Chapter 4
Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom! The joy of that night, But the grievous awaking! The speed of my flight Thro' the dawn redly breaking! Gray lay the still sea; Naked hillside and lea; And gray with night frost The wide garden I crossed! But the hyacinth beds were a-bloom. I stooped and plucked one-- In an instant 'twas done,-- And I heard, not far off, a gun boom! In my bosom I thrust the crushed blossom; And turned, and looked back Where She stood at her pane Waving sadly farewell once again; Then down the dim track Fled amain, With the flower in my bosom. Oh, the scent of the hyacinth blossom!
TO A LADY,
AFTER HEARING HER READ KEATS' "NIGHTINGALE."
This supreme song of him who dreamed All beauty, and whose heart foreknew The anguish of vain longing, seemed To breathe new mystery, breathed by you.
As if the rapture of the night, Moon-tranced, and passion-still, were stirred To some undreamed divine delight By sudden singing of a bird!
RONDEAU.
TO LOUIS HONORE FRÉCHETTE.
Laurels for song! And nobler bays, In old Olympian golden days Of clamor thro' the clear-eyed morn, No bowed triumphant head hath borne, Victorious in all Hellas' gaze!
They watched his glowing axles graze The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;-- Yet the supremer heads have worn Laurels for song.
So thee, from no palaestra-plays A conqueror, to the gods we raise, Whose brows of all our singers born The sacred fillets chief adorn,-- Who first of all our choir displays Laurels for song.
A BIRTHDAY BALLADE.
All deserted to wind and to sun You have left the dear, dusky canoe. The amber cool currents still run, But our paddle forgets to pursue. Our river wears still the rare blue, But its sparkle seems somehow less gay; It confides me this greeting for you-- Many Happy Returns of the Day!
Where's the mirth that with morn was begun, Nor dreaded the dark and the dew? Some sweet thieves have made off with our fun! Would our paddles were free to pursue! Ah, could we but catch them anew, Clip their wings, forbid them to stray, Then more blithely we'd sing than we do-- Many Happy Returns of the Day!
Dear remembrances die, one by one, So cunning Time's craft to undo! But ours must be never undone. Oft again must the paddle pursue, Oft the treasured impression renew! Then, return our Acadian way, For our days of delight were too few-- Many Happy Returns of the Day!
L'ENVOI. Now an easy enigma or two This ballade is devised to convey. Unto you, and us lonely ones too, Many Happy Returns of the Day!
TO S---- M----.
The disciple of Master Herrick returneth thanks for the gift of a band of pansies for his hat.
I.
Never poet From Musaeus down, Crowned with rose, or myrtle-wreath, or laurel, Had of daintier hand Dearer trophy! Therefore (know it, Castaly! and, Daphne's lover, quarrel!) I for crown Flout the bay and wear thy pansy-band, Mistress Sophie.
II.
As these petals Die not, So the thought that settles Softly in the purple petals Fly not! Half a memory, which a world of men Can buy not,-- Half a prayer, that till we meet again Thou sigh not!
LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.
How grave she sits and toots In the glare! From her dainty bits of boots To her hair Not the sign remotest shows If she either cares or knows How the beer-imbibing beaux Sit and stare.
They're most prodigal with sighs, Or they laugh; Or they cast adoring eyes As they quaff. They exert their every wile Her attention to beguile. Do they ever win a smile? Not by half!
She leans upon her chin (Not a toot!), While the leading violin And the flute Wail and plead in low duet Till, it may be, eyes are wet. She her trombone doth forget-- She is mute.
The music louder grows; She's awake! She applies her lips and blows-- Goodness sake!...... To think that such a peal From such throat and frame ideal, From such tender lips could steal-- Takes the cake!
The dinning cymbals shrill Kiss and clash. Drum and kettle-drum at will Roll and crash. But that trombone over all Toots unto my heart a call;-- Maid petite, and trombone tall-- It's a mash!
Yet, I hesitate--for lo, What a pout! She's poetic; and I know I am stout. In her little room would she On her trombone, tenderly, Sit and toot as thus to me?-- Ah, I doubt!
THE POET IS BIDDEN TO MANHATTAN ISLAND.
Dear Poet, quit your shady lanes And come where more than lanes are shady. Leave Phyllis to the rustic swains And sing some Knickerbocker lady. O hither haste, and here devise Divine ballades before unuttered. Your poet's eyes must recognize The side on which your bread is buttered!
Dream not I tempt you to forswear One pastoral joy, or rural frolic. I call you to a city where The most urbane are most bucolic. 'Twill charm your poet's eyes to find Good husbandmen in brokers burly;-- Their stock is ever on their mind; To water it they rise up early.
Things you have sung, but ah, not seen-- Things proper to the age of Saturn-- Shall greet you here; for we have been Wrought quaintly, on the Arcadian pattern. Your poet's lips will break in song For joy, to see at last appearing The bulls and bears, a peaceful throng, While a lamb leads them--to the shearing!
And metamorphoses, of course, You'll mark in plenty, à la Proteus: A bear become a little horse-- Presumably from too much throat-use! A thousandfold must go untold; But, should you miss your farm-yard sunny, And miss your ducks and drakes, behold We'll make you ducks and drakes--of money!
Greengrocers here are fairly read. And should you set your heart upon them, We lack not beets--but some are dead, While others have policemen on them. And be the dewfall dear to you, Possess your poet's soul in patience! Your notes shall soon be falling dew,-- Most mystical of transformations!
Your heart, dear Poet, surely yields; And soon you'll leave your uplands flowery, Forsaking fresh and bowery fields, For "pastures new"--upon the Bowery! You've piped at home, where none could pay, Till now, I trust, your wits are riper. Make no delay, but come this way, And pipe for them that pay the piper!
THE BLUE VIOLET.
Blossom that spread'st, as spring brings in Her sudden flights of swallows, Thy nets of blue, cool-meshed and thin, In rain-wet pasture hollows,--
Thronging the dim grass everywhere Amid thy heart-leaves tender, Thy temperate fairness seems more fair Even than August's splendor!
Yet do I hear complaints of thee,-- Men doubting of thy fragrance! But, Dear, thou hast revealed to me That shyest of perfume-vagrants.
Do ever so, my Flower discreet, And all the world be fair to, While men but guess that rarest sweet Which one alone can swear to!