Chapter 10

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.

I stand within the stony, arid town, I gaze for ever on the narrow street; I hear for ever passing up and down, The ceaseless tramp of feet.

I know no brotherhood with far-lock'd woods, Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap; Where o'er moss'd roots, in cool, green solitudes, Small silver brooklets lap.

No em'rald vines creep wistfully to me, And lay their tender fingers on my bark; High may I toss my boughs, yet never see Dawn's first most glorious spark.

When to and fro my branches wave and sway, Answ'ring the feeble wind that faintly calls, They kiss no kindred boughs but touch alway The stones of climbing walls.

My heart is never pierc'd with song of bird; My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest, Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard, When wild birds build a nest.

There never glance the eyes of violets up, Blue into the deep splendour of my green: Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup, My quivering leaves between.

Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight Of wood-bine breathings, honey sweet, and warm; With kin embattl'd rear my glorious height To greet the coming storm!

Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast; The level, silver lances of great rains, Blown onward by the blast.

Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy, Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves: Defender of small flowers that trembling lie Against my barky greaves.

Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above, Balanced on wings that could not choose between The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love, And my own tender green.

And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight, In the close prison of the drooping air: When sun-vex'd noons are at their fiery height, My shade is broad, and there

Come city toilers, who their hour of ease Weave out to precious seconds as they lie Pillow'd on horny hands, to hear the breeze Through my great branches die.

I see no flowers, but as the children race With noise and clamour through the dusty street, I see the bud of many an angel face-- I hear their merry feet.

No violets look up, but shy and grave, The children pause and lift their chrystal eyes To where my emerald branches call and wave-- As to the mystic skies.

LATE LOVED--WELL LOVED.

He stood beside her in the dawn (And she his Dawn and she his Spring), From her bright palm she fed her fawn, Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing: Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast Shrill silver calls to hound and dove: Her young locks wove them with the blast. To the flush'd, azure shrine above, The light boughs o'er her golden head Toss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm. The perfume of their prayer was spread On the sweet wind in breath of balm.

"Dawn of my heart," he said, "O child, Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine: O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled, Let fair love leap from mine to thine!" "The Dawn is young," she smiled and said, "Too young for Love's dear joy and woe; Too young to crown her careless head With his ripe roses. Let me go-- Unquestion'd for a longer space, Perchance, when day is at the flood, In thy true palm I'll gladly place Love's flower in its rounding bud. But now the day is all too young, The Dawn and I are playmates still." She slipped the blossomed boughs among, He strode beyond the violet hill.

Again they stand (Imperial noon Lays her red sceptre on the earth), Where golden hangings make a gloom, And far off lutes sing dreamy mirth. The peacocks cry to lily cloud, From the white gloss of balustrade: Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud, Tall statues whitely strike the shade, And pulse in the dim quivering light Until, most Galatea-wise-- Each looks from base of malachite With mystic life in limbs and eyes.

Her robe, (a golden wave that rose, And burst, and clung as water clings To her long curves) about her flows. Each jewel on her white breast sings Its silent song of sun and fire. No wheeling swallows smite the skies And upward draw the faint desire, Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes. In the white kisses of the tips Of her long fingers lies a rose, Snow-pale beside her curving lips, Red by her snowy breast it glows.

"Noon of my soul," he says, "behold! The day is ripe, the rose full blown, Love stands in panoply of gold, To Jovian height and strength now grown, No infant he, a king he stands, And pleads with thee for love again." "Ah, yes!" she says, "in known lands, He kings it--lord of subtlest pain; The moon is full, the rose is fair-- Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red: "I know the rose that love should wear, Must redden as the heart had bled! The moon is mellow bright, and I Am happy in its perfect glow. The slanting sun the rose may dye-- But for the sweet noon--let me go." She parted--shimm'ring thro' the shade, Bent the fair splendour of her head: "Would the rich noon were past," he said, Would the pale rose were flush'd to red!"

Again. The noon is past and night Binds on his brow the blood red Mars-- Down dusky vineyards dies the fight, And blazing hamlets slay the stars. Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats Of thunderous cannon burst--and high Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes: The flame-dimm'd splendours of the sky. He, dying, lies beside his blade: Clear smiling as a warrior blest With victory smiles, thro' sinister shade Gleams the White Cross upon her breast.

"Soul of my soul, or is it night Or is it dawn or is it day? I see no more nor dark nor light, I hear no more the distant fray." "'Tis Dawn," she whispers: "Dawn at last! Bright flush'd with love's immortal glow For me as thee, all earth is past! Late loved--well loved, now let us go!"

LA BOUQUETIERE.

Buy my roses, citizens,-- Here are roses golden white, Like the stars that lovers watch On a purple summer night. Here are roses ruddy red, Here are roses Cupid's pink; Here are roses like his cheeks-- Deeper--like his lips, I think. Vogue la galere! what if they die, Roses will bloom again--so, buy!

Here is one--it should be white; As tho' in a playful mind, Flora stole the winter snow From the sleeping north'rn wind And lest he should wake and rage, Breath'd a spell of ardent pow'r On the flake, and flung it down To the earth, a snow-white flow'r. Vogue la galere! 'tis stain'd with red? That only means--a woman's dead!

Buy my flowers, citizens,-- Here's a Parma violet; Ah! why is my white rose red? 'Tis the blood of a grisette; She sold her flowers by the quay; Brown her eyes and fair her hair; Sixteen summers old, I think-- With a quaint, Provincial air. Vogue la galere! she's gone the way That flesh as well as flow'rs must stray.

She had a father old and lame; He wove his baskets by her side; Well, well! 'twas fair enough to see Her look of love, his glance of pride; He wore a beard of shaggy grey, And clumsy patches on his blouse; She wore about her neck a cross, And on her feet great wooden shoes. Vogue la galere! we have no cross, Th' Republic says it's gold is dross!

They had a dog, old, lame, and lean; He once had been a noble hound; And day by day he lay and starv'd, Or gnaw'd some bone that he had found. They shar'd with him the scanty crust, That barely foil'd starvation's pain; He'd wag his feeble tail and turn To gnaw that polish'd bone again. Vogue la galere! why don't ye greet My tale with laughter, prompt and meet?

No fear! ye'll chorus me with laughs When draws my long jest to its close-- And have for life a merry joke, "The spot of blood upon the rose." She sold her flow'rs--but what of that? The child was either good or dense; She starv'd--for one she would not sell, Patriots, 'twas her innocence! Vogue la galere! poor little clod! Like us, she could not laugh at God.

A week ago I saw a crowd Of red-caps; and a Tricoteuse Call'd as I hurried swiftly past-- "They've taken little Wooden Shoes!" Well, so they had. Come, laugh, I say; Your laugh with mine should come in pat! For she, the little sad-fac'd child, Was an accurs'd aristocrat! Vogue la galere! the Republic's said Saints, angels, nobles, all are dead.

"The old man, too!" shriek'd out the crowd; She turn'd her small white face about; And ye'd have laugh'd to see the air With which she fac'd that rabble rout! I laugh'd, I know--some laughter breeds A merry moisture in the eye: My cheeks were wet, to see her hand Try to push those brawny patriots by. Vogue la galere! we'll laugh nor weep When Death, not God, calls _us_ to sleep.

"Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only I That noble am--take only me; I only am his foster-child,-- He nurs'd me on his knee! See! he is guiltless of the crime Of noble birth--and lov'd me not, Because I claim an old descent, But that he nurs'd me in his cot!" Vogue la galere! 'tis well no God Exists, to look upon this sod!

"Believe her not!" he shriek'd; "O, no! I am the father of her life!" "Poor Jean!" she said; "believe him not, His mind with dreams is rife. Farewell, dear Jean!" she said. I laugh'd, Her air was so sedately grand. "Thou'st been a faithful servant, so Thou well may'st kiss my hand." Vogue la galere! the sun is red-- And will be, Patriots, when we're dead.

"Child! my dear child!" he shriek'd; she turn'd And let the patriots close her round; He was so lame, he fell behind-- He and the starving hound. "Let him go free!" yell'd out the mob; "Accurs'd be these nobles all! The, poor old wretch is craz'd it seems; Blood, Citizens, _will_ pall. Vogue la galere! We can't buy wine, So let blood flow--be't thine or mine."

I ply my trade about the Place; Where proudly reigns La Guillotine; I pile my basket up with bloom, With mosses soft and green. This morning, not an hour ago, I stood beside a Tricoteuse; And saw the little fair head fall Off the little Wooden Shoes. Vogue la galere! By Sanson's told, Into his basket, dross and gold.

She died alone. A woman drew As close beside her as she might; And in that woman's basket lay A rose all snowy white. But sixteen summers old--a child As one might say--to die alone; Ah, well--it is the only way These nobles can atone! Vogue la galere! here is my jest-- My white rose redden'd from her breast!

Buy my roses, Citizens! Here's a vi'let--here's a pink-- Deeper tint than Cupid's cheek; Deeper than his lips, I think. Flora's nymphs on rosy feet Ne'er o'er brighter blossoms sprang! Ne'er a songster sweeter blooms, In his sweetest rhyming sang! Vogue la galere! Roses must die-- Roses will grow again--so, buy!

CURTIUS.

How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how? Methought, while on the shadow'd terraces I walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came, Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry. "O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said; And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord, Gen'ral to ev'ry soul." And then my heart (I being here alone) beat strangely loud; Responsive to the cry--and my still soul, Inform'd me thus: "Not such a harmony Could spring from aught within the souls of men, But that which is most common to all souls. Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile, To tell thee as I listen'd to the cry, How on the silver flax which blew about The ivory distaff in my languid hand, I found large tears; such big and rounded drops As gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs, And I was sudden anger'd, for I thought: "Why should a gen'ral wail come home to me With such vibration in my trembling heart, That such great tears should rise and overflow?" Then shook them on the marble where I pac'd; Where instantly they vanished in the sun, As di'monds fade in flames, 'twas foolish, Curtius! And then methought how strange and lone it seem'd, For till thou cam'st I seem'd to be alone, On the vin'd terrace, prison'd in the gold Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps To take my alms and bless the Gods and me; No orphans touched the fringes of my robe With innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the gold I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek. Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets To catch first tidings from the Oracles. The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades, Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and high A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky, And kept my doves from cooing at my feet. My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds, Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath'd Around it as I sang--but with that wail Dying across the vines and purple slopes, And breaking on its strings, I did not care To waken music, nor in truth could force My voice or fingers to it, so I stray'd Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall, And pleased myself by filling it with thee! 'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome, Say all the armourers; all Rome and I Know _thee_, the lordliest bearer of a sword. Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost From out the helmet, and a ruby gone From the short sword hilt--trifles both which can Be righted by to-morrow's noon--"to-morrow's noon!" Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice When spake I those three words: "to-morrow's noon?" O, I am full of dreams--methought there was. "Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine! If lov'd I dismal thoughts I well could deem Thou saw'st not the blue of my fond eyes, But looked between the lips of that dread pit-- O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the air With chills of death--we'll not speak of it, Curtius. When I had dimm'd thy shield with kissing it, I went between the olives to the stalls; White Audax neigh'd out to me as I came, As I had been Hippona to his eyes; New dazzling from the one, small, mystic cloud That like a silver chariot floated low In the ripe blue of noon, and seem'd to pause, Stay'd by the hilly round of yon aged tree. He stretch'd the ivory arch of his vast neck, Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth; Shook the long silver of his burnish'd mane, Until the sunbeams smote it into light, Such as a comet trails across the sky. I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous fires Leap from his eyes. I do truly think That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees Against his sides--the bridle in his jaws In thy lov'd hand, to pleasure thee he'd spring Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast Of Death and Chaos--of Death and Chaos!-- What omens seem to strike my soul to-day? What is there in this blossom hour should knit An omen in with ev'ry simple word? Should make yon willows with their hanging locks Dusk sybils, mutt'ring sorrows to the air? The roses clamb'ring round yon marble Pan, Wave like red banners floating o'er the dead? The dead--there 'tis again. My Curtius, come And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles And what sent hither that long cry of woe. Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear. While on thy charger's throbbing neck I lean'd, Romeward there pass'd across the violet slopes, Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides, And horns as cusp'd and white as Dian's bow, And lordly breasts which laid the honey'd thyme Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose, For the great temple they; and as they pass'd With quiet gait, I heard their drivers say: The bulls were for the Altars, when should come Word from the Oracles, as to the Pit, O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see How black and fearful is its glutton throat; I will not look! O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men Wav'd their long goads, still juicy from the vine, And plum'd with bronzy leaves, and each to each, Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides, The mighty curving of the lordly breasts, The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads, And laugh'd and said, "The Gods will have it thus, The choicest of the earth for sacrifice; Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!" Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words, To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill'd, As Daphne's leaves, thrill to a wind so soft, One might not feel it on the open palm; I cannot choose but laugh--for what have I To do with altars and with sacrifice?

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER CHERRY.

The Farmer quit what he was at, The bee-hive he was smokin': He tilted back his old straw hat-- Says he, "Young man, you're jokin'! O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,) Ain't ye a cheeky sinner? Come, if I give my gal thar, Where would _you_ find her dinner?

"Now look at _me_; I settl'd down When I was one and twenty, Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown, And stony land a plenty. Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine, And look at them thar cattle: I tell ye since that early time I've fit a tidy battle.

"It kinder wrestles down a man To fight the stuns and mire: But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar plan Of David and Goliar. Want was the mean old Philistine That strutted round the clearin', Of pebbles I'd a hansum line, And flung 'em nothin' fearin'.

"They hit him square, right whar they ought, Them times I _had_ an arm! I lick'd the giant and I bought A hundred acre farm. My gal was born about them days, I was mowin' in the medder; When some one comes along and says-- "The wife's gone thro' the shadder!"

"Times thought it was God's will she went-- Times thought she work'd too slavin'-- And for the young one that was sent, I took to steady savin'. Jest cast your eye on that thar hill The sugar bush just tetches, And round by Miller Jackson's mill, All round the farm stretches.

"'Ain't got a mind to give that land To any snip-snap feller That don't know loam from mud or sand, Or if corn's blue or yaller. I've got a mind to keep her yet-- Last Fall her cheese and butter Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget Her pretty pride and flutter.

"Why, you be off! her little face For me's the only summer; Her gone, 'twould be a queer, old place, The Lord smile down upon her! All goes with her, the house and lot-- You'd like to get 'em, very! I'll give 'em when this maple bears A bouncin' ripe-red cherry!"

The Farmer fixed his hat and specks And pursed his lips together, The maple wav'd above his head, Each gold and scarlet feather: The Teacher's Honest heart sank down: How could his soul be merry? He knew--though teaching in a town, No maple bears a cherry.

Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, Like Saul to David's singing, Nodded its jewelled crown, as he Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing; A something rosy--not a leaf Stirs up amid the branches; A miracle _may_ send relief To lovers fond and anxious!

O rosy is the velvet cheek Of one 'mid red leaves sitting! The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek With the needles in her knitting. "O Pa!" The Farmer prick'd his ears, Whence came that voice so merry? (The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears) "The maple bears a cherry!"

The Farmer tilted back his hat: "Well, gal--as I'm a human, I'll always hold as doctrine that Thar's nothin' beats a woman! When crown'd that maple is with snow, And Christmas bells are merry, I'll let you have her, Jack--that's so! Be sure you're good to Cherry!"

SOME OF FARMER STEBBIN'S OPINIONS.

No, Parson, 'tain't been in my style, (Nor none ov my relations) Tew dig about the gnarly roots Ov prophetic spekkleations, Tew see what Malachai meant; Or Solomon was hintin'; Or reound what jog o' Futur's road Isaiah was a-squintin'.

I've lost my rest a-keepin' out The hogs from our cowcumbers; But never lost a wink, you bet, By wrastlin' over Numbers. I never took no comfort when The year was bald with losses, A-spekkleatin' on them chaps That rode them varus hosses.

It never gave my soul a boost When grief an' it was matin', Tew figger out that that thar Pope Wus reely twins with Satan. I took no stock in countin' up How menny hed ov cattle From Egypt's ranches Moses drove; I never fit a battle On p'ints that frequently gave rise Tew pious spat an' grumble, An' makes the brethren clinch an' yell In spiritooal rough-an'-tumble.

I never bet on Paul agin The argyments ov Peter, I never made the good old Book A kind ov moral teeter; Tew pass a choreless hour away, An' get the evenin' over; I swallered it jest as it stood, From cover clar tew cover.

Hain't had no time tew disputate, Except with axe an' arm, With stump an' rampike and with stuns, Upon my half clar'd farm. An' when sech argyments as them-- Fill six days out ov seven; A man on Sabbath wants tew crawl By quiet ways tew heaven.

Again he gets the waggon out, An' hitches up the sorrels, An' rides ten miles tew meetin', he Ain't braced for pious quarrels: No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rolls From corduroy to puddle, An' that thar farmer gets his brains Inter an easy muddle.

His back is stiff from six days' toil-- So God takes hold an' preaches, In boughs ov rustlin' maple an' In whisperin' leaves ov beeches: Sez He tew that thar farmin' chap (Likewise tew the old woman), "I guess I'm built tew comprehend That you an' her be's human!"

"So jest take hold on this har day, Recowperate yer muscle; Let up a mite this day on toil, 'Taint made for holy bustle. Let them old sorrels jog along, With mighty slack-like traces; Half dreamin', es my sunbeams fleck Their venerable faces.

"I guess they did their share, ov work, Since Monday's dew was hoary; Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trot Upon the road tew Glory! Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thick My lily-buds air blowin': An' whar My trees cast shadders on My silver creeklet flowin'.

"An' while their red, rough tongues push back The stems ov reed an' lily, Jest let 'em dream ov them thar days When they was colt an' filly, An' spekkleate, es fetlock deep They eye my cool creek flowin', On whar I loosed it from My hand, Where be its crisp waves goin'. An' how in snow-white lily cup I built them yaller fires, An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle up Agin the waggon tires.

"An' throw a forrard eye along Where that bush roadway passes, A-spekkleating on the chance-- Ov nibbling road-side grasses. Jest let them lines rest on thar necks-- Restrain yer moral twitters-- An' paste this note inside yer hat-- I talk tew all My critters!

"Be they on four legs or on two, In broadcloth, scales or feathers, No matter what may be the length Ov all their mental tethers: In ways mayn't suit the minds ov them That thinks themselves thar betters. I talk tew them in simple style, In words ov just three letters,-- Spell'd out in lily-blow an' reed, In soft winds on them blowin', In juicy grass by wayside streams, In coolin' waters flowin'.

"An' so jest let them sorrels laze My ripplin' silver creek in; They're listenin' in thar own dumb way, An' I--Myself--am speakin'; Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soul In no sort ov dejection; You'll get tew meetin' quick enough, In time for the--collection."

THE DEACON AND HIS DAUGHTER.

He saved his soul and saved his pork, With old time preservation; He did not hold with creosote, Or new plans of salvation; He said that "Works would show the man," "The smoke-house tell upon the ham!"

He didn't, when he sunk a well, Inspect the stuns and gravel; To prove that Moses was a dunce, Unfit for furrin travel; He marvell'd at them works of God-- An' broke 'em up to mend the road!

And when the Circus come around, He hitch'd his sleek old horses; And in his rattling wagon took His dimpl'd household forces-- The boys to wonder at the Clown, And think his fate Life's highest crown.

He wondered at the zebras wild, Nor knew 'em painted donkeys; An' when he gave the boys a dime For cakes to feed the monkeys, He never thought, in any shape, He had descended from an ape!

And when he saw some shallow-pate, With smallest brain possession, He uttered no filosofy On Nature's retrogression. To ancient types, by Darwin's rule, He simply said, "Wal, darn a fool."

He never had an enemy, But once a year to meetin', When he and Deacon Maybee fought On questions of free seatin'; Or which should be the one t' rebuke Pastor for kissin' sister Luke.

His farm was well enough, but stones Kind of stern, ruthless facts is; An' he jest made out to save a mite, An' pay his righteous taxes, An' mebbe tote some flour an' pork To poor old critters past their work.

But on the neatest thing he hed Around the place or dwellin', I guess he never paid a red Of taxes. No mush melon Was rounder, sweeter, pinker than The old Man's daughter, Minta Ann.

I've been at Philadelfy's show An' other similar fusses, An' seen a mighty sight of stone, Minarveys and Venusses; An' Sikeys clad in flowers an' wings, But not much show of factory things.

I've seen the hull entire crowd Of Jove's female relations, An' I feel to make a solemn swear On them thar "Lamentations," That as a sort of general plan I'd rather spark with Minta Ann!

You'd ought to see her dimpled chin, With one red freckle on it, Her brown eyes glancing underneath Her tilted shaker bonnet. I vow, I often did desire, They'd set the plaguey thing a-fire!

You'd ought to hear that gal sing On Sabbath, up to meetin', You'd kind of feel high lifted up, Your soul for Heaven fleetin'. And then--came supper, down she'd tie You to this earth with pumpkin pie!

I tell you, stranger, 'twas a sight For poetry and speeches, To see her sittin' on the stoop, A-peelin' scarlet peaches, Inter the kettle at her feet,-- I tell you, 'twas a show complete!

Drip, droppin' thro' the rustlin' vine, The sunbeams came a flittin'; An' sort of danced upon the floor, Chas'd by the tabby kitten; Losh! to see the critter's big surprise, When them beams slipped into Minta's eyes!

An' down her brow her pretty hair Cum curlin', crinklin', creepin', In leetle, yaller mites of rings, Inter them bright eyes, peepin', Es run the tendrils of the vine, To whar the merry sunbeams shine.

But losh! her smile was dreadful shy, An' kept her white lids under; Jest as when darkens up the sky An' growls away the thunder; Them skeery speckled trout will hide Beneath them white pond lilies' pride!

An' then her heart, 'twas made clar through Of Californy metal, Chock full of things es sugar sweet Es a presarvin' kettle. The beaux went crazed fur menny a mile When I got thet kettle on the bile.

The good old deacon's gone to whar Thar ain't no wild contentions On Buildin' Funds' Committees and No taxes nor exemptions. Yet still I sort of feel he preaches, And Minta Ann preserves my peaches.

SAID THE SKYLARK.

"O soft, small cloud, the dim, sweet dawn adorning, Swan-like a-sailing on its tender grey; Why dost thou, dost thou float, So high, the wing'd, wild note Of silver lamentation from my dark and pulsing throat May never reach thee, Tho' every note beseech thee To bend thy white wings downward thro' the smiling of the morning, And by the black wires of my prison lightly stray?

"O dear, small cloud, when all blue morn is ringing With sweet notes piped from other throats than mine; If those glad singers please The tall and nodding trees-- If to them dance the pennants of the swaying columbine, If to their songs are set The dance of daffodil and trembling violet-- Will they pursue thee With tireless wings as free and bold as thine? Will they woo thee With love throbs in the music of their singing? Ah, nay! fair Cloud, ah, nay! Their hearts and wings will stay With yellow bud of primrose and soft blush of the May; Their songs will thrill and die, Tranc'd in the perfume of the rose's breast. While I must see thee fly With white, broad, lonely pinions down the sky.

"O fair, small cloud, unheeding o'er me straying, Jewell'd with topaz light of fading stars; Thy downy edges red As the great eagle of the Dawn sails high And sets his fire-bright head And wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast; And thou canst blush while I Must pierce myself with song and die On the bald sod behind my prison bars; Nor feel upon my crest Thy soft, sunn'd touches delicately playing!

"O fair, small cloud, grown small as lily flow'r! Even while I smite the bars to see thee fade; The wind shall bring thee The strain I sing thee-- I, in wired prison stay'd, Worse than the breathless primrose glade. That in my morn, I shrilly sang to scorn; I'll burst my heart up to thee in this hour!

"O fair, small cloud, float nearer yet and hear me! A prison'd lark once lov'd a snowy cloud, Nor did the Day With sapphire lips, and kiss Of summery bliss, Draw all her soul away; Vainly the fervent East Deck'd her with roses for their bridal feast; She would not rest In his red arms, but slipp'd adown the air And wan and fair, Her light foot touch'd a purple mountain crest, And touching, turn'd Into swift rain, that like to jewels burn'd; In the great, wondering azure of the sky; And while a rainbow spread Its mighty arms above, she, singing, fled To the lone-feather'd slave, In his sad weird grave, Whose heart upon his silver song had sped To her in days of old, In dawns of gold, And murmuring to him, said: "O love, I come! O love, I come to cheer thee-- Love, to be near thee!""

WAR.

Shake, shake the earth with giant tread, Thou red-maned Titian bold; For every step a man lies dead, A cottage hearth is cold. Take up the babes with mailed hands, Transfix them with thy spears, Spare not the chaste young virgin-bands, Tho' blood may be their tears.

Beat down the corn, tear up the vine, The waters turn to blood; And if the wretch for bread doth whine, Give him his kin for food. Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth, They make so rich a mould, Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth-- They'll turn to yellow gold.

On with thy thunders, shot and shell, Send screaming, featly hurl'd; Science has made them in her cell, To _civilize_ the world. Not, not alone where Christian men Pant in the well-arm'd strife; But seek the jungle-throttled glen-- The savage has a life.

He has a soul--so priests will say-- Go! save it with thy sword; Thro' his rank forests force thy way, Thy war cry, "For the Lord!" Rip up his mines, and from his strands Wash out the gold with blood-- Religion raises blessing hands, "War's evil worketh good!"

When striding o'er the conquer'd land, Silence thy rolling drum, And led by white-robed choiring bands With loud _"Te Deum"_ come. Seek the grim chancel, on its wall Thy blood-stiff banner hang; They lie who say thy blood is gall. Thy tooth the serpent's fang.

See! the white Christ is lifted high, Thy conqu'ring sword to bless; Smiles the pure monarch of the sky-- _Thy_ king can do no less. Drink deep with him the festal wine, Drink with him drop for drop; If, like the sun, his throne doth shine, _Thou_ art that throne's prop.

If spectres wait upon the bowl, Thou needs not be afraid, Grin hell-hounds for thy bold black soul, His purple be thy shade. Go! feast with Commerce, be her spouse; She loves thee, thou art hers-- For thee she decks her board and house. Then how may others curse

If she, mild-seeming matron, leans Upon thine iron neck, And leaves with thee her household scenes To follow at thy beck-- Bastard in brotherhood of kings, Their blood runs in thy veins, For them the crowns, the sword that swings, For thee to hew their chains.

For thee the rending of the prey-- They, jackals to the lion, Tread after in the gory way Trod by the mightier scion. O slave! that slayest other slaves, O'er vassals crowned, a king! War, build high thy throne with graves, High as the vulture's wing!

THE SWORD.

THE FORGING OF THE SWORD.

At the forging of the Sword-- The mountain roots were stirr'd, Like the heart-beats of a bird; Like flax the tall trees wav'd, So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- So loud the hammers fell, The thrice seal'd gates of Hell, Burst wide their glowing jaws; Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Kind mother Earth was rent, Like an Arab's dusky tent, And monster-like she fed-- On her children; at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- So loud the blows they gave, Up sprang the panting wave; And blind and furious slew, Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The startled air swift whirl'd The red flames round the world, From the Anvil where was smitten, The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The Maid and Matron fled, And hid them with the dead; Fierce prophets sang their doom, More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Swift leap'd the quiet hearts, In the meadows and the marts; The tides of men were drawn, By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!

* * * * *

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword; On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; In such red flames thy metal fused! From such deep hells that metal brought; O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Less than the Gods by some small span, Slim sword, how great thy lieges be! Glint but in _one_ wild camp-fire's light, Thy God-like vassals rush to thee. O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Sharp, God, how vast thy altars be! Green vallies, sacrificial cups, Flow with the purple lees of blood; Its smoke is round the mountain tops. O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

O amorous God, fierce lover thou! Bright sultan of a million brides, Thou know'st no rival to _thy_ kiss, Thy loves are _thine_ whate're betides, O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord.

Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more, Thy steel no more shall sting and shine, Pass thro' the fusing fires again; And learn to prune the laughing vine. Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord, The plough and hook we'll own as lord!

ROSES IN MADRID.

Roses, Senors, roses! Love is subtly hid In the fragrant roses, Blown in gay Madrid. Roses, Senors, roses! Look, look, look, and see Love hanging in the roses, Like a golden bee! Ha! ha! shake the roses-- Hold a palm below; Shake him from the roses, Catch the vagrant so!

High I toss the roses From my brown palm up; Like the wine that bubbles From a golden cup. Catch the roses, Senors, Light on finger tips; He who buys red roses, Dreams of crimson lips! Tinkle! my fresh roses, With the rare dews wet; Clink! my crisp, red roses, Like a castanet!

Roses, Senors, roses, Come, Hidalgo, buy! Proudly wait my roses For thy rose's eye Be thy rose as stately As a pacing deer; Worthy are my roses To burn behind her ear. Ha I ha! I can see thee, Where the fountains foam, Twining my red roses In her golden comb!

Roses, Donnas, roses, None so fresh as mine, Pluck'd at rose of morning By our Lady's shrine. Those that first I gather'd Laid I at her feet, That is why my roses Still are fresh and sweet. Roses, Donnas, roses! Roses waxen fair! Acolytes my roses, Censing ladies' pray'r!

Roses, roses, roses! Hear the tawny bull Thund'ring in the circus-- Buy your arms full. Roses by the dozen! Roses by the score! Pelt the victor with them-- Bull or Toreador!

BETWEEN THE WIND AND RAIN.

"The storm is in the air," she said, and held Her soft palm to the breeze; and looking up, Swift sunbeams brush'd the crystal of her eyes, As swallows leave the skies to skim the brown, Bright woodland lakes. "The rain is in the air. "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the rose, "That suddenly she loosens her red heart, "And sends long, perfum'd sighs about the place? "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the Swift, "That from the airy eave, she, shadow-grey, "Smites the blue pond, and speeds her glancing wing "Close to the daffodils? What hast thou told small bells, "And tender buds, that--all unlike the rose-- "They draw green leaves close, close about their breasts "And shrink to sudden slumber? The sycamores "In ev'ry leaf are eloquent with thee; "The poplars busy all their silver tongues "With answ'ring thee, and the round chestnut stirs "Vastly but softly, at thy prophecies. "The vines grow dusky with a deeper green-- "And with their tendrils snatch thy passing harp, "And keep it by brief seconds in their leaves. "O Prophet Wind, thou tellest of the rain, "While, jacinth blue, the broad sky folds calm palms, "Unwitting of all storm, high o'er the land! "The little grasses and the ruddy heath "Know of the coming rain; but towards the sun "The eagle lifts his eyes, and with his wings "Beats on a sunlight that is never marr'd "By cloud or mist, shrieks his fierce joy to air "Ne'er stir'd by stormy pulse." "The eagle mine," I said: "O I would ride "His wings like Ganymede, nor ever care "To drop upon the stormy earth again,-- "But circle star-ward, narrowing my gyres, "To some great planet of eternal peace.". "Nay," said my wise, young love, "the eagle falls "Back to his cliff, swift as a thunder-bolt; "For there his mate and naked eaglets dwell, "And there he rends the dove, and joys in all "The fierce delights of his tempestuous home. "And tho' the stormy Earth throbs thro' her poles-- "With tempests rocks upon her circling path-- "And bleak, black clouds snatch at her purple hills-- "While mate and eaglets shriek upon the rock-- "The eagle leaves the hylas to its calm, "Beats the wild storm apart that rings the earth, "And seeks his eyrie on the wind-dash'd cliff. "O Prophet Wind! close, close the storm and rain!"

Long sway'd the grasses like a rolling wave Above an undertow--the mastiff cried; Low swept the poplars, groaning in their hearts; And iron-footed stood the gnarl'd oaks, And brac'd their woody thews against the storm. Lash'd from the pond, the iv'ry cygnets sought The carven steps that plung'd into the pool; The peacocks scream'd and dragg'd forgotten plumes. On the sheer turf--all shadows subtly died, In one large shadow sweeping o'er the land; Bright windows in the ivy blush'd no more; The ripe, red walls grew pale--the tall vane dim; Like a swift off'ring to an angry God, O'erweighted vines shook plum and apricot, From trembling trellis, and the rose trees pour'd A red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves, On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote set A stream of silver wings and violet breasts, The hawk-like storm swooping on their track. "Go," said my love, "the storm would whirl me off "As thistle-down. I'll shelter here--but you-- "You love no storms!" "Where thou art," I said, "Is all the calm I know--wert thou enthron'd "On the pivot of the winds--or in the maelstrom, "Thou holdest in thy hand my palm of peace; "And, like the eagle, I would break the belts "Of shouting tempests to return to thee, "Were I above the storm on broad wings. "Yet no she-eagle thou! a small, white, lily girl "I clasp and lift and carry from the rain, "Across the windy lawn." With this I wove Her floating lace about her floating hair, And crush'd her snowy raiment to my breast, And while she thought of frowns, but smil'd instead, And wrote her heart in crimson on her cheeks, I bounded with her up the breezy slopes, The storm about us with such airy din, As of a thousand bugles, that my heart Took courage in the clamor, and I laid My lips upon the flow'r of her pink ear, And said: "I love thee; give me love again!" And here she pal'd, love has its dread, and then She clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light, Till all the daffodils I trod were pale Beside the small flow'r red upon my breast. And ere the dial on the slope was pass'd, Between the last loud bugle of the Wind And the first silver coinage of the Rain, Upon my flying hair, there came her kiss, Gentle and pure upon my face--and thus Were we betroth'd between the Wind and Rain.

JOY'S CITY.

Joy's City hath high battlements of gold; Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs; She hath her palaces high reared and bold, And tender shades of perfumed lily bowers; But ever day by day, and ever night by night, An Angel measures still our City of Delight.

He hath a rule of gold, and never stays, But ceaseless round the burnish'd ramparts glides; He measures minutes of her joyous days, Her walls, her trees, the music of her tides; The roundness of her buds--Joy's own fair city lies, Known to its heart-core by his stern and thoughtful eyes.

Above the sounds of timbrel and of song, Of greeting friends, of lovers 'mid the flowers, The Angel's voice arises clear and strong: "O City, by so many leagues thy bow'rs Stretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blue So many cubits rise thy tow'rs beyond the view."

Why dost thou, Angel, measure Joy's fair walls? Unceasing gliding by their burnish'd stones; Go, rather measure Sorrow's gloomy halls; Her cypress bow'rs, her charnel-house of bones; Her groans, her tears, the rue in her jet chalices; But leave unmeasured more, Joy's fairy palaces.

The Angel spake: "Joy hath her limits set, But Sorrow hath no bounds--Joy is a guest Perchance may enter; but no heart puls'd yet, Where Sorrow did not lay her down to rest; She hath no city by so many leagues confin'd, I cannot measure bounds where there are none to find."

THE CANOE.

My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread With furry skins, and laughing said, "Now she shall lay her polish'd sides, As queens do rest, or dainty brides, Our slender lady of the tides!"

My masters twain their camp-soul lit, Streamed incense from the hissing cones, Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, Half way about each grim bole knit, Like a shy child that would bedeck With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck; Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, The awful plumes shake on his crest, And fearful drops his timid face, Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.

Into the hollow hearts of brakes, Yet warm from sides of does and stags, Pass'd to the crisp dark river flags; Sinuous, red as copper snakes, Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, Glided and hid themselves in night.

My masters twain, the slaughtered deer Hung on fork'd boughs--with thongs of leather. Bound were his stiff, slim feet together-- His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; The wand'ring firelight drew near And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, On the sharp splendor of his branches; On the white foam grown hard and sere On flank and shoulder. Death--hard as breast of granite boulder, And under his lashes Peer'd thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes.

My masters twain sang songs that wove (As they burnish'd hunting blade and rifle) A golden thread with a cobweb trifle-- Loud of the chase, and low of love.

"O Love, art thou a silver fish? Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, Casting at thee the light-wing'd wish, And at the last shall we bring thee up From the crystal darkness under the cup Of lily folden, On broad leaves golden?

"O Love! art thou a silver deer, Swift thy starr'd feet as wing of swallow, While we with rushing arrows follow; And at the last shall we draw near, And over thy velvet neck cast thongs-- Woven of roses, of stars, of songs? New chains all moulden Of rare gems olden!"

They hung the slaughter'd fish like swords On saplings slender--like scimitars Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, Blaz'd in the light--the scaly hordes.

They piled up boughs beneath the trees, Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, The camp fire blush'd to the tender breeze.

The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty-- Dream'd of the dead stag stout and lusty; A bat by the red flames wove its round.

The darkness built its wigwam walls Close round the camp, and at its curtain Press'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain, As white locks of tall waterfalls.

"MY AIN BONNIE LASS O' THE GLEN."

Ae blink o' the bonnie new mune, Ay tinted as sune as she's seen, Wad licht me to Meg frae the toun, Tho' mony the brae-side between: Ae fuff o' the saftest o' win's, As wilyart it kisses the thorn, Wad blaw me o'er knaggies an' linns-- To Meg by the side o' the burn!

My daddie's a laird wi' a ha'; My mither had kin at the court; I maunna gang wooin' ava'-- Or any sic frolicsome sport. Gin I'd wed--there's a winnock kept bye; Wi' bodies an' gear i' her loof-- Gin ony tak her an' her kye, Hell glunsh at himsel' for a coof!

My daddie's na doylt, tho' he's auld, The winnock is pawkie an' gleg; When the lammies are pit i' the fauld, They're fear'd that I'm aff to my Meg. My mither sits spinnin'--ae blink O' a smile in her kind, bonnie 'ee; She's minded o' mony a link She, stowlins, took o'er the lea

To meet wi' my daddie himsel' Tentie jinkin' by lea an' by shaw; She fu's up his pipe then hersel', So I may steal cannie awa'. O leeze me o' gowany swaird, An' the blink o' the bonnie new mune! An' the cowt stown out o' the yaird That trots like a burnie in June!

My Meg she is waitin' abeigh-- Ilk spunkie that flits through the fen Wad jealously lead me astray Frae my ain bonnie lass o' the glen! My forbears may groan i' the mools, My daddie look dour an' din; Wee Love is the callant wha rules, An' my Meg is the wifie I'll win!

THE WHITE BULL.

Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid, Flash'd blue 'neath its lid; As the cry and the clamour ran round, "The king has been crown'd! And the brow of his bride has been bound With the crown of a queen!" And between Te Deum and salvo, the roar Of the crowd in the square, Shook tower and bastion and door, And the marble of altar and floor; And high in the air, The wreaths of the incense were driven To and fro, as are riven The leaves of a lily, and cast By the jubilant shout of the blast To and fro, to and fro, And they fell in the chancel and nave, As the lily falls back on the wave, And trembl'd and faded and died, As the white petals tremble and shiver, And fade in the tide Of the jewel dark breast of the river.

"Ho, gossips, the wonderful news! I have worn two holes in my shoes, With the race I have run; And, like an old grape in the sun, I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran Like an antelope rather than man. Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed, And he loves to see the bold bull bleed; And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit, In half of the Spanish throne to sit; Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair, Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair; For free and full-- She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull; And tap on the jewels of her fan, While horse and man, Reel on in a ruby rain of gore; And pout her lip at the Toreador; And fling a jest If he leave the fight with unsullied vest, No crack on his skin, Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in. Caramba, gossips, I would not be king, And rule and reign Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain, If under my wing-- I had not a mate who could joy to the full, In the gallant death of a man or a bull!"

"What is the news That has worn two holes in my Saints'-day shoes, And parch'd me so with heat and speed, That a skin of wine down my throat must bleed? Why this, there's a handsome Hidalgo at Court, And half in sport, He scour'd the country far and wide, For a gift to pleasure the royal bride; And on the broad plains of the Guadalquiver He gave a pull-- To the jewell'd bridle and silken rein, That made his stout horse rear and shiver; For in the dusk reeds of the silver river-- Like the angry stars that redly fly From the dark blue peaks of the midnight sky, And smouldering lie, Blood-red till they die In the blistering ground--the eyes he saw Of a bull without blemish, or speck, or flaw, And a hide as white as a dead saint's soul-- With many a clinking of red pistole; And draughts of sour wine from the herdsman's bowl, He paid the full Price in bright gold of the brave white bull.

"Comrades we all From the pulpit tall Have heard the fat friars say God has decreed That the peasant shall sweat and the soldier shall bleed, And Hidalgo and King May righteously wring Sweat and blood from us all, weak, strong, young and old, And turn the tax into Treasury gold. Well, the friar knows best, Or why wear a cowl? And a cord round his breast? So why should we scowl? The friar is learned and knows the mind, From core to rind, Of God, and the Virgin, and ev'ry saint That a tongue can name or a brush can paint; And I've heard him declare-- With a shout that shook all the birds in the air, That two kinds of clay Are used in God's Pottery every day. The finest and best he puts in a mould Of purest gold, Stamped with the mark of His signet ring, And He turns them out, (While the angels shout) The Pope and the priest, the Hidalgo and King! And He gives them dominion full and just O'er the creatures He kneads from the common dust, And the clay, stamped with His proper sign, Has right divine To the sweat, and the blood and the bended knee Of such, my gossips, as ye and me. Who cares? Not I Only let King and Hidalgo buy, With the red pistoles They wring from our sweltering bodies and souls, Treasures as full Of the worth of gold as the bold white bull!

"The Hidalgo rode back to the Court: And to finish the sport, When the King had been crowned, And the flaxen hair of the bride had been bound, With the crown of the Queen; He took a huge necklace of plates of gold, With rubies between; And wound it threefold Round the brute's broad neck, and with ruby ring In its fire-puffed nostrils had it led To the feet of the Queen as she sat by the King, With the red crown set on her lily head; And she said-- 'Let the bull be led To the floor Of the arena: Proclaim, In my name, That the valliant and bold Toreador, Who slays him shall pull The rubies and gold from the gore Of the bold white bull!'

"That is the news which I bear; I heard it below in the square-- And to and fro, I heard the voice blow Of Pedro, the brawny young Toreador, As he swore By the tremulous light of the golden star That quivers beneath the soft lid Of Pilar, Who sells tall lilies through fair Madrid; He would wind six-fold Round her neck, long, slender, round and full, The rubies and gold That three times rolled Round the mighty breast of the bold white bull. And loudly he sang, While the wine cups rang, 'If I'm the bravest Toreador In gallant, gay Madrid, If thou hast got the brightest eye That dances 'neath a lid; If e'er of Andalusian wine I drank a bottle full, The gold, the rubies shall be thine That deck the bold white bull.'

"Already a chorus rings out in the city, A jubilant ditty, And every guitar Vibrates to the names of Pedro and Pilar; And the strings and voices are soulless and dull That sound not the name of the bold white bull!"

MARCH.

Shall Thor with his hammer Beat on the mountain, As on an anvil, A shackle and fetter?

Shall the lame Vulcan Shout as he swingeth God-like his hammer, And forge thee a fetter?

Shall Jove, the Thunderer, Twine his swift lightnings With his loud thunders, And forge thee a shackle?

"No," shouts the Titan, The young lion-throated; "Thor, Vulcan, nor Jove Cannot shackle and bind me."

Tell what will bind thee, Thou young world-shaker, Up vault our oceans, Down fall our forests.

Ship-masts and pillars Stagger and tremble, Like reeds by the margins Of swift running waters.

Men's hearts at thy roaring Quiver like harebells Smitten by hailstones, Smitten and shaken.

"O sages and wise men! O bird-hearted tremblers! Come, I will show ye A shackle to bind me.

I, the lion-throated, The shaker of mountains! I, the invincible, Lasher of oceans!

"Past the horizon, Its ring of pale azure Past the horizon, Where scurry the white clouds,

There are buds and small flowers-- Flowers like snow-flakes, Blossoms like rain-drops, So small and tremulous.

Therein a fetter Shall shackle and bind me, Shall weigh down my shouting With their delicate perfume!"

But who this frail fetter Shall forge on an anvil, With hammer of feather And anvil of velvet?

Past the horizon, In the palm of a valley, Her feet in the grasses, There is a maiden.

She smiles on the flowers, They widen and redden, She weeps on the flowers, They grow up and kiss her.

She breathes in their bosoms, They breathe back in odours; Inarticulate homage, Dumb adoration.

She shall wreathe them in shackles, Shall weave them in fetters; In chains shall she braid them, And me shall she fetter.

I, the invincible; March, the earth-shaker; March, the sea-lifter; March, the sky-render;

March, the lion-throated. April the weaver Of delicate blossoms, And moulder of red buds--

Shall, at the horizon, Its ring of pale azure, Its scurry of white clouds, Meet in the sunlight.

"THE EARTH WAXETH OLD."

When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd I dream'd green woods among; Where tall trees wav'd from side to side, And in their green breasts deep and wide, I saw the building blue jay hide, O, then the earth was young!

The winds were fresh and brave and bold, The red sun round and strong; No prophet voice chill, loud and cold, Across my woodland dreamings roll'd, "The green earth waxeth sere and old, That once was fair and young!"

I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole, The fresh'ning of the sap; When timid spring gave first small dole, Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole, I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll, From summer's high pil'd lap.

And where an ancient oak tree lay The forest stream across, I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray, I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play, I saw the shadows dance and sway On ripple and on moss.

I pull'd the chestnut branches low, As o'er the stream they hung, To see their bursting buds of snow-- I heard the sweet spring waters flow-- My heart and I we did not know But that the earth was young!

I joy'd in solemn woods to see, Where sudden sunbeams clung, On open space of mossy lea, The violet and anemone, Wave their frail heads and beckon me-- Sure then the earth was young!

I heard the fresh wild breezes birr, New budded boughs among, I saw the deeper tinting stir In the green tassels of the fir, I heard the pheasant rise and whirr, Above her callow young.

I saw the tall fresh ferns prest, By scudding doe and fawn; I say the grey dove's swelling breast, Above the margin of her nest; When north and south and east and west Roll'd all the red of dawn.

At eventide at length I lay, On grassy pillow flung; I saw the parting bark of day, With crimson sails and shrouds all gay, With golden fires drift away, The billowy clouds among.

I saw the stately planets sail On that blue ocean wide; I saw blown by some mystic gale, Like silver ship in elfin tale, That bore some damsel rare and pale, The moon's slim crescent glide.

And ev'ry throb of spring The rust'ling boughs among, That filled the silver vein of brook, That lit with bloom the mossy nook, Cried to my boyish bosom: "Look! How fresh the earth and young!"

The winds were fresh, the days as clear As crystals set in gold. No shape, with prophet-mantle drear, Thro' those old woods came drifting near, To whisper in my wond'ring ear, "The green earth waxeth old."

"THE WISHING STAR."

Day floated down the sky; a perfect day, Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold Along the west, that when her lover, Night, Fled with his starry lances in pursuit, Across the sky, the way she went might shew. From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave, Which as she climb'd the sky still held Her golden tresses to its swelling breast, Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay, (Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red, As flowers that look forever towards the Sun), A terrace with a fountain and an oak Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph, Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew Before some hoary king, while high above, He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze-- And sigh'd deep sighs of "All is vanity!" Behind, a wall of Norman William's time Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there Torn wide apart to let a casement peer Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant (A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose) And look'd above me into two such eyes As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page That new old cry that hearts so often write In their own ashes, "All is vanity!" "Know'st thou--" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd, On the wide arch that domes our little earth, "That when a star hurls on with shining wings, "On some swift message from his throne of light, "The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit-- "Fulfilment--drop into the eager palm?" "Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I. "Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale." But some swift feeling smote upon her brow A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky-- Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on, Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd The night's device upon his ripe-red shield. And suddenly down towards the moon there ran-- From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue, A little star, a point of trembling gold, Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I, "Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star? "Its brightness died not, it but disappeared, "To whirl undim'd thro' space. I wish'd our love "Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life, "Burning brightly as that star and winging on "Thro' unseen space of veil'd Eternity, "Brightened by Immortality--not lost." "Awful and sweet the wish!" she said, and so-- We rested in the silence of content.

HOW DEACON FRY BOUGHT A "DUCHESS."

It sorter skeer'd the neighbours round, For of all the 'tarnal set thet clutches Their dollars firm, he wus the boss; An' yet he went and byed a "Duchess." I never will forget the day He druv her from the city market; I guess thar warn't more'n two Thet stayed to hum thet day in Clarket.

And one of them wus Gran'pa Finch, Who's bed-rid up to Spense's attic: The other Aunt Mehitabel, Whose jints and temper is rheumatic. She said she "guessed that Deacon Fry Would some day see he'd done more fitter To send his dollars savin' souls Than waste 'em on a horn'd critter!"

We all turn'd out at Pewse's store, The last one jest inside the village; The Jedge he even chanc'd along, And so did good old Elder Millage. We sot around on kegs and planks, And on the fence we loung'd precarious; The Elder felt to speak a word, And sed his thoughts wus very various.

He sed the Deacon call'd to mind The blessed patriarchs and their cattle; "To whose herds cum a great increase When they in furrin parts did settle." We nodded all our skulls at this, But Argue Bill he rapped his crutches; Sed he, "I guess they never paid Five hundred dollars for a 'Duchess.'"

Bill and the Elder allers froze To subjects sorter disputatious, So on the 'lasses keg they sot, And had an argue fair and spacious. Good land! when Solon cum in sight, By lawyer Smithett's row o' beeches; His black span seemed to crawl along Ez slow ez Dr. Jones's leeches.

Sez Sister Fry, who was along, "I sorter think my specs is muggy; "But Solon started out from hum "This mornin' in the new top buggy. "Jeddiah rid old chestnut Jim, "An' Sammy rid the roan filly; "I told 'em when they started off "It looked redikless, soft and silly,

"To see three able-bodied men "An' four stout horses drive one critter; "O land o' song! will some one look? "From hed to foot I'm in a twitter." Wal, up we swarm'd on Pewse's fence, And Bill he histed on his crutches; We all was curus to behold The Deac's five hundred dollar "Duchess."

I've heerd filosofurs declar, This life be's kind o' snarly jinted; And every human standin' thar Felt sorter gin'ral disappointed. What sort o' crazy animile Hed got the Deacon in its clutches? They cum along in spankin' style-- Old Solon and his sons and "Duchess."

Her heels wus up, her hed wus down, An or'nary cross-gritted critter As ever browsed around the town, And kept the women folks a-twitter, A-boostin' up the garding rails, And browsin' on the factory bleachin', And kickin' up the milkin' pails: Bill he riz up, ez true ez preachin'.

Sez he, excited like, "I'll 'low, To swaller both these here old crutches- Ef thet ain't Farmer Slyby's cow, Old Bossie turn'd inter a "Duchess!" Wal,'twus k'rect! The Deacon swore Some hefty swars and sot the clutches Of law to work; but seed no more The chap thet sold him thet thar "Duchess."

MY IRISH LOVE.

Beside the saffron of a curtain, lit With broidered flowers, below a golden fringe That on her silver shoulder made a glow, Like the sun kissing lilies in the dawn; She sat--my Irish love--slim, light and tall. Between his mighty paws her stag-hound held, (Love-jealous he) the foam of her pale robes, Rare laces of her land, and his red eyes, Half lov'd me, grown familiar at her side, Half pierc'd me, doubting my soul's right to stand His lady's wooer in the courts of Love. Above her, knitted silver, fell a web Of light from waxen tapers slipping down, First to the wide-winged star of em'ralds set On the black crown with its blue burnish'd points Of raven light; thence, fonder, to the cheek O'er which flew drifts of rose-leaves wild and rich, With lilied pauses in the wine-red flight; For when I whispered, like a wind in June, My whisper toss'd the roses to and fro In her dear face, and when I paus'd they lay Still in her heart. Then lower fell the light. A silver chisel cutting the round arm Clear from the gloom; and dropped like dew On the crisp lily, di'mond clasp'd, that lay In happy kinship on her pure, proud breast, And thence it sprang like Cupid, nimble-wing'd, To the quaint love-ring on her finger bound And set it blazing like a watch-fire, lit To guard a treasure. Then up sprang the flame Mad for her eyes, but those grey worlds were deep In seas of native light: and when I spoke They wander'd shining to the shining moon That gaz'd at us between the parted folds Of yellow, rich with gold and daffodils, Dropping her silver cloak on Innisfail. O worlds, those eyes! there Laughter lightly toss'd His gleaming cymbals; Large and most divine Pity stood in their crystal doors with hands All generous outspread; in their pure depths Mov'd Modesty, chaste goddess, snow-white of brow, And shining, vestal limbs; rose-fronted stood Blushing, yet strong; young Courage, knightly in His virgin arms, and simple, russet Truth Play'd like a child amongst her tender thoughts-- Thoughts white as daisies snow'd upon the lawn.

Unheeded, Dante on the cushion lay, His golden clasps yet lock'd--no poet tells The tale of Love with such a wizard tongue That lovers slight dear Love himself to list.

Our wedding eve, and I had brought to her The jewels of my house new set for her (As I did set the immemorial pearl Of our old honour in the virgin gold Of her high soul) with grave and well pleased eyes, And critic lips, and kissing finger tips, She prais'd the bright tiara and its train Of lesser splendours--nor blush'd nor smil'd: They were but fitting pages to her state, And had no tongues to speak between our souls.

But I would have her smile ripe for me then, Swift treasure of a moment--so I laid Between her palms a little simple thing, A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone, And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich, Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said, "Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!" "A golden prophet of eternal truth," I said, and kissed the roses of her palms, And then the shy, bright roses of her lips, And all the jealous jewels shone forgot In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck. My fair, pure soul! My noble Irish love!

A HUNGRY DAY.

I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap, Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod, He hired me wanst to help his harvest in; The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be God! He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself, Just landed in the emigration shed, Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes, Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead.

It's not meself can say of what she died; But t'was the year the praties felt the rain, And rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw The breath of life was one long hungry pain. If we were haythens in a furrin' land, Not in a country grand in Christian pride, Faith, then a man might have the face to say 'Twas of stharvation my poor Shylie died.

But whin the parish docthor come at last, Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes, (They looked straight into heaven) an her ears Wor deaf to the poor childer's hungry cries; He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw; "She's gone!" he says, and drew a solemn frown; "I fear, my man, she's dead." "Of what?" says I. He coughed, and says, "She's let her system down!"

"An' that's God's truth!" says I, an' felt about To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark, An' in my hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart, I felt the kindlin' of a burning spark. "O, by me sowl, that is the holy truth! There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still, An' Mickie's eyes are bright--the craythur there Died that the weeny ones might eat there fill."

An' whin they spread the daisies thick and white, Above her head that wanst lay on my breast, I had no tears, but took the childhers' hands, An' says, "We'll lave the mother to her rest," An' och! the sod was green that summers day; An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair; But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched, An' sent their cruel poison through the air.

An' all was quiet--on the sunny sides Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay, An' thim as lack'd the rint from empty walls Of little cabins, wapin' turned away. God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod, An' whin upon her increase His right hand Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.

No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky, No mines yawn'd on the hills so full an' rich; A man whose praties failed had nought to do, But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch! A flame rose up widin me feeble heart, Whin passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure, I saw the mark of Shylie's coffin in The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.

I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands; Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' Mick an' me, Must lave the green ould sod, an' look for food In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.' An' so it chanced, when landed on the streets, Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay, Came there to hire a roan to save his whate, An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.

"An' bring the girleen, Pat," he says, an' looked At Rosie lanin' up agin me knee; "The wife will be right plaised to see the child, The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea. We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised! As nice a farm as ever brogan trod, A hundred acres--us as never owned Land big enough to make a lark a sod!"

"Bedad," sez I, "I heerd them over there Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet, An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet!" "Begorra, Pat," says Dolan, "may ould Nick Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues, An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure, Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!"

"Och, thin," says I, "meself agrees to that!" Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey; Says he. "Kape up yer heart--I never knew Since I come out a single hungry day!"

"But thin I left the crowded city sthreets, There men galore to toil in thim an' die, Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.

"I did that same: an' God be prais'd this day! Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure: An' in them years I never wanst have seen A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure!"

I listened to ould Dolan's honest words, That's twenty years ago this very spring, An' Mick is married--an' me Rosie wears A swateheart's little, shinin' goulden ring.

'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look At the green fields upon me own big farm; An' God be prais'd! all men may have the same That owns an axe! an' has a strong right arm!

End of Project Gutenberg's Old Spookses' Pass, by Isabella Valancy Crawford