Chapter XI: Part IV (1)

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!"