Chapter 4

Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play; On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair, and very fair, was she, Just a little child was he. "Krinken," said the maiden Nis, "Let me have a little kiss, Just a kiss, and go with me To the summer-lands that be Down within the silver sea."

Krinken was a little child-- By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he, And 'twas summer in the sea. And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him-- Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean's heart was warm.

Now the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled; Though 'tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,-- Summer, summer evermore,-- It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore. Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep: _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- These my dreams of summer be.

Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, "Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter, cold and dark and wild; Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me. Just a little child was he.

BERANGER'S "BROKEN FIDDLE"

I

There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet you may,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

II

"Give us a tune," the foemen cried, In one of their profane caprices; I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo! They dashed this innocent in pieces!

III

This fiddle was the village pride-- The mirth of every fete enhancing; Its wizard art set every heart As well as every foot to dancing.

IV

How well the bridegroom knew its voice, As from its strings its song went gushing! Nor long delayed the promised maid Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing.

V

Why, it discoursed so merrily, It quickly banished all dejection; And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed I played with pious circumspection.

VI

And though, in patriotic song, It was our guide, compatriot, teacher, I never thought the foe had wrought His fury on the helpless creature!

VII

But there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow; I prithee take this paltry cake,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

VIII

Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir As this old fiddle used to do it? Can vintage come, with this voice dumb That used to bid a welcome to it?

IX

It soothed the weary hours of toil, It brought forgetfulness to debtors; Time and again from wretched men It struck oppression's galling fetters.

X

No man could hear its voice, and hate; It stayed the teardrop at its portal; With that dear thing I was a king As never yet was monarch mortal!

XI

Now has the foe--the vandal foe-- Struck from my hands their pride and glory; There let it lie! In vengeance, I Shall wield another weapon, gory!

XII

And if, O countrymen, I fall, Beside our grave let this be spoken: "No foe of France shall ever dance Above the heart and fiddle, broken!"

XIII

So come, poor dog, my faithful friend, I prithee do not heed my sorrow, But feast to-day while yet you may, For we are like to starve to-morrow.

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew,-- A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Them two.

Up at that peach a club they threw-- Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu!

John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue. Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,-- Boo hoo!

What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!

1880.

HORACE III. 13

O fountain of Bandusia, Whence crystal waters flow, With garlands gay and wine I'll pay The sacrifice I owe; A sportive kid with budding horns I have, whose crimson blood Anon shall dye and sanctify Thy cool and babbling flood.

O fountain of Bandusia, The dog-star's hateful spell No evil brings unto the springs That from thy bosom well; Here oxen, wearied by the plough, The roving cattle here, Hasten in quest of certain rest And quaff thy gracious cheer.

O fountain of Bandusia, Ennobled shalt thou be, For I shall sing the joys that spring Beneath yon ilex-tree; Yes, fountain of Bandusia, Posterity shall know The cooling brooks that from thy nooks Singing and dancing go!

THE DIVINE LULLABY

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord; I hear it by the stormy sea When winter nights are black and wild, And when, affright, I call to Thee; It calms my fears and whispers me, "Sleep well, my child."

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, In singing winds, in falling snow, The curfew chimes, the midnight bell. "Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low; "The guardian angels come and go,-- O child, sleep well!"

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, Ay, though the singing winds be stilled, Though hushed the tumult of the deep, My fainting heart with anguish chilled By Thy assuring tone is thrilled,-- "Fear not, and sleep!"

Speak on--speak on, dear Lord! And when the last dread night is near, With doubts and fears and terrors wild, Oh, let my soul expiring hear Only these words of heavenly cheer, "Sleep well, my child!"

IN THE FIRELIGHT

The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere, While like winged spirits, here and there, The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep."

And somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thoughts go back to distant years And linger with a loved one there; And as I hear my child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me,-- Crouched at her side I seem to be, And Mother holds my hands again.

Oh, for an hour in that dear place! Oh, for the peace of that dear time! Oh, for that childish trust sublime! Oh, for a glimpse of Mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone,-- Sweet magic of that treble tone, And "Now I lay me down to sleep."

1885.

HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER?"

Shall I woo the one or other? Both attract me--more's the pity! Pretty is the widowed mother, And the daughter, too, is pretty.

When I see that maiden shrinking, By the gods I swear I'll get 'er! But anon I fall to thinking That the mother 'll suit me better!

So, like any idiot ass Hungry for the fragrant fodder, Placed between two bales of grass, Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!

CHRISTMAS TREASURES

I count my treasures o'er with care.-- The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair.

Long years ago this holy time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat robed in white upon my knee And heard the merry Christmas chime.

"Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?" I said.

And then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy.

And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace; Then, toddling to the chimney-place, He hung this little stocking there.

That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept.

They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there.

They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white! And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side.

A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy!

But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain!

1879.

DE AMICITIIS

Though care and strife Elsewhere be rife, Upon my word I do not heed 'em; In bed I lie With books hard by, And with increasing zest I read 'em.

Propped up in bed, So much I've read Of musty tomes that I've a headful Of tales and rhymes Of ancient times, Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!"

They give me joy Without alloy; And isn't that what books are made for? And yet--and yet-- (Ah, vain regret!) I would to God they all were paid for!

No festooned cup Filled foaming up Can lure me elsewhere to confound me; Sweeter than wine This love of mine For these old books I see around me!

A plague, I say, On maidens gay; I'll weave no compliments to tell 'em! Vain fool I were, Did I prefer Those dolls to these old friends in vellum!

At dead of night My chamber's bright Not only with the gas that's burning, But with the glow Of long ago,-- Of beauty back from eld returning.

Fair women's looks I see in books, I see _them_, and I hear their laughter,-- Proud, high-born maids, Unlike the jades Which men-folk now go chasing after!

Herein again Speak valiant men Of all nativities and ages; I hear and smile With rapture while I turn these musty, magic pages.

The sword, the lance, The morris dance, The highland song, the greenwood ditty, Of these I read, Or, when the need, My Miller grinds me grist that's gritty!

When of such stuff We've had enough, Why, there be other friends to greet us; We'll moralize In solemn wise With Plato or with Epictetus.

Sneer as you may, _I'm_ proud to say That I, for one, am very grateful To Heaven, that sends These genial friends To banish other friendships hateful!

And when I'm done, I'd have no son Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; Nay, give them half My epitaph, And let them share in my sepulture.

Then, when the crack Of doom rolls back The marble and the earth that hide me, I'll smuggle home Each precious tome, Without a fear my wife shall chide me!

OUR LADY OF THE MINE

The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; 'T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine,--somewhere along in summer,-- There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; His name wuz Silas Pettibone,--a' artist by perfession,-- With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession. He told us, by our leave, he 'd kind uv like to make some sketches Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain stretches; "You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-_floo_-us.

All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin',-- At daybreak off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin' That everlastin' book uv his with spider-lines all through it; Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it. "Gol durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at A-drawin' hills that's full uv quartz that's pinin' to be got at!" "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye; But one uv these fine times I'll show ye sumthin' will surprise ye!" The which remark led us to think--although he didn't say it-- That Pettibone wuz owin' us a gredge 'nd meant to pay it.

One evenin' as we sat around the Restauraw de Casey, A-singin' songs 'nd tellin' yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, In come that feller Pettibone, 'nd sez, "With your permission, I'd like to put a picture I have made on exhibition." He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain, Sayin', "I reckon you'll allow as how _that's_ art, f'r certain!" And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken-- Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: "Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef doover!"

It wuz a face--a human face--a woman's, fair 'nd tender-- Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender; The hair wuz kind uv sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy; It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder, And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, fonder,-- Like, lookin' off into the west, where mountain mists wuz fallin', She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin'; "Hooray!" we cried,--"a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon! Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!"

A curious situation,--one deservin' uv your pity,-- No human, livin', female thing this side of Denver City! But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters,-- Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome critters? And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him; And some looked back on happier days, and saw the old-time faces And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places,-- A gracious touch of home. "Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'body Quit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!"

It wuzn't long afore the news had spread the country over, And miners come a-flockin' in like honey-bees to clover; It kind uv did 'em good, they said, to feast their hungry eyes on That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon. But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on 'er,-- Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner, The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady, So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady; Which same might not have been good law, but it _wuz_ the right manoeuvre To give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover.

Gone is the camp,--yes, years ago the Blue Horizon busted, And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted, While Pettibone perceeded East with wealth in his possession, And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession; So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd faces At Venus, Billy Florence, and the like I-talyun places. But no sech face he'll paint again as at old Blue Horizon, For I'll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the Loover, I say, "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!"

THE WANDERER

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang,-- Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,-- Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,-- So do I ever, wandering where I may,-- Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.

1883.

TO A USURPER

Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold,-- A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who've ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he'll be his mamma's beau When he's a "gweat, big man"!

You stingy boy! you've always had A share in mamma's heart; Would you begrudge your poor old dad The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see, Inclines to take your part,-- As if a dual monarchy Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped, The bearded man, I trow, Will quite forget he ever said He'd be his mamma's beau.

Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma's heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma's does through mine!

1885.

LULLABY; BY THE SEA

Fair is the castle up on the hill-- Hushaby, sweet my own! The night is fair, and the waves are still, And the wind is singing to you and to me In this lowly home beside the sea-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth-- Hushaby, sweet my own! And revellers drink to a little one's health; But you and I bide night and day For the other love that has sailed away-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep Ghostlike, O my own! Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; Oh, see them not and make no cry Till the angels of death have passed us by-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

Ah, little they reck of you and me-- Hushaby, sweet my own! In our lonely home beside the sea; They seek the castle up on the hill, And there they will do their ghostly will-- Hushaby, O my own!

Here by the sea a mother croons "Hushaby, sweet my own!" In yonder castle a mother swoons While the angels go down to the misty deep, Bearing a little one fast asleep-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER

"Sweetheart, take this," a soldier said, "And bid me brave good-by; It may befall we ne'er shall wed, But love can never die. Be steadfast in thy troth to me, And then, whate'er my lot, 'My soul to God, my heart to thee,'-- Sweetheart, forget me not!"

The maiden took the tiny flower And nursed it with her tears: Lo! he who left her in that hour Came not in after years. Unto a hero's death he rode 'Mid shower of fire and shot; But in the maiden's heart abode The flower, forget-me-not.

And when _he_ came not with the rest From out the years of blood, Closely unto her widowed breast She pressed a faded bud; Oh, there is love and there is pain, And there is peace, God wot,-- And these dear three do live again In sweet forget-me-not.

'T is to an unmarked grave to-day That I should love to go,-- Whether he wore the blue or gray, What need that we should know? "He loved a woman," let us say, And on that sacred spot, To woman's love, that lives for aye, We'll strew forget-me-not.

1887.

HORACE TO MELPOMENE

Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared,-- Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing; And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared, Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing!

I shall not altogether die; by far my greater part Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal; My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art,-- My works shall be my monument eternal!

While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect our fanes, Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story, How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains First raised the native lyric muse to glory.

Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've won, And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying, Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!

AILSIE, MY BAIRN

Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,-- Lie in my arms and dinna greit; Long time been past syn I kenned you last, But my harte been allwais the same, my swete.

Ailsie, I colde not say you ill, For out of the mist of your bitter tears, And the prayers that rise from your bonnie eyes Cometh a promise of oder yeres.

I mind the time when we lost our bairn,-- Do you ken that time? A wambling tot, You wandered away ane simmer day, And we hunted and called, and found you not.

I promised God, if He'd send you back, Alwaies to keepe and to love you, childe; And I'm thinking again of that promise when I see you creep out of the storm sae wild.

You came back then as you come back now,-- Your kirtle torn and your face all white; And you stood outside and knockit and cried, Just as you, dearie, did to-night.

Oh, never a word of the cruel wrang, That has faded your cheek and dimmed your ee; And never a word of the fause, fause lord,-- Only a smile and a kiss for me.

Lie in my arms, as long, long syne, And sleepe on my bosom, deere wounded thing,-- I'm nae sae glee as I used to be, Or I'd sing you the songs I used to sing.

But Ile kemb my fingers thro' y'r haire, And nane shall know, but you and I, Of the love and the faith that came to us baith When Ailsie, my bairn, came home to die.

CORNISH LULLABY

Out on the mountain over the town, All night long, all night long, The trolls go up and the trolls go down, Bearing their packs and crooning a song; And this is the song the hill-folk croon, As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,-- This is ever their dolorous tune: "Gold, gold! ever more gold,-- Bright red gold for dearie!"

Deep in the hill the yeoman delves All night long, all night long; None but the peering, furtive elves See his toil and hear his song; Merrily ever the cavern rings As merrily ever his pick he swings, And merrily ever this song he sings: "Gold, gold! ever more gold,-- Bright red gold for dearie!"

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed All night long, all night long, Happy to smooth thy curly head And to hold thy hand and to sing her song; 'T is not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old, Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold, And the burden it beareth is not of gold; But it's "Love, love!--nothing but love,-- Mother's love for dearie!"

UHLAND'S "THREE CAVALIERS"

There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine, And gayly they called to the hostess for wine. "And where is thy daughter? We would she were here,-- Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer!"

"I'll fetch thee thy goblets full foaming," she said, "But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead." And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the white Of a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight.

Then the first cavalier breathed a pitiful sigh, And the throb of his heart seemed to melt in his eye, And he cried, "Hadst thou lived, O my pretty white rose, I ween I had loved thee and wed thee--who knows?"

The next cavalier drew aside a small space, And stood to the wall with his hands to his face; And this was the heart-cry that came with his tears: "I loved her, I loved her these many long years!"

But the third cavalier kneeled him down in that place, And, as it were holy, he kissed that dead face: "I loved thee long years, and I love thee to-day, And I'll love thee, dear maiden, forever and aye!"

A CHAUCERIAN PARAPHRASE OF HORACE