Part 6

And, O, the jewels rich and rare Do make the eye grow dim, That sparkle in her powdered hair, And on her fingers slim.

My ladye wears a satin shoe, With silver buckle wide, A tiny thing from heel to toe That is my joy and pride.

My ladye wears upon her face A little touch of scorn, No fuller share of pride and grace Hath any woman born.

My ladye’s face is sweet and fair, My ladye’s eyes are grey, She goeth out to take the air On every sunny day.

The Rustic’s Lassie

My lassie’s face is fair to see, My lassie’s eyes are blue, And always do they tell to me Her heart is fond and true.

There’s silk, too, on my lassie’s head, As yellow as the gold, And woven is each shining thread Into a braided fold.

But never fairy hands did spin Silk like my lassie’s hair, As for the strings beneath her chin I would not have them there.

Lest one dear dimple growing shy That everyone should see, Within those silken strings would try To hide itself from me.

My lassie wears a gown of white, Which needs no pearls to deck, With lace like cobweb, soft and light, Full-gathered at her neck.

My lassie wears upon her breast No knot of ribbon gay, Forget-me-nots she loves the best, Plucked at the dawn of day.

My lassie’s feet like two white mice Go slipping through the grass, And all the dew-drops think them nice, And kiss them as they pass.

The satin shoe with buckle drest Is richer, it may be, But if the truth must be confest, Not half so good to see.

My lassie’s face is fair to see, My lassie’s eyes are blue, And always do they tell to me Her heart is fond and true.

Her Dower

One angel brought a birth-day gift, Straight from the courts above, “Now soft thy voice, and bright thy smile, For I do give thee Love.”

Another came on snowy wings, Tipped with a golden light, “I bring the gift of Purity To keep thy dear heart white.”

The third had music in his tones: “I bring thee Courage, strong, To guard both Love and Purity From what would do them wrong.

“For tender feet must press the paths-- The crowded paths of life-- And tender souls must meet the shock And din of passions strife.

“Walk thou unmoved through perils great, While we thy strength applaud, With Courage true I crown to-day The fairest work of God.”

Mavourneen

So still you sleep upon your bed, So motionless and slender, It cannot be that you are dead, My little maiden tender.

You were no creature pale and meek That death should hasten after, The red rose bloomed upon your cheek, Your lips were made for laughter.

To you the great world was a place That care might never stay in, A playground built by God’s good grace For happy folks to play in.

You made your footpath by life’s flowers, O happy little maiden, The sky was full of shine and showers, The wind was perfume-laden.

I came and found you sweet and wild, Love--only love--could tame you, To think, O pretty thoughtless child That greedy death must claim you.

Your dimpled hands are folded now Above the snowy bosom, The lilies creep and kiss your brow, O tender broken blossom!

The white lids hide the eyes so clear, So witching and beguiling, But as my tears fall on you dear Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home, The City we call heaven? Ah! were they glad to have you come, My little maid of seven?

Methinks when you stand all in white To learn each sweet new duty, Some eye will note with keen delight Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings Out where God’s streets do glisten, The angels fair will fold their wings And still their song to listen.

Song of the Wind.

O Wind you come singing, singing, Gaily about the eaves, I think you are bringing, bringing, The secret of the leaves; Secrets you learned in the Maytime, Down in the wood so cool, Learned in the night-time and day-time, By bank, and brook, and pool.

O wind, you go shrilling, shrilling, Over the chimneys high, While the clouds are softly spilling Rain on the gardens dry: ’Tis autumn, the wild new-comer Has taught you how to sing, But the voice of the sweet dead summer Through it all seems to ring.

O wind, you are railing, railing, ’Tis the voice of a shrew, Wearied at length, and failing, Then beginning anew: Here you come sighing, sighing, Down to my casement wide, A moment and you are flying Away in pique and pride.

I love your chasing and panting, I love the melody, That you go so gaily chanting To earth, and sky, and sea. Our birds go southward soaring, When signs of frost appear, You, with your sighing and roaring, Sing to us all the year.

The Richer Man

You know how it is--you have had the gain, The sweetness and pleasures of life, I the fruitless striving, the heat to attain, The toil, the failure, the strife.

Then we chance to come by the will of fate To the warmth of one woman’s eyes, And fate decrees it is not too late To give me a great surprise.

And the woman turns with matchless grace The bloom of her tender cheek, And her red lips smiling--her glorious face, Her glance so loving and meek.

To me--to the penniless bankrupt one, And I find my portion at last, And heaven as real, when all is done, As the hell of the bitter past.

The glories of earth are but chaff in the wind, The riches of earth but a song, Now listen, my brother, I think you will find You have tried to do me a wrong.

You had all that to me had been denied, I starved while you feasted well, You have fame, and a hundred things beside, You have watched your coffers swell.

Yet when we come by the will of fate To the warmth of one woman’s eyes, And fate declares it is not too late To give me a great surprise.

You come with the weight of your yellow gold, And the trappings of your success; You come with your bearing, courtly and bold, You woo in your haughtiness.

You try to dazzle her eyes of blue, And you try to steal for yourself The heart of a woman good and true, Go, be content with your pelf.

Learn there are treasures you may not grasp, Joys you must surely miss, The hand you court lies in my clasp The lips are my own to kiss.

A penniless fellow! you used to say-- Own to the truth if you can-- We stand here together this summer’s day, And _I_ am the _richer_ man.

His Wife and Boy.

Love is a myth which men create from vapors of the heart and brain, Thus far the poet grave did get, then from a smile could not refrain, Someone was singing, he could hear Each word so low and sweet and clear, “By Baby Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

Right well he knew that picture fair Might set a stoic’s heart aglow, For it was such a bonnie pair, So gently rocking to and fro. The old song was a foolish thing, Yet it seemed good to hear her sing, “By Baby Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap his Baby-Bunting in.”

The sunshine would be creeping down Upon her hair of golden brown, And farther yet that it might peep At her awake, at him asleep, And both were his to have and hold, How runs the foolish song so old? “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

But he must to his hunting go, A cloak this pen of his must win As soft as silk and white as snow, To wrap the Baby-Bunting in. Strange that his poem deep and strong Should wait upon a nursery song, “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a hunting, To get a little rabbit skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

Love is a myth that men create From vapors of the heart and brain, O pen, I fear you lied of late! Hark, softly rings the old refrain! “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

She Just Keeps House For Me

She is so winsome and so wise She sways us at her will, And oft the question will arise What mission does she fill? And so I say with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold She just keeps house for me-- For me, She just keeps house for me.

A full content dwells in her face, She’s quite in love with life, And for a title, wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned “Wife,” And so I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold She just keeps house for me-- For me, She just keeps house for me.

What though I toil from morn till night, What though I weary grow, A spring of love and dear delight Doth ever softly flow, And so I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, The woman with the heart of gold She just keeps house for me.

Our children climb upon her knee And lie upon her breast, And ah! her mission seems to me The highest and the best, And so I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold She just keeps house for me.

Love’s Humility

“I love her, yes,” the younger of them said, “I think her beautiful beyond compare; How proudly does she carry that small head, With all its wealth of silky night-black hair? And then her warm red mouth--I see it now-- Was it not made for kisses? And her chin So round and firm--the smooth unwrinkled brow, Each cheek with such a cunning dimple in. She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would.

“Did I not love her well, think you her charms Would move my pulse in this delicious way, And make me long to fold her in my arms, Hold her love’s prisoner by night and day? ’Tis joy to think of her white-lidded eyes-- So full of dreams, so full of tender speech-- Her slender form--and yet, it were not wise To be too rash--come, let your wisdom teach. She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would.

“I fain would make her all my own, this maid, I love her well, but would it be quite right To risk so much? At times I grow afraid To lift her up to such a dizzy height. You know my prospects and you know my pride, (It is a weighty matter to be wed) And yet, I only know when at her side That life is rich in joy and bliss,” we said. “She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would.”

“I could not choose but love her if I would” You boast, but if you loved her you would say, “I would not choose but love her if I could,” So answered him the old man, stern and gray. “There’s passion in your words, but you have fears, Your high position! Ah! you are afraid! Boy, learn this truth from one of sober years, The man who really, truly, loves a maid Knows only two things well--no more, no less-- Her matchless worth--his own unworthiness.”

Our Host and His House

Nay, rail not, dear, at Time in such rude way, ’Tis scarcely fair, since he has been our host For such a while. And rail not at the world, This grey old ivy-covered manor-house wherein He long has entertained us both. Since we Have broken bread with him, danced in his halls, Let us not talk of him in slighting way.

What though He has not given lavishly, For daily use, the rich things in his store? Rare things grow common, quite, when they are used In common way--you know this for yourself-- And delicacies lose their flavor when The palate tires of them. But ah, on state Occasions has he not been prodigal? O wine of life that he has poured for us! Poured freely till it ran the goblet o’er, And trickled down in little rosy streams!

Believe me, dear, for all his length of beard So snowy white, his venerable air, Enough of youth lurks in his bosom still To make him lenient with foolishness. For often has he stolen off and left Us standing heart to heart, And has he not Sometimes, stilled all his house lest we should wake Too soon from some wrapt dream of tenderness? Then, too, for playthings he has given us hours Filled full enough of rapture unalloyed To cover every day of all the years With common happiness if properly Spread out.

As for this grey old world, It is not half so murk, so wanting in All light, all glow, and warmth, as some declare-- As we oft picture to ourselves, my dear, It has its windows looking east and west, It has its sunset and its morning gold; The trouble is we _will_ look toward the east At eventide, and toward the sombre west When heaven is shaking down upon the world, A lusty infant day. And so we miss The glory of the sunset and the dawn.

The Mother’s Story

She told a wonderful story, the mother so fair and good, Of the deep and strange old mystery men have never understood. It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime.

“Now listen,” she said, “my children, to every word that I say, Dear Marjory, share the hearthrug with your restless sister May, And you, my lad, with the great dark eyes, may share the couch with me, While the baby-girl, with doll in arms, shall sit upon mother’s knee.

Your faces change as I carry your thoughts through the ebb and flow Of someone’s joys, and someone’s hopes, and I love to watch the glow In Marjory’s eyes as we talk of elves in their wild and wanton glee, When they make the dim old forest ring with the sound of revelry.

But May cares only to listen when I tell some quaint home tale, She likes a cot on a wooded hill, and flocks of sheep in the vale, While you, my lad, with the dreamy eyes, you love the prose and the rhyme, The deeds of daring, the deeds of might, of good King Arthur’s time.

To-day May asked me a question, and I’ve pondered it for hours, _God’s acre_, she said, _is full of bloom--do the dead folks turn to flowers?_ There’s a tender story, my children, that may comfort you some day When mother sleeps in God’s acre, and the flowers blossom gay.

The soft-voiced angels of Life and Love they whispered to Christ one day We pray Thee that when one fair and good in the earth is laid away, That we in the golden dawn may go alone where the sleeper lies, And sing in the solemn silence the songs learned in Paradise.”

Answered Christ, “Go sing till comes springing up, up from the sod beneath, The lily, white as a ransomed soul, the rose with its fragrant breath.” A silence fell on the little group, there were tears in Marjory’s eyes, It was a wonderful story, and mother was O, so wise!

Then the wee girl clapped her dimpled hands, and said in her loving way, “When you turn to a posy, mamma, I’ll water you every day.” It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme, To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime.

In Lover’s Lane

O, ranting bully with clamorous breath, O, vandal, why come you down from the North With frost in your breath, and wrath in your voice, And force in your arms to level and toss? You rush through the wood and threaten the trees-- The giants of oak, of beech, and of elm, Playmates of yours ere age had o’ertaken, Stolen their vigor, their sap, and their life. The tender child-trees, the slender child-trees You worry, you beat, you fling to the earth, Lithe and supple are they to defy you, Swiftly they spring up as soon as you pass, Trembling a little with fear and anger, But whole and unhurt--the slender young things!

Is it not enough that you bend and you break, And make you a path wherever you go, But you must enter this quiet old lane, Shut out from the world by lattice of vines, Where Eve, pretty Eve, so prim and demure Is walking with someone, taking the air? You rest behind them plotting new mischief, Rest till a soft hush falls down on the world, Rest till the growing things listen and laugh Thinking you gone to your lair in the North, Then you begin to stir and to mutter, Growing in anger, till, big with your wrath, On you come rushing--vandal how can you Liberties take with a maiden so fair?

Eve, as you walk so primly beside him, Keeping your distance, nor heeding his sighs. Chin tilted forward, eyes straight before you, Parasol swinging in one little hand, Blue gown all flounces, ribbons a-flutter, Dainty, and winsome, and proud as a queen!

There is no time--the boorish thing takes you-- You and your ruffles, your ribbons and curls, You and your primness, your blushes, and airs, Straight to the arms of the man at your side. You have no conscience swaggering north wind, Else would you hasten and leave them alone; Why must you push her yet nearer to him? Buffet and beat her--you ruffian strong! She has to hide her face on his bosom, While you go whirling in ecstasy round, Then you loosen her bronze hair and fling it, Warm and electric, up over his cheek, Hair soft and shiny, full of allurement, Tempting a mortal to feel of its gold.

Down you go soberly over the fields, Making believe you have left them for good, Driving the cattle and scaring the flocks, Shaking the cedars that stand on the hill; Then, when she loosens herself from his grasp, Laughing and blushing, and red as a rose, Back you come flying on mischief intent Pleased to torment the fair maid in the lane.

Oh, how you buffet her, boor that you are! Oh, how you flutter her garments abroad! Clutch at her flounces, so pretty and neat! Worry the ribbons that hang at her waist! Then growing fiercer, you roar and you rage, Whirling and twirling to show off your strength, Pay no attention to prayer--or mishap-- Drive her to shelter again in his arms. Watching so closely the glances she gives, Wondering greatly how much she regrets, All that has happened, since, prim and demure, Out from the farmhouse she started at noon. “Maidens are queer things,” you laugh to yourself, “Hiding their faces and owning to naught; Why must she whimper?

She’s glad to be there, Glad to be holding so closely to him, Glad to feel round her his care-taking arms, Glad to be list’ning to all that he tells, Glad that I rumpled her shiny bronze hair, Making her fairer in somebody’s eyes; Glad that I thrashed out her primness and pride, Glad! she’ll not own it--mark her distress now-- Oh! but these maidens are curious things!”

Listen, old North Wind, listen and peer, You have no manners, no conscience, no shame, Words of the lovers you greedily seize-- Seize, and go shrieking them out to the world! _She is an angel! so fair, and so tender! Too good for mortal--the loveliest, best!_

O, you prying, inquisitive meddler! One thing you miss though--the sweetest of all-- Not even a breath of love’s first warm kiss Is wasted on you--O boor of the North!

O Last Days of the Year

“O last days of the year!” she whispered low, “You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay Awhile, a little while, do you not know What tender things you bear with you away?

I’m thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here, Of all the riches that were mine the day There crept down on the world the soft new year, A rosy thing with promise filled--and gay.

But twelve short months ago! a little space In which to lose so much--a whole life’s wealth Of love and faith, youth, and youth’s tender grace-- Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.

Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong, The clasp of clinging hands, the burning kiss, The joy of living, and the glorious song That drew its sweetness from a full heart’s bliss.

O gladness great! O wealth of tenderness! That were my own one little year ago, A bankrupt I--gone faith, gone warm caress, Gone love, gone youth, gone _all_,” She whispered low.

“O last days of the year! You take away The riches that I held so close and dear, Go not so swiftly, stay a little--stay With one poor bankrupt, Last days of the year!”

Back on the Farm

I’ll tell you what I wish I was, When days like these arrive, An’ spring puts all her gewgaws on, An’ all the world’s alive.

I wish I was a boy again-- A boy back on the farm-- A-watchin’ all the growin’ stuff, An’ cowslips gettin’ warm.

A playin’ round the whole long day As happy as a lark, An’ never out of mischief once From daylight until dark.

With such a lot of things to hear An’ such a lot to see, An’ my dog Rover at my heels, To keep me company.

A watchin’ the big sun go down Behind the tree-tops high, An’ wishin’ I could climb the one That reached up to the sky.

A-listenin’ to the katydids A-jawin’ in the lane, An’ sniffin’ up the earthy smell That comes before a rain.

Laughin’ to see the white-wool’d sheep Come skippin’ down the hill, An’ feelin’ such a heap of joy I couldn’t quite keep still.

An’ by-an’-by, a dozin’ off, An’ wakin’ up to hear My mother say: “Come in the house, ’Tis past your bedtime, dear.”

A longin’ takes me on these days When all the world gets warm, A-longin’ just to be a boy-- A boy back on the farm.

He Meditates on the Critic

“Criticism is a tonic, Very healthy in effect,” Wrote he, and my verse Byronic Did most _ruthlessly_ reject.

He’s a villain--deep--politic-- Bitter things these tonics, all, Manufactured by the critic From his mighty store of gall.

Jacynth