Of genius sunning her eyes of blue,
With her heart so pure, and her soul so white--
What, O Death, did she do to you?
Through field and wood as a child she strayed,
As Nature, the dear sweet mother led;
While from her canvas, mirrored back,
Glimmered the stream through the everglade
Where the grapevine trailed from the trees to wed
Its likeness of emerald, blue and black.
And what did he, who, the last of these,
Faced you, with never a fear, O Death?
Did you hate _him_ that he loved the breeze,
And the morning dews, and the rose's breath?
Did you hate him that he answered not
Your hate again--but turned, instead,
His only hate on his country's wrongs?
Well--you possess him, dead!--but what
Of the good he wrought? With laureled head
He bides with us in his deeds and songs.
Laureled, first, that he bravely fought,
And forged a way to our flag's release;
Laureled, next--for the harp he taught
To wake glad songs in the days of peace--
Songs of the woodland haunts he held
As close in his love as they held their bloom
In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine--
Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled
Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room,
Pure as a shower in soft sunshine.
Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures,
What friend next will you rend from us
In that cold, pitiless way of yours,
And leave us a grief more dolorous?
Speak to us!--tell us, O Dreadful Power!--
Are we to have not a lone friend left?--
Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod,--
In every second of every hour,
_Some one_, Death, you have left thus bereft,
Half inaudibly shrieks to God.
IN BOHEMIA.
Ha! My dear! I'm back again--
Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
Climbing up those awful stairs!
Well, I've made the dealer say
Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway!
And I've made a publisher
Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear--
Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor--living here
Neighborless, and used to that,--
Like a nest beneath the eaves,
So our little home receives
Only guests of chirping cheer--
We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you
At your easel, with a stain
On your nose of Prussian blue,
Paint your bits of shine and rain;
With my feet thrown up at will
O'er my littered window-sill,
I write rhymes that ring as clear
As your laughter, Kate, my dear.
Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair--
Bite my pencil-tip and gaze
At you, mutely mooning there
O'er your "Aprils" and your "Mays!"
Equal inspiration in
Dimples of your cheek and chin,
And the golden atmosphere
Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!
_Trying_! Yes, at times it is,
To clink happy rhymes, and fling
On the canvas scenes of bliss,
When we are half famishing!--
When your "jersey" rips in spots,
And your hat's "forget-me-nots"
Have grown tousled, old and sere--
It is trying, Kate, my dear!
But--as sure--_some_ picture sells,
And--sometimes--the poetry--
Bless us! How the parrot yells
His acclaims at you and me!
How we revel then in scenes
Of high banqueting!--sardines--
Salads--olives--and a sheer
Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!
Even now I cross your palm,
With this great round world of gold!--
"Talking wild?" Perhaps I am--
Then, this little five-year-old!--
Call it anything you will,
So it lifts your face until
I may kiss away that tear
Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.
IN THE DARK.
O in the depths of midnight
What fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
Sounds like a sob of pain.
A sense of awe and of wonder
I may never well define,--
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
Never come in the shine.
The old clock down in the parlor
Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
As the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands that signal
The hours there in the gloom,
And wonder what angel watchers
Wait in the darkened room.
And I think of the smiling faces
That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
By the click of the opening gate.--
They are not there now in the evening--
Morning or noon--not there;
Yet I know that they keep their vigil,
And wait for me Somewhere.
WET WEATHER TALK.
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men giner'ly, to all intents--
Although they're ap' to grumble some--
Puts most their trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come;--
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me,
Has watched the world enough to learn
They're not the boss of the concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different--
I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestial ball!
But, all the same, the rain some way
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day;
Er when they railly wanted it,
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existence, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men--
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then;
But maybe, while you're wondern' who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you ain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waiting round to do
Before the plowin''s done;
And maybe, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm--and jest about
The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!
These here cy-clones a-foolin' round--
And back'ard crops--and wind and rain,
And yit the corn that's wallered down
May elbow up again!
They ain't no sense, as I kin see,
In mortals, sich as you and me,
A-faultin' Nature's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
WHERE SHALL WE LAND.
"_Where shall we land you, sweet_?"--Swinburne.
All listlessly we float
Out seaward in the boat
That beareth Love.
Our sails of purest snow
Bend to the blue below
And to the blue above.
Where shall we land?
We drift upon a tide
Shoreless on every side,
Save where the eye
Of Fancy sweeps far lands
Shelved slopingly with sands
Of gold and porphyry.
Where shall we land?
The fairy isles we see,
Loom up so mistily--
So vaguely fair,
We do not care to break
Fresh bubbles in our wake
To bend our course for there.
Where shall we land?
The warm winds of the deep
Have lulled our sails to sleep,
And so we glide
Careless of wave or wind,
Or change of any kind,
Or turn of any tide.
Where shall we land?
We droop our dreamy eyes
Where our reflection lies
Steeped in the sea,
And, in an endless fit
Of languor, smile on it
And its sweet mimicry.
Where shall we land?
"Where shall we land?" God's grace!
I know not any place
So fair as this--
Swung here between the blue
Of sea and sky, with you
To ask me, with a kiss,
"Where shall we land?"
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
William Williams his name was--or so he said;--Bill Williams they
called him, and them 'at knowed him best called him Bill Bills.
The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. The
Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, far I mind 'at old
Ezry Sturgiss had jist got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills
had come along and claimed to know all about millin', and got a job
with him; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerss-men,
and I reckon got better wages; far afore Ezry built, ther wasn't a
dust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'n
sixty mild from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used to
come to Ezry's far ther grindin' as far as that; and one feller I
knowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eighty
mild from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! _Law!_
Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' far Ezry at the time--part the
time a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and
gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller,
shore! About as tall a build man as Tom Carter--but of course you
don't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tom
was; and as far back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he
could cut and put up his seven cord a day.
Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, was
a great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean down
his face and neck, and I don't know how far down his breast--awful
lookin'; and he never shaved, and ther wasn't a hair a-growin' in that
scar, and it looked like a--some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a
crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-an'-out
onry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes on
him.
Steve and me--Steve was my youngest brother; Steve's be'n in Californy
now far, le' me see,--well, anyways, I reckon, over thirty
year.--Steve was a-drivin' the team at the time--I allus let Steve
drive; 'peared like Steve was made a-purpose far hosses. The
beatin'est hand with hosses 'at ever you _did_ see-an'-I-know! W'y, a
hoss, after he got kind o' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would do
anything far _him_! And I've knowed that boy to swap far hosses 'at
cou'dn't hardly make a shadder; and, afore you knowed it, Steve would
have 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat and slick!
Well, we'd come over to Ezry's far some grindin' that day; and Steve
wanted to price some lumber far a house, intendin' to marry that
Fall--and would a-married, I reckon, ef the girl hadn't a-died jist as
she'd got her weddin' clothes done, and that set hard on Steve far
awhile. Yit he rallied, you know, as a youngster will; but he never
married, someway--never married. Reckon he never found no other woman
he could love well enough, 'less it was--well, no odds.--The Good
Bein's jedge o' what's best far each and all.
We lived _then_ about eight mild from Ezry's, and it tuck about a day
to make the trip; so you kin kind o' git an idee o' how the roads was
in them days.
Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but I
didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Tom, I want
you to kind o' keep an eye out far Ezry's new hand," meanin Bills. And
then I kind o' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em; and
shore enough ther was, as I found out afore the day was over.
I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a man, from what I'd heerd. His
name was all over the neighborhood afore he'd be'n here two weeks.
In the first place, he come in a suspicious sort o' way. Him and his
wife, and a little baby only a few months old, come through in a
kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy; and they
stopped at the mill, far some meal er somepin', and Bills got to
talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and said he
was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd give
him work he'd stop; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough to
stand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into
it then and there; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' and
the like, tel they got ahead a little; and then, ef he liked the
neighberhood, he said he'd as leave settle there as anywheres; he was
huntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck him, and his
woman railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much furder.
And old Ezry kind o' tuck pity on the feller; and havin' houseroom to
spare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said all
right; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left
'em; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'--not even a
cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on their
backs. And I think it was the third er fourth day after Bills stopped
'at he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you would
n't a-knowed him!
Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the fact is I'd made up my mind 'at Bills
was a bad stick, and the place was n't none the better far his bein'
here. But, as I was a-goin' on to say,--as Steve and me driv up to the
mill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' where
some boards was knocked off, jist over the worter-wheel; and he knowed
Steve--I could see that by his face; and he hollered somepin', too,
but what it was I couldn't jist make out, far the noise o' the wheel;
but he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean a-purpose so's
Steve _wouldn't_ hear it, and _he'd_ have the consolation o' knowin'
'at he'd called Steve some onry name 'thout givin' him a chance to
take it up. Steve was allus quiet like, but ef you raised his dander
one't--and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names er
somepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved his
mother--allus loved his mother, and would fight far her at the drap o'
the hat. And he was her favo-_rite_--allus a-talkin' o' "her boy,
Steven," as she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keerful
of him allus, when he 'd be sick er anything; nuss him like a baby,
she would.
So when Bills hollered, Steve didn't pay no attention; and I said
nothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I noticed him. So we druv
round to the south side and hitched; and Steve 'lowed he'd better
feed; so I left him with the hosses and went into the mill.
They was jist a-stoppin' far dinner. Most of 'em brought ther
dinners--lived so far away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on what
used to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from wher'
the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, the
father of 'em, wasn't no man at all--not much bigger'n you, I rickon.
Le' me see, now:--Ther was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and Ben
Carter, and Wesley Morris, John Coke--wiry little cuss, he was, afore
he got his leg sawed off--and Ezry, and--Well, I don't jist mind all
the boys--'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand far
names.--Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I
can't boast of a good ricollection, 'specially o' names; and far the
last thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failin' me, ever sence a spell o'
fever 'at I brought on onc't--fever and rheumatiz together. You see, I
went a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my
clothes freeze on me a-comin' home. Wy, my breeches was like
stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay far that
spree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my back
far eight weeks, and couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin'
like a' Injun. And I'd a-be'n there yit, I reckon, ef it had n't
a-be'n far a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones; and he gits a lot o' sod
and steeps it in hot whisky and pops it on me, and
I'll-be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, far all I laughed
and told him I'd better take the whisky inardly and let him keep the
grass far his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there:--As I was
a-saying 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had stopped work and
was a-gittin' down ther dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry
a-chattin' away--great hand, he was, far his joke, and allus a-cuttin'
up and a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that day he
was in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down far the
boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He
didn't drink much--that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly; but
he tuck his dram, you understand. You see, they made ther own whisky
in them days, and it was n't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git
now. Old Ezry had a little still, and allus made his own whisky,
enough far fambly use, and jist as puore as worter, and as harmless.
But now-a-days the liquor you git's rank pizen. They say they put
tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the Lord knows what; ner I never
knowed why, 'less it was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like.
Well, Ezry he 'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it
purty free; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old Ezry called out
to me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I did n't
b'lieve I keered about it; but nothin' would do but I must take a
drink with the boys; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little
would n't hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Bills
spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to
you, but I reckon we can drink to our better acquaintance," er
somepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourd
he'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I could n't
well refuse, of course, so I says, "Here 's to us," and drunk her
down--mighty nigh a half pint, I reckon. Now, I railly did n't want
it, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her at
a swaller and never batted an eye, far, to tell the fact about it, I
liked the taste o' liquor; and I do yit, only I know when I' got
enough. Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Steve
couldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form--far medicine ner nothin',
and I 've allus thought it was his mother's doin's.
Now, a few months afore this I 'd be'n to Vincennes, and I was jist
a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' far ther liquor there--far I 'd
fetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at I 'd paid six bits far,
and pore liquor at that: And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry
was a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could make
money a-sellin' it far half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin'
about his liquor--and it was a good article--far new whisky,--and jist
then Steve comes in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn't
drink that whisky wasn't no man at all. So, of course, when they ast
Steve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills
was kind o' tuck down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; and
says he, "I reckon you ain't no better 'n the rest of us, and _we 've_
be'n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve did n't let on like he noticed Bills
at all, and rech and shuck hands with the other boys and ast how they
was all a-comin' on.
I seed Bills was riled, and more 'n likely wanted trouble; and shore
enough, he went on to say, kind o' snarlin' like, 'at "he'd knowed o'
men in his day 'at had be'n licked far refusin' to drink when their
betters ast 'em;" and said furder 'at "a lickin' wasn't none too good
far anybody 'at would refuse liquor like that o' Ezry's, and in his
own house too"--er _buildin'_, ruther. Ezry shuck his head at him, but
I seed 'at Bills was bound far a quarrel, and I winks at Steve, as
much as to say, "Don't you let him bully you; you'll find your brother
here to see you have fair play!" _I_ was a-feelin' my oats some about
then, and Steve seed I was, and looked so sorry like, and like his
mother, 'at I jist thought, "I kin fight far you, and die far you,
'cause you're wuth it!"--And I didn't someway feel like it would
amount to much ef I did die er git killed er somepin' on his account.
I seed Steve was mighty white around the mouth and his eyes was a
glitterin' like a snake's; but Bills didn't seem to take warnin', but
went on to say 'at he'd knowed boys 'at loved the'r mothers so well
they couldn't drink nothin' stronger 'n milk.--And then you'd ort o'
seed Steve's coat fly off, jist like it wanted to git out of his way,
and give the boy room accordin' to his stren'th. I seed Bills grab a
piece o' scantlin' jist in time to ketch his arm as he struck at
Steve,--far Steve was a-comin' far him dangerss. But they'd ketched
Steve from behind jist then; and Bills turned far me. I seed him draw
back, and I seed Steve a-scufflin' to ketch his arm; but he didn't
reach it quite in time to do me no good. It must a-come awful suddent.
The first I ricollect was a roarin' and a buzzin' in my ears, and when
I kind o' come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over the
saw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a couple clinched and
a rollin' over and over, and a-makin' the chips and saw-dust fly, now
I tell you! Bills and Steve it was--head and tail, tooth and toenail,
and a-bleedin' like good fellers. I seed a gash o' some kind in
Bills's head, and Steve was purty well tuckered, and a-pantin' like a
lizard; and I made a rush in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed me
and told me to jist keep cool; 'at Steve didn't need no he'p, and they
might need me to keep Bills's friends off ef they made a rush. By this
time Steve had whirlt Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair way to
finish him up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in--I seed him do
it--run in, and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve a deadener in
the butt o' the ear and knocked him as limber as a rag. And then Bills
whirlt Steve and got him by the throat, and Ben Carter and me and old
Ezry closed in--Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabs
Bills--and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off, Bills kind o' give
him a side swipe o' some kind and knocked him--I don't know how far!
And jist then Carter and Morris come a-scufflin' back'ards right
amongst us, and Carter throwed him right acrost Bills and Steve. Well,
it ain't fair, and I don't like to tell it, but I seed it was the last
chance and I tuck advantage of it:--As Wesley and Ben fell it pulled
Bills down in a kind o' twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn't
he'p hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the throat, and him black
in the face: Well, as they fell I grabbed up a little hick'ry limb,
not bigger 'n my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a little tap kind o'
over the back of his head like, and blame me ef he didn't keel over
like a stuck pig--and not any too soon, nuther, far he had Steve's
chunk as nigh put out as you ever seed a man's, to come to agin. But
he was up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills could a-come to
the scratch; but Mister Bills he wasn't in no fix to try it over!
After a-waitin' awhile far him to come to, and him not a-comin' to, we
concluded 'at we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, and
washed him, and drenched him with whisky, but it 'peared like it
wasn't no use: He jist laid there with his eyes about half shet, and
a-breathin' like a hoss when he's bad sceart; and I'll be dad-limbed
ef I don't believe he'd a-died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happened
old Doc Zions come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdock
neighberhood, where they was a-havin' sich a time with the milk-sick.
And he examined Bills, and had him laid on a plank and carried down to
the house--'bout a mild, I reckon, from the mill. Looked kind o'
curous to see Steve a-heppin' pack the feller, after his nearly
chokin' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you! W'y, ther
wasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a black eye er somepin'; and
old Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his nose broke, and was as bloody
as a butcher. And you'd ort a-seed the women-folks when our p'session
come a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like Bills's
woman. It was distressin'; it was, indeed.--Went into hysterics, she
did; and we thought far awhile she'd gone plum crazy, far she cried so
pitiful over him, and called him "Charley! Charley!" 'stid of his
right name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally jist
fainted clean away.
Far three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and that woman set
by him night and day, and tended him as patient as a' angel--and she
was a' angel, too; and he'd a-never lived to bother nobody agin ef it
hadn't a-be'n far Annie, as he called her. Zions said ther was a
'brazure of the--some kind o' p'tubernce, and ef he'd a-be'n struck
jist a quarter of a' inch below--jist a quarter of a' inch--he'd
a-be'n a dead man. And I've sence wished--not 'at I want the life of a
human bein' to account far, on'y, well, no odds--I've sence wished 'at
I had a-hit him jist a quarter of a' inch below!
Well, of course, them days ther wasn't no law o' no account, and
nothin' was ever done about it. So Steve and me got our grindin', and
talked the matter over with Ezry and the boys. Ezry said he was
a-goin' to do all he could far Bills, 'cause he was a good hand, and
when he wasn't drinkin' ther wasn't no peaceabler man in the
settlement. I kind o' suspicioned what was up, but I said nothin'
then. And Ezry said furder, as we was about drivin' off, that Bills
was a despert feller, and it was best to kind o' humor him a little.
"And you must kind o' be on your guard," he says, "and I'll watch him
and ef anything happens 'at I git wind of I'll let you know," he says;
and so we put out far home.