* * * * *
O, Love builds on the azure sea,And Love builds on the golden sand;And Love builds on the rose-wing'd cloud,And sometimes Love builds on the land.
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O, if Love build on sparkling sea—And if Love build on golden strand—And if Love build on rosy cloud—To Love these are the solid land.
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O, Love will build his lily walls,And Love his pearly roof, will rear,—On cloud or land, or mist or sea—Love's solid land is everywhere!
* * * * *
PART III.
The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stoodSquare shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill,With many windows looking everywhere;So that no distant meadow might lie hid,Nor corn-field hide its gold—nor lowing herdBrowse in far pastures, out of Malcolm's ken.He lov'd to sit, grim, grey, and somewhat stern,And thro' the smoke-clouds from his short clay pipeLook out upon his riches; while his thoughtsSwung back and forth between the bleak, stern past,And the near future, for his life had comeTo that close balance, when, a pendulum,The memory swings between me "Then" and "Now";His seldom speech ran thus two diff'rent ways:"When I was but a laddie, this I did";Or, "Katie, in the Fall I'll see to build"Such fences or such sheds about the place;"And next year, please the Lord, another barn."Katie's gay garden foam'd about the walls,'Leagur'd the prim-cut modern sills, and rush'dUp the stone walls—and broke on the peak'd roof.And Katie's lawn was like a Poet's sward,Velvet and sheer and di'monded with dew;For such as win their wealth most aptly takeSmooth, urban ways and blend them with their own;And Katie's dainty raiment was as fineAs the smooth, silken petals of the rose;And her light feet, her nimble mind and voice,In city schools had learn'd the city's ways,And grafts upon the healthy, lonely vineThey shone, eternal blossoms 'mid the fruit.For Katie had her sceptre in her handAnd wielded it right queenly there and here,In dairy, store-room, kitchen—ev'ry spotWhere women's ways were needed on the place.And Malcolm took her through his mighty fields,And taught her lore about the change of crops;And how to see a handsome furrow plough'd;And how to choose the cattle for the mart;And how to know a fair day's work when done;And where to plant young orchards; for he said,"God sent a lassie, but I need a son—"Bethankit for His mercies all the same."And Katie, when he said it, thought of Max—Who had been gone two winters and two springs,And sigh'd, and thought, "Would he not be your son?"But all in silence, for she had too muchOf the firm will of Malcolm in her soulTo think of shaking that deep-rooted rock;But hop'd the crystal current of his loveFor his one child, increasing day by day,Might fret with silver lip, until it woreSuch channels thro' the rock, that some slight strokeOf circumstance might crumble down the stone.The wooer, too, had come, Max prophesied;Reputed wealthy; with the azure eyesAnd Saxon-gilded locks—the fair, clear face,And stalwart form that most women love.And with the jewels of some virtues setOn his broad brow. With fires within his soulHe had the wizard skill to fetter downTo that mere pink, poetic, nameless glow,That need not fright a flake of snow away—But if unloos'd, could melt an adverse rockMarrow'd with iron, frowning in his way.And Malcolm balanc'd him by day and night;And with his grey-ey'd shrewdness partly sawHe was not one for Kate; but let him come,And in chance moments thought: "Well, let it be—"They make a bonnie pair—he knows the ways"Of men and things: can hold the gear I give,"And, if the lassie wills it, let it be."And then, upstarting from his midnight sleep,With hair erect and sweat upon his brow,Such as no labor e'er had beaded there;Would cry aloud, wide-staring thro' the dark—"Nay, nay; she shall not wed him—rest in peace."Then fully waking, grimly laugh and say:"Why did I speak and answer when none spake?"But still lie staring, wakeful, through the shades;List'ning to the silence, and beating stillThe ball of Alfred's merits to and fro—Saying, between the silent arguments:"But would the mother like it, could she know?"I would there was a way to ring a lad"Like silver coin, and so find out the true;"But Kate shall say him 'Nay' or say him 'Yea'"At her own will." And Katie said him "Nay,"In all the maiden, speechless, gentle waysA woman has. But Alfred only laugh'dTo his own soul, and said in his wall'd mind:"O, Kate, were I a lover, I might feel"Despair flap o'er my hopes with raven wings;"Because thy love is giv'n to other love."And did I love—unless I gain'd thy love,"I would disdain the golden hair, sweet lips,"Air-blown form and true violet eyes;"Nor crave the beauteous lamp without the flame;"Which in itself would light a charnel house."Unlov'd and loving, I would find the cure"Of Love's despair in nursing Love's disdain—"Disdain of lesser treasure than the whole."One cares not much to place against the wheel"A diamond lacking flame—nor loves to pluck"A rose with all its perfume cast abroad"To the bosom of the gale. Not I, in truth!"If all man's days are three score years and ten,"He needs must waste them not, but nimbly seize"The bright consummate blossom that his will"Calls for most loudly. Gone, long gone the days"When Love within my soul for ever stretch'd"Fierce hands of flame, and here and there I found"A blossom fitted for him—all up-fill'd"With love as with clear dew—they had their hour"And burn'd to ashes with him, as he droop'd"In his own ruby fires. No Phoenix he,"To rise again because of Katie's eyes,"On dewy wings, from ashes such as his!"But now, another Passion bids me forth."To crown him with the fairest I can find,"And makes me lover—not of Katie's face,"But of her father's riches! O, high fool,"Who feels the faintest pulsing of a wish"And fails to feed it into lordly life!"So that, when stumbling back to Mother Earth,"His freezing lip may curl in cold disdain"Of those poor, blighted fools who starward stare"For that fruition, nipp'd and scanted here."And, while the clay, o'ermasters all his blood—"And he can feel the dust knit with his flesh—"He yet can say to them, 'Be ye content;"'I tasted perfect fruitage thro' my life,"'Lighted all lamps of passion, till the oil"'Fail'd from their wicks; and now, O now, I know"'There is no Immortality could give"'Such boon as this—to simply cease to be!"'Therelies your Heaven, O ye dreaming slaves,"'If ye would only live to make it so;"'Nor paint upon the blue skies lying shades"'Of—what is not. Wise, wise and strong the man"'who poisons that fond haunter of the mind,"'Craving for a hereafter with deep draughts"'Of wild delights—so fiery, fierce, and strong,"'That when their dregs are deeply, deeply drain'd,"'What once was blindly crav'd of purblind Chance,"'Life, life eternal—throbbing thro' all space"'Is strongly loath'd—and with his face in dust,"'Man loves his only Heav'n—six feet of Earth!'"So, Katie, tho' your blue eyes say me 'Nay,'"My pangs of love for gold must needs be fed,"And shall be, Katie, if I know my mind."Events were winds close nest'ling in the sailsOf Alfred's bark, all blowing him directTo his wish'd harbour. On a certain day,All set about with roses and with fire;One of three days of heat which frequent slip,Like triple rubies, in between the sweet,Mild, emerald days of summer, Katie went,Drawn by a yearning for the ice-pale blooms,Natant and shining—firing all the bayWith angel fires built up of snow and gold.She found the bay close pack'd with groaning logs,Prison'd between great arms of close hing'd wood.All cut from Malcolm's forests in the west,And floated hither to his noisy mills;And all stamp'd with the potent "G." and "M.,"Which much he lov'd to see upon his goods,The silent courtiers owning him their king.Out clear beyond the rustling ricebeds sang,And the cool lilies starr'd the shadow'd wave."This is a day for lily-love," said Kate,While she made bare the lilies of her feet;And sang a lily song that Max had made,That spoke of lilies—always meaning Kate.
* * * * *
"While Lady of the silver'd lakes,Chaste Goddess of the sweet, still shrines.The jocund river fitful makes,By sudden, deep gloom'd brakes,Close shelter'd by close weft and woof of vine,Spilling a shadow gloomy-rich as wine,Into the silver throne where thou dost sit,Thy silken leaves all dusky round thee knit!
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"Mild soul of the unsalted wave!White bosom holding golden fireDeep as some ocean-hidden caveAre fix'd the roots of thy desire,Thro' limpid currents stealing up,And rounding to the pearly cupThou dost desire,With all thy trembling heart of sinless fire,But to be fill'dWith dew distill'dFrom clear, fond skies, that in their gloomHold, floating high, thy sister moon,Pale chalice of a sweet perfume,Whiter-breasted than a dove—To thee the dew is—love!"
* * * * *
Kate bared her little feet, and pois'd herselfOn the first log close grating on the shore;And with bright eyes of laughter, and wild hair—A flying wind of gold—from log to logSped, laughing as they wallow'd in her track,Like brown-scal'd monsters rolling, as her footSpurn'd each in turn with its rose-white sole.A little island, out in middlewave,With its green shoulder held the great drive brac'dBetween it and the mainland; here it wasThe silver lilies drew her with white smiles;And as she touch'd the last great log of all,It reel'd, upstarting, like a column brac'd,A second on the wave—and when it plung'dRolling upon the froth and sudden foam,Katie had vanish'd, and with angry grindThe vast logs roll'd together,—nor a lockOf drifting yellow hair—an upflung hand,Told where the rich man's chiefest treasure sankUnder his wooden wealth. But Alfred, laidWith pipe and book upon the shady marge,Of the cool isle, saw all, and seeing hurl'dHimself, and hardly knew it, on the logs;By happy chance a shallow lapp'd the isleOn this green bank; and when his iron armsDash'd the bark'd monsters, as frail stems of rice,A little space apart, the soft, slow tideBut reach'd his chest, and in a flash he sawKate's yellow hair, and by it drew her up,And lifting her aloft, cried out, "O, Kate!"And once again said, "Katie! is she dead?"For like the lilies broken by the roughAnd sudden riot of the armor'd logs,Kate lay upon his hands; and now the logsClos'd in upon him, nipping his great chest,Nor could he move to push them off againFor Katie in his arms. "And now," he said,"If none should come, and any wind arise"To weld these woody monsters 'gainst the isle,"I shall be crack'd like any broken twig;"And as it is, I know not if I die,"For I am hurt—aye, sorely, sorely hurt!"Then look'd on Katie's lily face, and said,"Dead, dead or living? Why, an even chance."O lovely bubble on a troubl'd sea,"I would not thou shoulds't lose thyself again"In the black ocean whence thy life emerg'd,"But skyward steal on gales as soft as love,"And hang in some bright rainbow overhead,"If only such bright rainbow spann'd the earth."Then shouted loudly, till the silent airRous'd like a frighten'd bird, and on its wingsCaught up his cry and bore it to the farm.There Malcolm, leaping from his noontide sleep,Upstarted as at midnight, crying out,"She shall not wed him—rest you, wife, in peace!'They found him, Alfred, haggard-ey'd and faint,But holding Katie ever towards the sun,Unhurt, and waking in the fervent heat.And now it came that Alfred being sickOf his sharp hurts and tended by them both,With what was like to love, being born of thanks,Had choice of hours most politic to woo,And used his deed as one might use the sun,To ripen unmellow'd fruit; and from the coreOf Katie's gratitude hop'd yet to nurseA flow'r all to his liking—Katie's love.But Katie's mind was like the plain, broad shieldOf a table di'mond, nor had a score of sides;And in its shield, so precious and so plain,Was cut, thro' all its clear depths—Max's name!And so she said him "Nay" at last, in wordsOf such true sounding silver, that he knewHe might not win her at the present hour,But smil'd and thought—"I go, and come again!"Then shall we see. Our three-score years and ten"Are mines of treasure, if we hew them deep,"Nor stop too long in choosing out our tools!"
* * * * *
PART IV.
From his far wigwam sprang the strong North WindAnd rush'd with war-cry down the steep ravines,And wrestl'd with the giants of the woods;And with his ice-club beat the swelling crests.Of the deep watercourses into death,And with his chill foot froze the whirling leavesOf dun and gold and fire in icy banks;And smote the tall reeds to the harden'd earth;And sent his whistling arrows o'er the plains,Scatt'ring the ling'ring herds—and sudden paus'dWhen he had frozen all the running streams,And hunted with his war-cry all the thingsThat breath'd about the woods, or roam'd the bleakBare prairies swelling to the mournful sky."White squaw," he shouted, troubl'd in his soul,"I slew the dead, wrestl'd with naked chiefs"Unplum'd before, scalped of their leafy plumes;"I bound sick rivers in cold thongs of death,"And shot my arrows over swooning plains,"Bright with the Paint of death—and lean and bare."And all the braves of my loud tribe will mock"And point at me—when our great chief, the Sun,"Relights his Council fire in the moon"Of Budding Leaves." "Ugh, ugh! he is a brave!"He fights with squaws and takes the scalps of babes!"And the least wind will blow his calumet—"Fill'd with the breath of smallest flow'rs—across"The warpaint on my face, and pointing with"His small, bright pipe, that never moved a spear"Of bearded rice, cry, 'Ugh! he slays the dead!'"O, my white squaw, come from thy wigwam grey,"Spread thy white blanket on the twice-slain dead;"And hide them, ere the waking of the Sun!"
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High grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky,And all was silent in the Wilderness;In trance of stillness Nature heard her GodRebuilding her spent fires, and veil'd her faceWhile the Great Worker brooded o'er His work.
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"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,What doth thy bold voice promise me?"
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"I promise thee all joyous things,That furnish forth the lives of kings!
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"For ev'ry silver ringing blow,Cities and palaces shall grow!"
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"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,Tell wider prophecies to me."
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"When rust hath gnaw'd me deep and red;A nation strong shall lift his head!
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"His crown the very Heav'ns shall smite,Aeons shall build him in his might!"
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"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree;Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!"
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Max smote the snow-weigh'd tree and lightly laugh'd."See, friend," he cried to one that look'd and smil'd,"My axe and I—we do immortal tasks—We build up nations—this my axe and I!""O," said the other with a cold, short smile,"Nations are not immortal! is there now"One nation thron'd upon the sphere of earth,"That walk'd with the first Gods, and saw"The budding world unfold its slow-leav'd flow'r?"Nay; it is hardly theirs to leave behind"Ruins so eloquent, that the hoary sage"Can lay his hand upon their stones, and say:"'These once were thrones!' The lean, lank lion peals"His midnight thunders over lone, red plains,"Long-ridg'd and crested on their dusty waves,"With fires from moons red-hearted as the sun;"And deep re-thunders all the earth to him."For, far beneath the flame-fleck'd, shifting sands,"Below the roots of palms, and under stones"Of younger ruins, thrones, tow'rs and cities"Honeycomb the earth. The high, solemn walls"Of hoary ruins—their foundings all unknown"(But to the round-ey'd worlds that walk"In the blank paths of Space and blanker Chance)."At whose stones young mountains wonder, and the seas'"New-silv'ring, deep-set valleys pause and gaze;"Are rear'd upon old shrines, whose very Gods"Were dreams to the shrine-builders, of a time"They caught in far-off flashes—as the child"Half thinks he can remember how one came"And took him in her hand and shew'd him that"He thinks, she call'd the sun. Proud ships rear high"On ancient billows that have torn the roots"Of cliffs, and bitten at the golden lips"Of firm, sleek beaches, till they conquer'd all,"And sow'd the reeling earth with salted waves."Wrecks plunge, prow foremost, down still, solemn slopes,"And bring their dead crews to as dead a quay;"Some city built before that ocean grew,"By silver drops from many a floating cloud,"By icebergs bellowing in their throes of death,"By lesser seas toss'd from their rocking cups,"And leaping each to each; by dew-drops flung"From painted sprays, whose weird leaves and flow'rs"Are moulded for new dwellers on the earth,"Printed in hearts of mountains and of mines."Nations immortal? where the well-trimm'd lamps"Of long-past ages, when Time seem'd to pause"On smooth, dust-blotted graves that, like the tombs"Of monarchs, held dead bones and sparkling gems?"She saw no glimmer on the hideous ring"Of the black clouds; no stream of sharp, clear light"From those great torches, pass'd into the black"Of deep oblivion. She seem'd to watch, but she"Forgot her long-dead nations. When she stirr'd"Her vast limbs in the dawn that forc'd its fire"Up the black East, and saw the imperious red"Burst over virgin dews and budding flow'rs,"She still forgot her molder'd thrones and kings,"Her sages and their torches, and their Gods,"And said, 'This is my birth—my primal day!'"She dream'd new Gods, and rear'd them other shrines,"Planted young nations, smote a feeble flame"From sunless flint, re-lit the torch of mind;"Again she hung her cities on the hills,"Built her rich towers, crown'd her kings again,"And with the sunlight on her awful wings"Swept round the flow'ry cestus of the earth,"And said, 'I build for Immortality!'"Her vast hand rear'd her tow'rs, her shrines, her thrones;"The ceaseless sweep of her tremendous wings"Still beat them down and swept their dust abroad;"Her iron finger wrote on mountain sides"Her deeds and prowess—and her own soft plume"Wore down the hills! Again drew darkly on"A night of deep forgetfulness; once more"Time seem'd to pause upon forgotten graves—"Once more a young dawn stole into her eyes—"Again her broad wings stirr'd, and fresh clear airs,"Blew the great clouds apart;—again Time said,"'This is my birth—my deeds and handiwork"'Shall be immortal.' Thus and so dream on"Fool'd nations, and thus dream their dullard sons."Naught is immortal save immortal—Death!"Max paus'd and smil'd: "O, preach such gospel, friend,"To all but lovers who most truly love;"Forthem, their gold-wrought scripture glibly reads"All else is mortal but immortal—Love!""Fools! fools!" his friend said, "most immortal fools!—"But pardon, pardon, for, perchance, you love?""Yes," said Max, proudly smiling, "thus do I"Possess the world and feel eternity!"Dark laughter blacken'd in the other's eyes:"Eternity! why, did such Iris arch"Ent'ring our worm-bored planet, never liv'd"One woman true enough such tryst to keep!""I'd swear by Kate," said Max; "and then, I had"A mother, and my father swore by her.""By Kate? Ah, that were lusty oath, indeed!"Some other man will look into her eyes,"And swear me roundly, 'By true Catherine!'"And Troilus swore by Cressed—so they say.""You never knew my Kate," said Max, and pois'dHis axe again on high, "But let it pass—"You are too subtle for me; argument"Have I none to oppose yours with—but this,"Get you a Kate, and let her sunny eyes"Dispel the doubting darkness in your soul.""And have not I a Kate? pause, friend, and see."She gave me this faint shadow of herself"The day I slipp'd the watch-star of our loves—"A ring—upon her hand—she loves me, too;"Yet tho' her eyes be suns, no Gods are they"To give me worlds, or make me feel a tide"Of strong Eternity set towards my soul;"And tho' she loves me, yet am I content"To know she loves me by the hour—the year—"Perchance the second—as all women love."The bright axe falter'd in the air, and ripp'dDown the rough bark, and bit the drifted snow,For Max's arm fell, wither'd in its strength,'Long by his side. "Your Kate," he said; "your Kate!""Yes, mine, while holds her mind that way, my Kate;"I sav'd her life, and had her love for thanks;"Her father is Malcolm Graem—Max, my friend,"You pale! what sickness seizes on your soul?"Max laugh'd, and swung his bright axe high again:"Stand back a pace—a too far reaching blow"Might level your false head with yon prone trunk—"Stand back and listen while I say, "You lie!"That is my Katie's face upon your breast,"But 'tis my Katie's love lives in my breast—"Stand back, I say! my axe is heavy, and"Might chance to cleave a liar's brittle skull."Your Kate! your Kate! your Kate!—hark, how the woods"Mock at your lie with all their woody tongues,"O, silence, ye false echoes! not his Kate"But mine—I'm certain I will have your life!"All the blue heav'n was dead in Max's eyes;Doubt-wounded lay Kate's image in his heart,And could not rise to pluck the sharp spear out."Well, strike, mad fool," said Alfred, somewhat pale;"I have no weapon but these naked hands.""Aye, but," said Max, "you smote my naked heart!"O shall I slay him?—Satan, answer me—"I cannot call on God for answer here."O Kate—!"A voice from God came thro' the silent woodsAnd answer'd him—for suddenly a windCaught the great tree-tops, coned with high-pil'd snow,And smote them to and fro, while all the airWas sudden fill'd with busy drifts, and highWhite pillars whirl'd amid the naked trunks,And harsh, loud groans, and smiting, sapless boughsMade hellish clamour in the quiet place.With a shrill shriek of tearing fibres, rock'dThe half-hewn tree above his fated head;And, tott'ring, asked the sudden blast, "Which way?"And, answ'ring its windy arms, crash'd and brokeThro' other lacing boughs, with one loud roarOf woody thunder; all its pointed boughsPierc'd the deep snow—its round and mighty corpse,Bark-flay'd and shudd'ring, quiver'd into death.And Max—as some frail, wither'd reed, the sharpAnd piercing branches caught at him,As hands in a death-throe, and beat him to the earth—And the dead tree upon its slayer lay."Yet hear we much of Gods;—if such there be,"They play at games of chance with thunderbolts,"Said Alfred, "else on me this doom had come."This seals my faith in deep and dark unfaith!"Now Katie, are you mine, for Max is dead—"Or will be soon, imprison'd by those boughs,"Wounded and torn, sooth'd by the deadly palms"Of the white, trait'rous frost; and buried then"Under the snows that fill those vast, grey clouds,"Low-sweeping on the fretted forest roof."And Katie shall believe you false—not dead;"False, false!—And I? O, she shall find me true—"True as a fabl'd devil to the soul"He longs for with the heat of all hell's fires."These myths serve well for simile, I see."And yet—Down, Pity! knock not at my breast,"Nor grope about for that dull stone my heart;"I'll stone thee with it, Pity! Get thee hence,"Pity, I'll strangle thee with naked hands;"For thou dost bear upon thy downy breast"Remorse, shap'd like a serpent, and her fangs"Might dart at me and pierce my marrow thro'."Hence, beggar, hence—and keep with fools, I say!"He bleeds and groans! Well, Max, thy God or mine"Blind Chance, here play'd the butcher—'twas not I."Down, hands! ye shall not lift his fall'n head;"What cords tug at ye? What? Ye'd pluck him up"And staunch his wounds? There rises in my breast"A strange, strong giant, throwing wide his arms"And bursting all the granite of my heart!"How like to quiv'ring flesh a stone may feel!"Why, it has pangs! I'll none of them. I know"Life is too short for anguish and for hearts—"So I wrestle with thee, giant! and my will"Turns the thumb, and thou shalt take the knife."Well done! I'll turn thee on the arena dust,"And look on thee—What? thou wert Pity's self,"Stol'n in my breast; and I have slaughter'd thee—"But hist—where hast thou hidden thy fell snake,"Fire-fang'd Remorse? Not in my breast, I know,"For all again is chill and empty there,"And hard and cold—the granite knitted up."So lie there, Max—poor fond and simple Max,"'Tis well thou diest: earth's children should not call"Such as thee father—let them ever be"Father'd by rogues and villains, fit to cope"With the foul dragon Chance, and the black knaves"Who swarm'd in loathsome masses in the dust."True Max, lie there, and slumber into death."
* * * * *
PART V.
Said the high hill, in the morning: "Look on me—"Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold"The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines"Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars"Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon,"Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast"Hang the soft purple fringes of the night;"Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon,"Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun"Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands"On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with"His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry"Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights;"And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest,"Shrill pipe their angry echoes: "'Sun, arise,"'And show me that pale dove, beside her nest,"'Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear"'With iron talons for my hungry young.'"And that mild dove, secure for yet a space,Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neckTo watch dawn's ruby pulsing on her breast,And see the first bright golden motes slip downThe gnarl'd trunks about her leaf-deep nest,Nor sees nor fears the eagle on the peak.
* * * * *
"Aye, lassie, sing—I'll smoke my pipe the while,"And let it be a simple, bonnie song,"Such as an old, plain man can gather in"His dulling ear, and feel it slipping thro'"The cold, dark, stony places of his heart.""Yes, sing, sweet Kate," said Alfred in her ear;"I often heard you singing in my dreams"When I was far away the winter past."So Katie on the moonlit window lean'd,And in the airy silver of her voiceSang of the tender, blue "Forget-me-not."
Could every blossom find a voice,And sing a strain to me;I know where I would place my choice,Which my delight should be.I would not choose the lily tall,The rose from musky grot;But I would still my minstrel callThe blue "Forget-me-not!"
And I on mossy bank would lieOf brooklet, ripp'ling clear;And she of the sweet azure eye,Close at my list'ning ear,Should sing into my soul a strainMight never be forgot—So rich with joy, so rich with painThe blue "Forget-me-not!"
Ah, ev'ry blossom hath a taleWith silent grace to tell,From rose that reddens to the galeTo modest heather bell;But O, the flow'r in ev'ry heartThat finds a sacred spotTo bloom, with azure leaves apart,Is the "Forget-me-not!"
Love plucks it from the mosses greenWhen parting hours are nigh,And places it loves palms between,With many an ardent sigh;And bluely up from grassy gravesIn some lov'd churchyard spot,It glances tenderly and waves,The dear "Forget-me-not!"
And with the faint last cadence, stole a glanceAt Malcolm's soften'd face—a bird-soft touchLet flutter on the rugged silver snarlsOf his thick locks, and laid her tender lipsA second on the iron of his hand."And did you ever meet," he sudden ask'd,Of Alfred, sitting pallid in the shade,"Out by yon unco place, a lad,—a lad"Nam'd Maxwell Gordon; tall, and straight, and strong;"About my size, I take it, when a lad?"And Katie at the sound of Max's name,First spoken for such space by Malcolm's lips,Trembl'd and started, and let down her brow,Hiding its sudden rose on Malcolm's arm."Max Gordon? Yes. Was he a friend of yours?""No friend of mine, but of the lassie's here—"How comes he on? I wager he's a drone,"And never will put honey in the hive.""No drone," said Alfred, laughing; "when I left"He and his axe were quarr'ling with the woods"And making forests reel—love steels a lover's arm."O, blush that stole from Katie's swelling heart,And with its hot rose brought the happy dewInto her hidden eyes. "Aye, aye! is that the way?"Said Malcolm smiling. "Who may be his love?""In that he is a somewhat simple soul,"Why, I suppose he loves—" he paused, and KateLook'd up with two "forget-me-nots" for eyes,With eager jewels in their centres setOf happy, happy tears, and Alfred's heartBecame a closer marble than before."—Why I suppose he loves—his lawful wife.""His wife! his wife!" said Malcolm, in a maze,And laid his heavy hand on Katie's head;"Did you play me false, my little lass?"Speak and I'll pardon! Katie, lassie, what?""He has a wife," said Alfred, "lithe and bronz'd,"An Indian woman, comelier than her kind;"And on her knee a child with yellow locks,"And lake-like eyes of mystic Indian brown."And so you knew him? He is doing well.""False, false!" said Katie, lifting up her head."O, you know not the Max my father means!""He came from yonder farm-house on the slope.""Some other Max—we speak not of the same.""He has a red mark on his temple set.""It matters not—'tis not the Max we know.""He wears a turquoise ring slung round his neck.""And many wear them—they are common stones.""His mother's ring—her name was Helen Wynde.""And there be many Helens who have sons.""O Katie, credit me—it is the man.""O not the man! Why, you have never told"Us of the true soul that the true Max has;"The Max we know has such a soul, I know.""How know you that, my foolish little lass?"Said Malcolm, a storm of anger boundWithin his heart, like Samson with green withs—"Belike it is the false young cur we know!""No, no," said Katie, simply, and low-voic'd;"If he were traitor I must needs be false,"For long ago love melted our two hearts."And time has moulded those two hearts in one,"And he is true since I am faithful still."She rose and parted, trembling as she went,Feeling the following steel of Alfred's eyes,And with the icy hand of scorn'd mistrustSearching about the pulses of her heart—Feeling for Max's image in her breast."To-night she conquers Doubt; to-morrow's noon"His following soldiers sap the golden wall,"And I shall enter and possess the fort,"Said Alfred, in his mind. "O Katie, child,"Wilt thou be Nemesis, with yellow hair,"To rend my breast? for I do feel a pulse"Stir when I look into thy pure-barb'd eyes—"O, am I breeding that false thing, a heart?"Making my breast all tender for the fangs"Of sharp Remorse to plunge their hot fire in."I am a certain dullard! Let me feel"But one faint goad, fine as a needle's point,"And it shall be the spur in my soul's side"To urge the madd'ning thing across the jags"And cliffs of life, into the soft embrace"Of that cold mistress, who is constant too,"And never flings her lovers from her arms—"Not Death, for she is still a fruitful wife,"Her spouse the Dead, and their cold marriage yields"A million children, born of mould'ring flesh—"So Death and Flesh live on—immortal they!"I mean the blank-ey'd queen whose wassail bowl"Is brimm'd from Lethe, and whose porch is red"With poppies, as it waits the panting soul—"She, she alone is great! No scepter'd slave"Bowing to blind creative giants, she;"No forces seize her in their strong, mad hands,"Nor say, "'Do this—be that!'" Were there a God,"His only mocker, she, great Nothingness!"And to her, close of kin, yet lover too,"Flies this large nothing that we call the soul."
* * * * *
"Doth true Love lonely grow?Ah, no! ah, no!Ah, were it only so—That it alone might showIts ruddy rose upon its sapful tree,Then, then in dewy morn,Joy might his brow adornWith Love's young rose as fair and glad as he."
* * * * *
But with Love's rose doth blowAh, woe! ah, woe!Truth with its leaves of snow,And Pain and Pity growWith Love's sweet roses on its sapful tree!Love's rose buds not alone,But still, but still doth ownA thousand blossoms cypress-hued to see!
* * * * *
PART VI.
"Who curseth Sorrow knows her not at all.Dark matrix she, from which the human soulHas its last birth; whence, with its misty thews,Close-knitted in her blackness, issues out;Strong for immortal toil up such great heights,As crown o'er crown rise through Eternity,Without the loud, deep clamour of her wail,The iron of her hands; the biting brineOf her black tears; the Soul but lightly builtof indeterminate spirit, like a mistWould lapse to Chaos in soft, gilded dreams,As mists fade in the gazing of the sun.Sorrow, dark mother of the soul, arise!Be crown'd with spheres where thy bless'd children dwell,Who, but for thee, were not. No lesser seatBe thine, thou Helper of the Universe,Than planet on planet pil'd!—thou instrument,Close-clasp'd within the great Creative Hand!"
* * * * *
The Land had put his ruddy gauntlet on,Of Harvest gold, to dash in Famine's face.And like a vintage wain, deep dy'd with juice,The great moon falter'd up the ripe, blue sky,Drawn by silver stars—like oxen whiteAnd horn'd with rays of light—Down the rich landMalcolm's small valleys, fill'd with grain, lip-high,Lay round a lonely hill that fac'd the moon,And caught the wine-kiss of its ruddy light.A cusp'd, dark wood caught in its black embraceThe valleys and the hill, and from its wilds,Spic'd with dark cedars, cried the Whip-poor-will.A crane, belated, sail'd across the moon;On the bright, small, close link'd lakes green islets lay,Dusk knots of tangl'd vines, or maple boughs,Or tuft'd cedars, boss'd upon the waves.The gay, enamell'd children of the swampRoll'd a low bass to treble, tinkling notesOf little streamlets leaping from the woods.Close to old Malcolm's mills, two wooden jawsBit up the water on a sloping floor;And here, in season, rush'd the great logs down,To seek the river winding on its way.In a green sheen, smooth as a Naiad's locks,The water roll'd between the shudd'ring jaws—Then on the river level roar'd and reel'd—In ivory-arm'd conflict with itself."Look down," said Alfred, "Katie, look and see"How that but pictures my mad heart to you."It tears itself in fighting that mad love"You swear is hopeless—hopeless—is it so?""Ah, yes!" said Katie, "ask me not again.""But Katie, Max is false; no word has come,"Nor any sign from him for many months,"And—he is happy with his Indian wife."She lifted eyes fair as the fresh grey dawnwith all its dews and promises of sun."O, Alfred!—saver of my little life—"Look in my eyes and read them honestly."He laugh'd till all the isles and forests laugh'd."O simple child! what may the forest flames"See in the woodland ponds but their own fires?"And have you, Katie, neither fears nor doubts?"She, with the flow'r soft pinkness of her palmCover'd her sudden tears, then quickly said:"Fears—never doubts, for true love never doubts."Then Alfred paus'd a space, as one who holdsA white doe by the throat and searches forThe blade to slay her. "This your answer still—"You doubt not—doubt not this far love of yours,"Tho' sworn a false young recreant, Kate, by me?""He is as true as I am," Katie said;"And did I seek for stronger simile,"I could not find such in the universe!""And were he dead? what, Katie, were he dead—"A handful of brown dust, a flame blown out—"What then would love be strongly, true to—Naught?""Still, true to love my love would be," she said,And faintly smiling, pointed to the stars."O fool!" said Alfred, stirr'd—as craters rock"To their own throes—and over his pale lipsRoll'd flaming stone, his molten heart. "Then, fool—"Be true to what thou wilt—for he is dead."And there have grown this gilded summer past"Grasses and buds from his unburied flesh."I saw him dead. I heard his last, loud cry:"'O Kate!' ring thro' the woods; in truth I did."She half-raised up a piteous, pleading hand,Then fell along the mosses at his feet."Now will I show I love you, Kate," he said,"And give you gift of love; you shall not wake"To feel the arrow, feather-deep, within"Your constant heart. For me, I never meant"To crawl an hour beyond what time I felt"The strange, fang'd monster that they call Remorse"Fold found my waken'd heart. The hour has come;"And as Love grew, the welded folds of steel"Slipp'd round in horrid zones. In Love's flaming eyes"Stared its fell eyeballs, and with Hydra head"It sank hot fangs in breast, and brow and thigh."Come, Kate! O Anguish is a simple knave"Whom hucksters could outwit with small trade lies,"When thus so easily his smarting thralls,"May flee his knout! Come, come, my little Kate;"The black porch with its fringe of poppies waits—"A propylaleum hospitably wide."No lictors with their fasces at its jaws,"Its floor as kindly to my fire-vein'd feet"As to thy silver, lilied, sinless ones."O you shall slumber soundly, tho' the white,"Wild waters pluck the crocus of your hair;"And scaly spies stare with round, lightless eyes"At your small face laid on my stony breast."Come, Kate! I must not have you wake, dear heart,"To hear you cry, perchance, on your dead Max."He turn'd her still, face close upon his breast,And with his lips upon her soft, ring'd hair,Leap'd from the bank, low shelving o'er the knotOf frantic waters at the long slide's foot.And as the sever'd waters crash'd and smoteTogether once again,—within the waveStunn'd chamber of his ear there peal'd a cry:"O Kate! stay, madman; traitor, stay! O Kate!"
* * * * *
Max, gaunt as prairie wolves in famine time,With long drawn sickness, reel'd upon the bank—Katie, new-rescu'd, waking in his arms.On the white riot of the waters gleam'd,The face of Alfred, calm, with close-seal'd eyes,And blood red on his temple where it smoteThe mossy timbers of the groaning slide."O God!" said Max, as Katie's opening eyesLooked up to his, slow budding to a smileOf wonder and of bliss, "My Kate, my Kate!"She saw within his eyes a larger soulThan that light spirit that before she knew,And read the meaning of his glance and words."Do as you will, my Max. I would not keep"You back with one light-falling finger-tip!"And cast herself from his large arms uponThe mosses at his feet, and hid her faceThat she might not behold what he would do;Or lest the terror in her shining eyesMight bind him to her, and prevent his soulWork out its greatness; and her long, wet hairDrew, mass'd, about her ears, to shut the soundOf the vex'd waters from her anguish'd brain.Max look'd upon her, turning as he look'd.A moment came a voice in Katie's soul:"Arise, be not dismay'd; arise and look;"If he should perish, 'twill be as a God,"For he would die to save his enemy."But answer'd her torn heart: "I cannot look—"I cannot look and see him sob and die;"In those pale, angry arms. O, let me rest"Blind, blind and deaf until the swift pac'd end."My Max! O God—was that his Katie's name?"Like a pale dove, hawk-hunted, Katie ran,Her fear's beak in her shoulder; and below,Where the coil'd waters straighten'd to a stream,Found Max all bruis'd and bleeding on they bank,But smiling with man's triumph in his eyes,When he has on fierce Danger's lion neckPlac'd his right hand and pluck'd the prey away.And at his feet lay Alfred, still and while,A willow's shadow tremb'ling on his face,"There lies the false, fair devil, O my Kate,"Who would have parted us, but could not, Kate!""But could not, Max," said Katie. "Is he dead?"But, swift perusing Max's strange, dear face,Close clasp'd against his breast—forgot him straightAnd ev'ry other evil thing uponThe broad green earth.
* * * * *
PART VII
Again rang out the music of the axe,And on the slope, as in his happy dreams,The home of Max with wealth of drooping vinesOn the rude walls, and in the trellis'd porchSat Katie, smiling o'er the rich, fresh fields;And by her side sat Malcolm, hale and strong;Upon his knee a little, smiling child,Nam'd—Alfred, as the seal of pardon setUpon the heart of one who sinn'd and woketo sorrow for his sins—and whom they lov'dWith gracious joyousness—nor kept the duskOf his past deeds between their hearts and his.Malcolm had follow'd with his flocks and herdsWhen Max and Katie, hand in hand, went outFrom his old home; and now, with slow, grave smileHe said to Max, who twisted Katie's hairAbout his naked arm, bare from his toil:"It minds me of old times, this house of yours;"It stirs my heart to hearken to the axe,"And hear the windy crash of falling trees;"Aye, these fresh forests make an old man young.""Oh, yes!" said Max, with laughter in his eyes;"And I do truly think that Eden bloom'd"Deep in the heart of tall, green maple groves,"With sudden scents of pine from mountain sides"And prairies with their breasts against the skies."And Eve was only little Katie's height.""Hoot, lad! you speak as ev'ry Adam speaks"About his bonnie Eve; but what says Kate?""O Adam had not Max's soul,' she said;"And these wild woods and plains are fairer far"Than Eden's self. O bounteous mothers they!"Beck'ning pale starvelings with their fresh, green hands,"And with their ashes mellowing the earth,"That she may yield her increase willingly."I would not change these wild and rocking woods,"Dotted by little homes of unbark'd trees,"Where dwell the fleers from the waves of want,—"For the smooth sward of selfish Eden bowers,"Nor—Max for Adam, if I knew my mind!"
OLD SPENSE.
You've seen his place, I reckon, friend?'Twas rather kind ov tryin'.The way he made the dollars fly,Such gimcrack things a-buyin'—He spent a big share ov a fortin'On pesky things that went a snortin'
And hollerin' over all the fields,And ploughin' ev'ry furrow;We sort ov felt discouraged, forSpense wusn't one to borrow;An' wus—the old chap wouldn't lendA cent's wuth to his dearest friend!
Good land! the neighbours seed to wunstThem snortin', screamin' notionsWus jest enough tew drown the yearthIn wrath, like roarin' oceans,"An' guess'd the Lord would give old SpenseBlue fits for fightin' Pruvidence!"
Spense wus thet harden'd; when the yearthWus like a bak'd pertater;Instead ov prayin' hard fur rain,He fetched an irrigator."The wicked flourish like green bays!"Sed folks for comfort in them days.
I will allow his place was grandWith not a stump upon it,The loam wus jest as rich an' blackEs school ma'am's velvet bunnit;But tho' he flourish'd, folks all know'dWhat spiritooal ear-marks he show'd.
Spense had a notion in his mind,Ef some poor human grapplesWith pesky worms thet eat his vines,An' spile his summer apples,It don't seem enny kind ov senseTew call that "cheekin' Pruvidence!"
An' ef a chap on Sabbath seesA thunder cloud a-strayin'Above his fresh cut clover an'Gets down tew steddy prayin',An' tries tew shew the Lord's mistake,Instead ov tacklin' tew his rake,
He ain't got enny kind ov showTew talk ov chast'ning trials;When thet thar thunder cloud lets downIt's sixty billion vials;No! when it looks tew rain on hay,First take yer rake an' then yer pray!
Old Spense was one 'ov them thar chapsThet in this life of tussleAn' rough-an'-tumble, sort ov setA mighty store on muscle;B'liev'd in hustlin' in the crop,An' prayin' on the last load top!
An' yet he hed his p'ints—his heartWus builded sort ov spacious;An' solid—ev'ry beam an' plank,An', Stranger, now, veracious.A wore-out hoss he never shot,But turn'd him in the clover lot!
I've seed up tew the meetin' house;The winkin' an' the nudgin',When preacher sed, "No doubt that DivesBeen drefful mean an' grudgin';Tew church work seal'd his awful fateWhar thar ain't no foolin' with the gate!"
I mind the preacher met old Spense,Beneath the maples laggin',The day was hot, an' he'd a pileOv 'cetrees in his waggin';A sack of flour, a hansum hog,Sum butter and his terrier dog.
Preacher, he halted up his hoss,Ask'd for Miss Spense an' Deely,Tew limber up his tongue a mite,And sez right slick an' mealy:"Brother, I really want tew knowHev you got religion? Samson, whoa!"
Old Spense, he bit a noble chaw,An' sort ov meditated;Samson he nibbl'd at the grass,An' preacher smil'd and waited;Ye'd see it writ upon his face—"I've got Spense in a tightsome place!"
The old man curl'd his whip-lash roundAn alto-vic'd muskitter,Preacher, sort ov triumphant, strok'dHis ornary old critter.Spense p'ints tew flour, an' hog, an' jar,Sez he, "I've got religion thar!
"Them's goin' down tew Spinkses place,Whar old man Spinks is stayin';The bank he dealt at bust last month,An' folks is mostly sayin':Him bein' ag'd, an' poor, an' sick,They'll put him in the poor-house slick!
"But no, they don't! Not while I ownThe name ov Jedediah;Yer movin'? How's yer gran'ma Green,An' yer cousin, Ann Maria?Boss, air they? Yas, sirree, I darTew say, I've got religion thar!"
Preacher, he in his stirrups riz,His visage kind ov cheerin';An' keerful look'd along the road,Over sugarbush an' clearin';Thar wa'n't a deacon within sight;Sez he, "My brother, guess you're right."
"You keep your waggon Zionward,With that religion on it;I calculate we'll meet"—jest hereA caliker sun bonnet,On a sister's head, cum round the Jog,An' preacher dispars'd like mornin' fog!
One day a kind ov judgment come,The lightnin'-rod conductorGot broke—the fluid struck his aunt,An' in the root-house chuck'd her.It laid her up for quite a while,An' the judgment made the neighbors smile.
Old Spense he swore a mighty swar,He didn't mince nor chew it;For when he spoke, 'most usual,It had a backbone tew it.He sed he'd find a healthy planTew square things with the agent man,
Who'd sold him thet thar useless rodTo put upon his roofin';An' ef he found him round the place,He'd send the scamp a-hoofin'."You sort ov understand my sense?""Yes, pa,"—said pooty Deely Spense.
"Yes, pa," sez she, es mild es milkTew thet thar strong oration,An' when a woman acts likethat—It's bin my observation—(An' reckin that you'll find it sound)She means tew turn creation round,
An' fix the univarse the wayShe sort ov feels the notion.So Deely let the old man rave,Nor kick'd up no commotion;Tho' thet cute agent man an' sheWere know'd es steady company.
He'd chance around when Spense was out,A feller sort o' airy;An' poke around free's the wind,With Deely in the dairy.(Old Spense hed got a patent churn,Thet gev the Church a drefful turn).
I am a married man myself,More sot on steddy plowin',An' cuttin' rails, than praisin' gals,Yet honestly allowin'—A man must be main hard tew pleaseThet didn't freeze tew Deely's cheese.
I reckon tho' old Spense hed sign'dWith Satan queer law papers,He'd fill'd that dairy up chock fullOf them thar patent capers.Preacher once took fur sermon text—"Rebellious patent vats.—What next?"
I've kind of stray'd from thet thar scareThat cum on Spense—tho', reely,I'll allus hold it was a shineOf thet thar pooty Deely:Thar's them es holds thro' thin an' thick,'Twas a friendly visit from Old Nick.
Es time went on, old Spense he seem'dMore sot on patent capers;So he went right off tew fetch a thingHe'd read ov in the papers.'Twas a moony night in airly June,The Whip-poor-wills wus all in tune;
The Katydids wus callin' clar,The fire bugs was glowin',The smell ov clover fill'd the air.Thet day old Spense'd bin mowin'—With a mower yellin' drefful screams,Like them skreeks we hear in nightmare dreams.
Miss Spense wus in the keepin'-room,O'erlookin' last yar's cherries;The Help wus settin' on the bench,A-hullin' airly berries;The hir'd man sot on the step,An' chaw'd, an' watch'd the crickets lep.
Not one ov them thar folks thet thoughtOv Deely in the dairy:The Help thought on the hir'd man,An' he ov Martin's Mary;Miss Spense she ponder'd thet she'd foundCrush'd sugar'd riz a cent a pound.
I guess hed you an' I bin thar,A peepin' thro' the shutterOv thet thar dairy, we'd a sworeOld Spense's cheese an' butterWus gilded, from the manner thetDeely she smil'd on pan an' vat.
The Agent he had chanc'd around,In evenin's peaceful shadder;He'd glimps'd Spense an' his tarrier goAcross the new-mown medder—To'ard Crampville—so he shew'd his sense,By slidin' o'er the garden fence,
An' kind of unassumin' glode,Beneath the bendin' branches,Tew the dairy door whar Deely watch'd—A-twitterin' an' anxious.It didn't suit Miss Deely's planHer pa should catch that Agent man.
I kind ov mind them days I wentWith Betsy Ann a-sparking'.Time hed a'drefful sneakin wayOv passin' without markin'A single blaze upon a post,An' walkin' noiseless es a ghost!
I guess thet Adam found it thus,Afore he hed to grappleWith thet conundrum Satan rais'dAbout the blam'd old apple;He found Time sort ov smart tew passAfore Eve took tew apple sass.
Thar ain't no changes cum aboutSence them old days in Eden,Except thet lovers take a spellOf mighty hearty feedin'.Now Adam makes his Eve rejiceBy orderin' up a lemon ice.
He ain't got enny kind ov showTo hear the merry pealins'Of them thar weddin' bells, unlessHe kind ov stirs her feelins'—By treatin' her tew ginger pop,An' pilin' peanuts in a-top.
Thet Agent man know'd how to runThe business real handy;An' him an' Deely sot an' laugh'd,An' scrunch'd a pile o' candy;An' talk'd about the singin' skule—An' stars—an' Spense's kickin' mule—
An' other elevatin' factsIn Skyence an' in Natur.An' Time, es I wus sayin', glodePast, like a champion skater,—When—Thunder! round the orchard fence.Come thet thar tarrier dog an' Spense,
An' made straight for the dairy door.Thar's times in most experrence,We feel how trooly wise 'twould beTo make a rapid clearance;Nor wait tew practice them thar rulesWe larn tew city dancin' skules.
The Agent es a gen'ral planWus polish'd es the handlesOv my old plough; an' slick an' smoothEs Betsey's tallow candles.But when he see'd old Spense—wal, neow,He acted homely es a ceow!
His manners wusn't in the grain,His wool wus sorter shoddy;His courage wus a poorish sort,It hadn't got no body.An' when he see'd old Spense, he shookEs ef he'd see'd his gran'ma's spook.
Deely she wrung her pooty hands,She felt her heart a-turnin'Es poor es milk when all the creamIs taken off fur churnin'.When all to once her eyes fell patUpon old Spense's patent vat!
The Agent took no sort ov stockThet time in etiquettin;It would hev made a punkin laughTew see his style of gettin'!In thet thar empty vat he slid,An' Deely shet the hefty lid.
Old Spense wus smilin' jest es clarEs stars in the big "Dipper";An' Deely made believe tew hum"Old Hundred" gay an' chipper,But thinkin' what a tightsome squeezeThe vat wus fur the Agent's knees.
Old Spense he sed, "I guess, my gal,"Ye've been a sort ov dreamin';"I see ye haven't set the pans,"Nor turn'd the mornin's cream in;"Now ain't ye spry? Now, darn my hat"Ef the milk's run inter thet thar vat."
Thar's times one's feelin's swell like breadIn summer-time a-risin',An' Deely's heart swole in a wayWus mightily surprisingWhen Spense gripp'd one ov them thar pansOv yaller cream in his big han's!
The moon glode underneath a cloud,The breeze sigh'd loud an' airy;The pans they faintlike glimmer'd onThe white walls ov the dairy.Deely she trembl'd like an ash,An' lean'd agin the old churn dash.
"Tarnation darksome," growl'd old Spense,Arf liftin' up the cover—He turn'd the pan ov cream quite spryOn Deely's Agent lover.Good sakes alive! a curdlin' skreekFrom thet thar Agent man did break!
All drippin' white he ros'd tew view.His curly locks a-flowin'With clotted cream, an' in the dusk,His eyes with terror glowin'.He made one spring—'tis certain, reely,He never sed "Good night" tew Deely.
Old Spense he riz up from the ground,An' with a kind ov wonder,He look'd inter thet patent vat,An' simply sed, "By thunder"!Then look'd at Deely hard, and sed,"The milk will sop clar thro' his hed"!
Folks look'd right solemn when they heardThe hull ov thet thar story,An' sed, "It might be plainly seenTwas clar agin the gloryOf Pruvidence to use a vatThet Satan in had boldly sat"!
They shook their heads when Spense declar'd'Twas Deely's beau in hidin';They guess'd they know'd a thing or two,An' wasn't so confidin':—'Twas the "Devourin' Lion" cumTew ask old Spense testep down hum!
Old Spense he kinder spil'd the thingFur thet thar congregation,By holdin' on tew life in spiteOv Satan's invitation;An' hurts thar feelin's ev'ry Spring,Buyin' some pesky patent thing.
The Agent man slid out next day,To peddle round young Hyson;And Deely fur a fortnight thoughtOv drinkin' sum rat pison;Didn't put no papers in her har;An' din'd out ov the pickle jar.
Then at Aunt Hesby's sewin' beeShe met a slick young feller,With a city partin' tew his harAn' a city umbereller.He see'd her hum thet night, an' heIs now her steddy company!
Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, seeMy flowers are Roman-blown; their nectariesDrop honey amber, and their petals throwRich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrineWhere snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow,As crimson lips of Love may seek to warmA sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn.Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day;Patricians, buy my royal roses; strewHis way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'dA tide of musky roses from his bed to doA wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thouTo-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses,To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look,I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems,The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower;Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia,Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yetIt is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smellsThan those death hath not touched. To-day they bearThe shield of Claudius with his spear upon it,Close upon Caesar's chariot—heap, heap it upWith roses such as these; 'tis true he's deadAnd there's the canker! but, Romans, heDied glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtuesAre these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow.No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess!Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and notA white one, though thy chaste hands attendOn Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour—be it thatWhich ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods;Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth;Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star uponThe solemn sky which bridges same sad life,So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pureAs Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek,And know no quality of love, thou artA sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love!I would my roses could but chorus Thee.No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here—I give thee this last blossom: A bee as redAs Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets;A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'dIts new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stoleThe dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinksA bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yetIt hath some beauty left! a little scarlet—forThe Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life,Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I makeMy roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beatIn god-like silver bursts of sound; I goTo see great Caesar leading Glory home,From Campus Martius to the Capitol!