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.