave, + And trembl'd and faded and died, + As the white petals tremble and shiver, + And fade in the tide + Of the jewel dark breast of the river. + + "Ho, gossips, the wonderful news! + I have worn two holes in my shoes, + With the race I have run; + And, like an old grape in the sun, + I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran + Like an antelope rather than man. + Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed, + And he loves to see the bold bull bleed; + And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit, + In half of the Spanish throne to sit; + Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair, + Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair; + For free and full-- + She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull; + And tap on the jewels of her fan, + While horse and man, + Reel on in a ruby rain of gore; + And pout her lip at the Toreador; + And fling a jest + If he leave the fight with unsullied vest, + No crack on his skin, + Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in. + Caramba, gossips, I would not be king, + And rule and reign + Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain, + If under my wing-- + I had not a mate who could joy to the full, + In the gallant death of a man or a bull!" + + "What is the news + That has worn two holes in my Saints'-day shoes, + And parch'd me so with heat and speed, + That a skin of wine down my throat must bleed? + Why this, there's a handsome Hidalgo at Court, + And half in sport, + He scour'd the country far and wide, + For a gift to pleasure the royal bride; + And on the broad plains of the Guadalquiver + He gave a pull-- + To the jewell'd bridle and silken rein, + That made his stout horse rear and shiver; + For in the dusk reeds of the silver river-- + Like the angry stars that redly fly + From the dark blue peaks of the midnight sky, + And smouldering lie, + Blood-red till they die + In the blistering ground--the eyes he saw + Of a bull without blemish, or speck, or flaw, + And a hide as white as a dead saint's soul-- + With many a clinking of red pistole; + And draughts of sour wine from the herdsman's bowl, + He paid the full + Price in bright gold of the brave white bull. + + "Comrades we all + From the pulpit tall + Have heard the fat friars say God has decreed + That the peasant shall sweat and the soldier shall bleed, + And Hidalgo and King + May righteously wring + Sweat and blood from us all, weak, strong, young and old, + And turn the tax into Treasury gold. + Well, the friar knows best, + Or why wear a cowl? + And a cord round his breast? + So why should we scowl? + The friar is learned and knows the mind, + From core to rind, + Of God, and the Virgin, and ev'ry saint + That a tongue can name or a brush can paint; + And I've heard him declare-- + With a shout that shook all the birds in the air, + That two kinds of clay + Are used in God's Pottery every day. + The finest and best he puts in a mould + Of purest gold, + Stamped with the mark of His signet ring, + And He turns them out, + (While the angels shout) + The Pope and the priest, the Hidalgo and King! + And He gives them dominion full and just + O'er the creatures He kneads from the common dust, + And the clay, stamped with His proper sign, + Has right divine + To the sweat, and the blood and the bended knee + Of such, my gossips, as ye and me. + Who cares? Not I + Only let King and Hidalgo buy, + With the red pistoles + They wring from our sweltering bodies and souls, + Treasures as full + Of the worth of gold as the bold white bull! + + "The Hidalgo rode back to the Court: + And to finish the sport, + When the King had been crowned, + And the flaxen hair of the bride had been bound, + With the crown of the Queen; + He took a huge necklace of plates of gold, + With rubies between; + And wound it threefold + Round the brute's broad neck, and with ruby ring + In its fire-puffed nostrils had it led + To the feet of the Queen as she sat by the King, + With the red crown set on her lily head; + And she said-- + 'Let the bull be led + To the floor + Of the arena: Proclaim, + In my name, + That the valliant and bold Toreador, + Who slays him shall pull + The rubies and gold from the gore + Of the bold white bull!' + + "That is the news which I bear; + I heard it below in the square-- + And to and fro, + I heard the voice blow + Of Pedro, the brawny young Toreador, + As he swore + By the tremulous light of the golden star + That quivers beneath the soft lid + Of Pilar, + Who sells tall lilies through fair Madrid; + He would wind six-fold + Round her neck, long, slender, round and full, + The rubies and gold + That three times rolled + Round the mighty breast of the bold white bull. + And loudly he sang, + While the wine cups rang, + 'If I'm the bravest Toreador + In gallant, gay Madrid, + If thou hast got the brightest eye + That dances 'neath a lid; + If e'er of Andalusian wine + I drank a bottle full, + The gold, the rubies shall be thine + That deck the bold white bull.' + + "Already a chorus rings out in the city, + A jubilant ditty, + And every guitar + Vibrates to the names of Pedro and Pilar; + And the strings and voices are soulless and dull + That sound not the name of the bold white bull!" + + + + + MARCH. + + + Shall Thor with his hammer + Beat on the mountain, + As on an anvil, + A shackle and fetter? + + Shall the lame Vulcan + Shout as he swingeth + God-like his hammer, + And forge thee a fetter? + + Shall Jove, the Thunderer, + Twine his swift lightnings + With his loud thunders, + And forge thee a shackle? + + "No," shouts the Titan, + The young lion-throated; + "Thor, Vulcan, nor Jove + Cannot shackle and bind me." + + Tell what will bind thee, + Thou young world-shaker, + Up vault our oceans, + Down fall our forests. + + Ship-masts and pillars + Stagger and tremble, + Like reeds by the margins + Of swift running waters. + + Men's hearts at thy roaring + Quiver like harebells + Smitten by hailstones, + Smitten and shaken. + + "O sages and wise men! + O bird-hearted tremblers! + Come, I will show ye + A shackle to bind me. + + I, the lion-throated, + The shaker of mountains! + I, the invincible, + Lasher of oceans! + + "Past the horizon, + Its ring of pale azure + Past the horizon, + Where scurry the white clouds, + + There are buds and small flowers-- + Flowers like snow-flakes, + Blossoms like rain-drops, + So small and tremulous. + + Therein a fetter + Shall shackle and bind me, + Shall weigh down my shouting + With their delicate perfume!" + + But who this frail fetter + Shall forge on an anvil, + With hammer of feather + And anvil of velvet? + + Past the horizon, + In the palm of a valley, + Her feet in the grasses, + There is a maiden. + + She smiles on the flowers, + They widen and redden, + She weeps on the flowers, + They grow up and kiss her. + + She breathes in their bosoms, + They breathe back in odours; + Inarticulate homage, + Dumb adoration. + + She shall wreathe them in shackles, + Shall weave them in fetters; + In chains shall she braid them, + And me shall she fetter. + + I, the invincible; + March, the earth-shaker; + March, the sea-lifter; + March, the sky-render; + + March, the lion-throated. + April the weaver + Of delicate blossoms, + And moulder of red buds-- + + Shall, at the horizon, + Its ring of pale azure, + Its scurry of white clouds, + Meet in the sunlight. + + + + + "THE EARTH WAXETH OLD." + + + When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd + I dream'd green woods among; + Where tall trees wav'd from side to side, + And in their green breasts deep and wide, + I saw the building blue jay hide, + O, then the earth was young! + + The winds were fresh and brave and bold, + The red sun round and strong; + No prophet voice chill, loud and cold, + Across my woodland dreamings roll'd, + "The green earth waxeth sere and old, + That once was fair and young!" + + I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole, + The fresh'ning of the sap; + When timid spring gave first small dole, + Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole, + I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll, + From summer's high pil'd lap. + + And where an ancient oak tree lay + The forest stream across, + I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray, + I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play, + I saw the shadows dance and sway + On ripple and on moss. + + I pull'd the chestnut branches low, + As o'er the stream they hung, + To see their bursting buds of snow-- + I heard the sweet spring waters flow-- + My heart and I we did not know + But that the earth was young! + + I joy'd in solemn woods to see, + Where sudden sunbeams clung, + On open space of mossy lea, + The violet and anemone, + Wave their frail heads and beckon me-- + Sure then the earth was young! + + I heard the fresh wild breezes birr, + New budded boughs among, + I saw the deeper tinting stir + In the green tassels of the fir, + I heard the pheasant rise and whirr, + Above her callow young. + + I saw the tall fresh ferns prest, + By scudding doe and fawn; + I say the grey dove's swelling breast, + Above the margin of her nest; + When north and south and east and west + Roll'd all the red of dawn. + + At eventide at length I lay, + On grassy pillow flung; + I saw the parting bark of day, + With crimson sails and shrouds all gay, + With golden fires drift away, + The billowy clouds among. + + I saw the stately planets sail + On that blue ocean wide; + I saw blown by some mystic gale, + Like silver ship in elfin tale, + That bore some damsel rare and pale, + The moon's slim crescent glide. + + And ev'ry throb of spring + The rust'ling boughs among, + That filled the silver vein of brook, + That lit with bloom the mossy nook, + Cried to my boyish bosom: "Look! + How fresh the earth and young!" + + The winds were fresh, the days as clear + As crystals set in gold. + No shape, with prophet-mantle drear, + Thro' those old woods came drifting near, + To whisper in my wond'ring ear, + "The green earth waxeth old." + + + + + "THE WISHING STAR." + + + Day floated down the sky; a perfect day, + Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold + Along the west, that when her lover, Night, + Fled with his starry lances in pursuit, + Across the sky, the way she went might shew. + From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon + Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave, + Which as she climb'd the sky still held + Her golden tresses to its swelling breast, + Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay, + (Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red, + As flowers that look forever towards the Sun), + A terrace with a fountain and an oak + Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced + Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph, + Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew + Before some hoary king, while high above, + He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze-- + And sigh'd deep sighs of "All is vanity!" + Behind, a wall of Norman William's time + Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there + Torn wide apart to let a casement peer + Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant + (A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose) + And look'd above me into two such eyes + As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page + That new old cry that hearts so often write + In their own ashes, "All is vanity!" + "Know'st thou--" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd, + On the wide arch that domes our little earth, + "That when a star hurls on with shining wings, + "On some swift message from his throne of light, + "The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit-- + "Fulfilment--drop into the eager palm?" + "Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I. + "Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale." + But some swift feeling smote upon her brow + A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky-- + Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on, + Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon + Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge + Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved + The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay + The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd + The night's device upon his ripe-red shield. + And suddenly down towards the moon there ran-- + From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue, + A little star, a point of trembling gold, + Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I, + "Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star? + "Its brightness died not, it but disappeared, + "To whirl undim'd thro' space. I wish'd our love + "Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life, + "Burning brightly as that star and winging on + "Thro' unseen space of veil'd Eternity, + "Brightened by Immortality--not lost." + "Awful and sweet the wish!" she said, and so-- + We rested in the silence of content. + + + + + HOW DEACON FRY BOUGHT A "DUCHESS." + + + It sorter skeer'd the neighbours round, + For of all the 'tarnal set thet clutches + Their dollars firm, he wus the boss; + An' yet he went and byed a "Duchess." + I never will forget the day + He druv her from the city market; + I guess thar warn't more'n two + Thet stayed to hum thet day in Clarket. + + And one of them wus Gran'pa Finch, + Who's bed-rid up to Spense's attic: + The other Aunt Mehitabel, + Whose jints and temper is rheumatic. + She said she "guessed that Deacon Fry + Would some day see he'd done more fitter + To send his dollars savin' souls + Than waste 'em on a horn'd critter!" + + We all turn'd out at Pewse's store, + The last one jest inside the village; + The Jedge he even chanc'd along, + And so did good old Elder Millage. + We sot around on kegs and planks, + And on the fence we loung'd precarious; + The Elder felt to speak a word, + And sed his thoughts wus very various. + + He sed the Deacon call'd to mind + The blessed patriarchs and their cattle; + "To whose herds cum a great increase + When they in furrin parts did settle." + We nodded all our skulls at this, + But Argue Bill he rapped his crutches; + Sed he, "I guess they never paid + Five hundred dollars for a 'Duchess.'" + + Bill and the Elder allers froze + To subjects sorter disputatious, + So on the 'lasses keg they sot, + And had an argue fair and spacious. + Good land! when Solon cum in sight, + By lawyer Smithett's row o' beeches; + His black span seemed to crawl along + Ez slow ez Dr. Jones's leeches. + + Sez Sister Fry, who was along, + "I sorter think my specs is muggy; + "But Solon started out from hum + "This mornin' in the new top buggy. + "Jeddiah rid old chestnut Jim, + "An' Sammy rid the roan filly; + "I told 'em when they started off + "It looked redikless, soft and silly, + + "To see three able-bodied men + "An' four stout horses drive one critter; + "O land o' song! will some one look? + "From hed to foot I'm in a twitter." + Wal, up we swarm'd on Pewse's fence, + And Bill he histed on his crutches; + We all was curus to behold + The Deac's five hundred dollar "Duchess." + + I've heerd filosofurs declar, + This life be's kind o' snarly jinted; + And every human standin' thar + Felt sorter gin'ral disappointed. + What sort o' crazy animile + Hed got the Deacon in its clutches? + They cum along in spankin' style-- + Old Solon and his sons and "Duchess." + + Her heels wus up, her hed wus down, + An or'nary cross-gritted critter + As ever browsed around the town, + And kept the women folks a-twitter, + A-boostin' up the garding rails, + And browsin' on the factory bleachin', + And kickin' up the milkin' pails: + Bill he riz up, ez true ez preachin'. + + Sez he, excited like, "I'll 'low, + To swaller both these here old crutches- + Ef thet ain't Farmer Slyby's cow, + Old Bossie turn'd inter a "Duchess!" + Wal,'twus k'rect! The Deacon swore + Some hefty swars and sot the clutches + Of law to work; but seed no more + The chap thet sold him thet thar "Duchess." + + + + + MY IRISH LOVE. + + + Beside the saffron of a curtain, lit + With broidered flowers, below a golden fringe + That on her silver shoulder made a glow, + Like the sun kissing lilies in the dawn; + She sat--my Irish love--slim, light and tall. + Between his mighty paws her stag-hound held, + (Love-jealous he) the foam of her pale robes, + Rare laces of her land, and his red eyes, + Half lov'd me, grown familiar at her side, + Half pierc'd me, doubting my soul's right to stand + His lady's wooer in the courts of Love. + Above her, knitted silver, fell a web + Of light from waxen tapers slipping down, + First to the wide-winged star of em'ralds set + On the black crown with its blue burnish'd points + Of raven light; thence, fonder, to the cheek + O'er which flew drifts of rose-leaves wild and rich, + With lilied pauses in the wine-red flight; + For when I whispered, like a wind in June, + My whisper toss'd the roses to and fro + In her dear face, and when I paus'd they lay + Still in her heart. Then lower fell the light. + A silver chisel cutting the round arm + Clear from the gloom; and dropped like dew + On the crisp lily, di'mond clasp'd, that lay + In happy kinship on her pure, proud breast, + And thence it sprang like Cupid, nimble-wing'd, + To the quaint love-ring on her finger bound + And set it blazing like a watch-fire, lit + To guard a treasure. Then up sprang the flame + Mad for her eyes, but those grey worlds were deep + In seas of native light: and when I spoke + They wander'd shining to the shining moon + That gaz'd at us between the parted folds + Of yellow, rich with gold and daffodils, + Dropping her silver cloak on Innisfail. + O worlds, those eyes! there Laughter lightly toss'd + His gleaming cymbals; Large and most divine + Pity stood in their crystal doors with hands + All generous outspread; in their pure depths + Mov'd Modesty, chaste goddess, snow-white of brow, + And shining, vestal limbs; rose-fronted stood + Blushing, yet strong; young Courage, knightly in + His virgin arms, and simple, russet Truth + Play'd like a child amongst her tender thoughts-- + Thoughts white as daisies snow'd upon the lawn. + + Unheeded, Dante on the cushion lay, + His golden clasps yet lock'd--no poet tells + The tale of Love with such a wizard tongue + That lovers slight dear Love himself to list. + + Our wedding eve, and I had brought to her + The jewels of my house new set for her + (As I did set the immemorial pearl + Of our old honour in the virgin gold + Of her high soul) with grave and well pleased eyes, + And critic lips, and kissing finger tips, + She prais'd the bright tiara and its train + Of lesser splendours--nor blush'd nor smil'd: + They were but fitting pages to her state, + And had no tongues to speak between our souls. + + But I would have her smile ripe for me then, + Swift treasure of a moment--so I laid + Between her palms a little simple thing, + A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone, + And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd + Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich, + Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes + And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said, + "Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!" + "A golden prophet of eternal truth," + I said, and kissed the roses of her palms, + And then the shy, bright roses of her lips, + And all the jealous jewels shone forgot + In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd + The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck. + My fair, pure soul! My noble Irish love! + + + + + A HUNGRY DAY. + + + I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap, + Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod, + He hired me wanst to help his harvest in; + The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be God! + He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself, + Just landed in the emigration shed, + Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes, + Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead. + + It's not meself can say of what she died; + But t'was the year the praties felt the rain, + And rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw + The breath of life was one long hungry pain. + If we were haythens in a furrin' land, + Not in a country grand in Christian pride, + Faith, then a man might have the face to say + 'Twas of stharvation my poor Shylie died. + + But whin the parish docthor come at last, + Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes, + (They looked straight into heaven) an her ears + Wor deaf to the poor childer's hungry cries; + He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw; + "She's gone!" he says, and drew a solemn frown; + "I fear, my man, she's dead." "Of what?" says I. + He coughed, and says, "She's let her system down!" + + "An' that's God's truth!" says I, an' felt about + To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark, + An' in my hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart, + I felt the kindlin' of a burning spark. + "O, by me sowl, that is the holy truth! + There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still, + An' Mickie's eyes are bright--the craythur there + Died that the weeny ones might eat there fill." + + An' whin they spread the daisies thick and white, + Above her head that wanst lay on my breast, + I had no tears, but took the childhers' hands, + An' says, "We'll lave the mother to her rest," + An' och! the sod was green that summers day; + An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair; + But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched, + An' sent their cruel poison through the air. + + An' all was quiet--on the sunny sides + Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay, + An' thim as lack'd the rint from empty walls + Of little cabins, wapin' turned away. + God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod, + An' whin upon her increase His right hand + Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue + For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land. + + No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky, + No mines yawn'd on the hills so full an' rich; + A man whose praties failed had nought to do, + But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch! + A flame rose up widin me feeble heart, + Whin passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure, + I saw the mark of Shylie's coffin in + The grey dust on the empty earthen flure. + + I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands; + Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' Mick an' me, + Must lave the green ould sod, an' look for food + In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.' + An' so it chanced, when landed on the streets, + Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay, + Came there to hire a roan to save his whate, + An' hired meself and Mickie by the day. + + "An' bring the girleen, Pat," he says, an' looked + At Rosie lanin' up agin me knee; + "The wife will be right plaised to see the child, + The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea. + We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised! + As nice a farm as ever brogan trod, + A hundred acres--us as never owned + Land big enough to make a lark a sod!" + + "Bedad," sez I, "I heerd them over there + Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet, + An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck + To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet!" + "Begorra, Pat," says Dolan, "may ould Nick + Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues, + An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure, + Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!" + + "Och, thin," says I, "meself agrees to that!" + Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey; + Says he. "Kape up yer heart--I never knew + Since I come out a single hungry day!" + + "But thin I left the crowded city sthreets, + There men galore to toil in thim an' die, + Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home + In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky. + + "I did that same: an' God be prais'd this day! + Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure: + An' in them years I never wanst have seen + A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure!" + + I listened to ould Dolan's honest words, + That's twenty years ago this very spring, + An' Mick is married--an' me Rosie wears + A swateheart's little, shinin' goulden ring. + + 'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look + At the green fields upon me own big farm; + An' God be prais'd! all men may have the same + That owns an axe! an' has a strong right arm! + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Old Spookses' Pass, by Isabella Valancy Crawford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD SPOOKSES' PASS *** + +***** This file should be named 6815.txt or 6815.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/8/1/6815/ + +Produced by Vital Debroey, Juliet Sutherland, Charles +Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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