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 seeDawn'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 alwayThe 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 delightOf wood-bine breathings, honey sweet, and warm;With kin embattl'd rear my glorious heightTo greet the coming storm!
Not mine to watch across the free, broad plainsThe 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 lieAgainst my barky greaves.
Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above,Balanced on wings that could not choose betweenThe 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 easeWeave out to precious seconds as they liePillow'd on horny hands, to hear the breezeThrough my great branches die.
I see no flowers, but as the children raceWith 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 eyesTo where my emerald branches call and wave—As to the mystic skies.
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, castShrill 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 headToss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm.The perfume of their prayer was spreadOn 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 headWith 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 placeLove'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 noonLays 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 lightUntil, most Galatea-wise—Each looks from base of malachiteWith mystic life in limbs and eyes.
Her robe, (a golden wave that rose,And burst, and clung as water clingsTo her long curves) about her flows.Each jewel on her white breast singsIts silent song of sun and fire.No wheeling swallows smite the skiesAnd upward draw the faint desire,Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes.In the white kisses of the tipsOf 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 IAm 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 nightBinds 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 throatsOf thunderous cannon burst—and highScales 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 blestWith victory smiles, thro' sinister shadeGleams the White Cross upon her breast.
"Soul of my soul, or is it nightOr 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 glowFor me as thee, all earth is past!Late loved—well loved, now let us go!"
Buy my roses, citizens,—Here are roses golden white,Like the stars that lovers watchOn 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 snowFrom the sleeping north'rn windAnd lest he should wake and rage,Breath'd a spell of ardent pow'rOn the flake, and flung it downTo 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 wayThat 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 seeHer 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 turnTo gnaw that polish'd bone again.Vogue la galere! why don't ye greetMy tale with laughter, prompt and meet?
No fear! ye'll chorus me with laughsWhen 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 crowdOf red-caps; and a TricoteuseCall'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 saidSaints, 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 airWith which she fac'd that rabble rout!I laugh'd, I know—some laughter breedsA merry moisture in the eye:My cheeks were wet, to see her handTry to push those brawny patriots by.Vogue la galere! we'll laugh nor weepWhen Death, not God, callsusto sleep.
"Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only IThat noble am—take only me;I only am his foster-child,—He nurs'd me on his knee!See! he is guiltless of the crimeOf 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 GodExists, 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, soThou 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'dAnd 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,willpall.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 fallOff the little Wooden Shoes.Vogue la galere! By Sanson's told,Into his basket, dross and gold.
She died alone. A woman drewAs close beside her as she might;And in that woman's basket layA rose all snowy white.But sixteen summers old—a childAs one might say—to die alone;Ah, well—it is the only wayThese 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 feetNe'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!
How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how?Methought, while on the shadow'd terracesI 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 harmonyCould 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 aboutThe ivory distaff in my languid hand,I found large tears; such big and rounded dropsAs 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 meWith 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 goldOf that still noontide hour. No widows stoleUp the snow-glimmering marble of the stepsTo take my alms and bless the Gods and me;No orphans touched the fringes of my robeWith innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the goldI laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and strokeThe jewels on my neck, or touch the roseThou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek.Perchance all lingered in the Roman streetsTo catch first tidings from the Oracles.The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades,Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and highA 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'dAround it as I sang—but with that wailDying across the vines and purple slopes,And breaking on its strings, I did not careTo waken music, nor in truth could forceMy voice or fingers to it, so I stray'dWhere 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 IKnowthee, the lordliest bearer of a sword.Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lostFrom out the helmet, and a ruby goneFrom the short sword hilt—trifles both which canBe righted by to-morrow's noon—"to-morrow's noon!"Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voiceWhen 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 deemThou 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 airWith 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 cloudThat like a silver chariot floated lowIn 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 floorWith 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 firesLeap from his eyes. I do truly thinkThat with thee seated on him, thy strong kneesAgainst his sides—the bridle in his jawsIn thy lov'd hand, to pleasure thee he'd springSheer from the verge of Earth into the breastOf Death and Chaos—of Death and Chaos!—What omens seem to strike my soul to-day?What is there in this blossom hour should knitAn omen in with ev'ry simple word?Should make yon willows with their hanging locksDusk 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, comeAnd thou shalt tell me of the OraclesAnd 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 thymeInto long swarths, whence smoke of yellow beesRose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose,For the great temple they; and as they pass'dWith quiet gait, I heard their drivers say:The bulls were for the Altars, when should comeWord from the Oracles, as to the Pit,O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I seeHow black and fearful is its glutton throat;I will not look!O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the menWav'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 ITo do with altars and with sacrifice?
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 wouldyoufind her dinner?
"Now look atme; I settl'd downWhen 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 timeI've fit a tidy battle.
"It kinder wrestles down a manTo fight the stuns and mire:But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar planOf David and Goliar.Want was the mean old PhilistineThat 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 Ihadan arm!I lick'd the giant and I boughtA 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 hillThe sugar bush just tetches,And round by Miller Jackson's mill,All round the farm stretches.
"'Ain't got a mind to give that landTo any snip-snap fellerThat 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 butterTook prizes; sakes! I can't forgetHer pretty pride and flutter.
"Why, you be off! her little faceFor 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 bearsA bouncin' ripe-red cherry!"
The Farmer fixed his hat and specksAnd 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 heSwayed to the harp-strings' ringing;A something rosy—not a leafStirs up amid the branches;A miraclemaysend reliefTo lovers fond and anxious!
O rosy is the velvet cheekOf one 'mid red leaves sitting!The sunbeams played at hide-and-seekWith 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 thatThar'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!"
No, Parson, 'tain't been in my style,(Nor none ov my relations)Tew dig about the gnarly rootsOv prophetic spekkleations,Tew see what Malachai meant;Or Solomon was hintin';Or reound what jog o' Futur's roadIsaiah was a-squintin'.
I've lost my rest a-keepin' outThe hogs from our cowcumbers;But never lost a wink, you bet,By wrastlin' over Numbers.I never took no comfort whenThe year was bald with losses,A-spekkleatin' on them chapsThat rode them varus hosses.
It never gave my soul a boostWhen grief an' it was matin',Tew figger out that that thar PopeWus reely twins with Satan.I took no stock in countin' upHow menny hed ov cattleFrom Egypt's ranches Moses drove;I never fit a battleOn p'ints that frequently gave riseTew pious spat an' grumble,An' makes the brethren clinch an' yellIn spiritooal rough-an'-tumble.
I never bet on Paul aginThe argyments ov Peter,I never made the good old BookA 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 crawlBy quiet ways tew heaven.
Again he gets the waggon out,An' hitches up the sorrels,An' rides ten miles tew meetin', heAin't braced for pious quarrels:No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rollsFrom corduroy to puddle,An' that thar farmer gets his brainsInter 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 comprehendThat 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 fleckTheir venerable faces.
"I guess they did their share, ov work,Since Monday's dew was hoary;Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trotUpon the road tew Glory!Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thickMy lily-buds air blowin':An' whar My trees cast shadders onMy silver creeklet flowin'.
"An' while their red, rough tongues push backThe stems ov reed an' lily,Jest let 'em dream ov them thar daysWhen they was colt an' filly,An' spekkleate, es fetlock deepThey 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 cupI built them yaller fires,An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle upAgin the waggon tires.
"An' throw a forrard eye alongWhere 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 lengthOv all their mental tethers:In ways mayn't suit the minds ov themThat 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 lazeMy ripplin' silver creek in;They're listenin' in thar own dumb way,An' I—Myself—am speakin';Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soulIn no sort ov dejection;You'll get tew meetin' quick enough,In time for the—collection."
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 tookHis 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 dimeFor 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 filosofyOn 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 foughtOn questions of free seatin';Or which should be the one t' rebukePastor for kissin' sister Luke.
His farm was well enough, but stonesKind 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' porkTo poor old critters past their work.
But on the neatest thing he hedAround the place or dwellin',I guess he never paid a redOf taxes. No mush melonWas rounder, sweeter, pinker thanThe old Man's daughter, Minta Ann.
I've been at Philadelfy's showAn' 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 crowdOf Jove's female relations,An' I feel to make a solemn swearOn them thar "Lamentations,"That as a sort of general planI'd rather spark with Minta Ann!
You'd ought to see her dimpled chin,With one red freckle on it,Her brown eyes glancing underneathHer tilted shaker bonnet.I vow, I often did desire,They'd set the plaguey thing a-fire!
You'd ought to hear that gal singOn Sabbath, up to meetin',You'd kind of feel high lifted up,Your soul for Heaven fleetin'.And then—came supper, down she'd tieYou to this earth with pumpkin pie!
I tell you, stranger, 'twas a sightFor 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 hairCum 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 skyAn' growls away the thunder;Them skeery speckled trout will hideBeneath them white pond lilies' pride!
An' then her heart, 'twas made clar throughOf Californy metal,Chock full of things es sugar sweetEs a presarvin' kettle.The beaux went crazed fur menny a mileWhen I got thet kettle on the bile.
The good old deacon's gone to wharThar ain't no wild contentionsOn Buildin' Funds' Committees andNo taxes nor exemptions.Yet still I sort of feel he preaches,And Minta Ann preserves my peaches.
"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 noteOf silver lamentation from my dark and pulsing throatMay never reach thee,Tho' every note beseech theeTo 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 ringingWith sweet notes piped from other throats than mine;If those glad singers pleaseThe tall and nodding trees—If to them dance the pennants of the swaying columbine,If to their songs are setThe dance of daffodil and trembling violet—Will they pursue theeWith tireless wings as free and bold as thine?Will they woo theeWith love throbs in the music of their singing?Ah, nay! fair Cloud, ah, nay!Their hearts and wings will stayWith 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 flyWith 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 redAs the great eagle of the Dawn sails highAnd sets his fire-bright headAnd wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast;And thou canst blush while IMust pierce myself with song and dieOn the bald sod behind my prison bars;Nor feel upon my crestThy 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 theeThe 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 DayWith sapphire lips, and kissOf summery bliss,Draw all her soul away;Vainly the fervent EastDeck'd her with roses for their bridal feast;She would not restIn his red arms, but slipp'd adown the airAnd wan and fair,Her light foot touch'd a purple mountain crest,And touching, turn'dInto swift rain, that like to jewels burn'd;In the great, wondering azure of the sky;And while a rainbow spreadIts mighty arms above, she, singing, fledTo the lone-feather'd slave,In his sad weird grave,Whose heart upon his silver song had spedTo 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!""
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,Tocivilizethe world.Not, not alone where Christian menPant 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 strandsWash 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 bandsWith loud"Te Deum"come.Seek the grim chancel, on its wallThy 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—Thyking 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,Thouart 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, leansUpon thine iron neck,And leaves with thee her household scenesTo 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 wayTrod 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 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'dThe 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 inonewild 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 tothykiss,Thy loves arethinewhate'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, Senors, roses!Love is subtly hidIn the fragrant roses,Blown in gay Madrid.Roses, Senors, roses!Look, look, look, and seeLove 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 rosesFrom my brown palm up;Like the wine that bubblesFrom 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 rosesFor thy rose's eyeBe thy rose as statelyAs a pacing deer;Worthy are my rosesTo burn behind her ear.Ha I ha! I can see thee,Where the fountains foam,Twining my red rosesIn her golden comb!
Roses, Donnas, roses,None so fresh as mine,Pluck'd at rose of morningBy our Lady's shrine.Those that first I gather'dLaid I at her feet,That is why my rosesStill are fresh and sweet.Roses, Donnas, roses!Roses waxen fair!Acolytes my roses,Censing ladies' pray'r!
Roses, roses, roses!Hear the tawny bullThund'ring in the circus—Buy your arms full.Roses by the dozen!Roses by the score!Pelt the victor with them—Bull or Toreador!
"The storm is in the air," she said, and heldHer 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 waveAbove 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 soughtThe 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'dA red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves,On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote setA 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 woveHer 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 heartTook courage in the clamor, and I laidMy 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 thenShe clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light,Till all the daffodils I trod were paleBeside 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 WindAnd the first silver coinage of the Rain,Upon my flying hair, there came her kiss,Gentle and pure upon my face—and thusWere we betroth'd between the Wind and Rain.
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'rsStretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blueSo 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 guestPerchance 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."
My masters twain made me a bedOf pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;Of moss, a soft and gentle breederOf dreams of rest; and me they spreadWith 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'dThin, golden nerves of sly light curl'dRound the dun camp, and rose faint zones,Half way about each grim bole knit,Like a shy child that would bedeckWith 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 deerHung 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 nearAnd laid its wide palm, red and anxious,On the sharp splendor of his branches;On the white foam grown hard and sereOn flank and shoulder.Death—hard as breast of granite boulder,And under his lashesPeer'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 upFrom the crystal darkness under the cupOf 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 mouldenOf rare gems olden!"
They hung the slaughter'd fish like swordsOn saplings slender—like scimitarsBright, 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 wallsClose round the camp, and at its curtainPress'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain,As white locks of tall waterfalls.
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 blinkO' a smile in her kind, bonnie 'ee;She's minded o' mony a linkShe, 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 yairdThat trots like a burnie in June!
My Meg she is waitin' abeigh—Ilk spunkie that flits through the fenWad jealously lead me astrayFrae 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!
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 boundWith the crown of a queen!"And betweenTe Deum and salvo, the roarOf 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 drivenTo and fro, as are rivenThe leaves of a lily, and castBy the jubilant shout of the blastTo 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 tideOf 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 ranLike 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 jestIf 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 reignOver 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 newsThat 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 GuadalquiverHe 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 flyFrom the dark blue peaks of the midnight sky,And smouldering lie,Blood-red till they dieIn the blistering ground—the eyes he sawOf 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 fullPrice in bright gold of the brave white bull.
"Comrades we allFrom the pulpit tallHave heard the fat friars say God has decreedThat the peasant shall sweat and the soldier shall bleed,And Hidalgo and KingMay righteously wringSweat 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 saintThat 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 clayAre used in God's Pottery every day.The finest and best he puts in a mouldOf 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 justO'er the creatures He kneads from the common dust,And the clay, stamped with His proper sign,Has right divineTo the sweat, and the blood and the bended kneeOf such, my gossips, as ye and me.Who cares? Not IOnly let King and Hidalgo buy,With the red pistolesThey wring from our sweltering bodies and souls,Treasures as fullOf 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 threefoldRound the brute's broad neck, and with ruby ringIn its fire-puffed nostrils had it ledTo 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 ledTo the floorOf the arena: Proclaim,In my name,That the valliant and bold Toreador,Who slays him shall pullThe rubies and gold from the goreOf 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 blowOf Pedro, the brawny young Toreador,As he sworeBy the tremulous light of the golden starThat quivers beneath the soft lidOf Pilar,Who sells tall lilies through fair Madrid;He would wind six-foldRound her neck, long, slender, round and full,The rubies and goldThat three times rolledRound the mighty breast of the bold white bull.And loudly he sang,While the wine cups rang,'If I'm the bravest ToreadorIn gallant, gay Madrid,If thou hast got the brightest eyeThat dances 'neath a lid;If e'er of Andalusian wineI drank a bottle full,The gold, the rubies shall be thineThat deck the bold white bull.'
"Already a chorus rings out in the city,A jubilant ditty,And every guitarVibrates to the names of Pedro and Pilar;And the strings and voices are soulless and dullThat sound not the name of the bold white bull!"
Shall Thor with his hammerBeat on the mountain,As on an anvil,A shackle and fetter?
Shall the lame VulcanShout as he swingethGod-like his hammer,And forge thee a fetter?
Shall Jove, the Thunderer,Twine his swift lightningsWith his loud thunders,And forge thee a shackle?
"No," shouts the Titan,The young lion-throated;"Thor, Vulcan, nor JoveCannot shackle and bind me."
Tell what will bind thee,Thou young world-shaker,Up vault our oceans,Down fall our forests.
Ship-masts and pillarsStagger and tremble,Like reeds by the marginsOf swift running waters.
Men's hearts at thy roaringQuiver like harebellsSmitten by hailstones,Smitten and shaken.
"O sages and wise men!O bird-hearted tremblers!Come, I will show yeA 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 azurePast 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 fetterShall shackle and bind me,Shall weigh down my shoutingWith their delicate perfume!"
But who this frail fetterShall forge on an anvil,With hammer of featherAnd 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 weaverOf 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.