The red chief Gheezis, chief of the golden wampum, layAnd watched the west-wind blow adrift the clouds,With breath all flowery, that from his calumetCurl'd like to smoke about the mountain tops.Gheezis look'd from his wigwam, blue as little poolsDrained from the restless mother-wave, that layDreaming in golden hollows of her sands;And deck'd his yellow locks with feath'ry clouds,And took his pointed arrows and so stoop'dAnd leaning with his red hands on the hills,Look'd with long glances all along the earth."Mudjekeewis, West-Wind, in amongst the forest,"I see a maid, gold-hued as maize full ripe; her eyes"Laugh under the dusk boughs like watercourses;"Her moccasins are wrought with threads of light: her hands"Are full of blue eggs of the robin, and of buds"Of lilies, and green spears of rice: O Mudjekeewis,"Who is the maid, gold-hued as maize full-ripen'd?""O sun, O Gheezis, that is Spring, is Segwun—woo her!""I cannot, for she hides behind the behmagut—"The thick leav'd grape-vine, and there laughs upon me.""O Gheezis," cried Segwun from behind the grape-vine."Thy arms are long but all too short to reach me,"Thou art in heaven and I upon the earth!"Gheezis, with long, golden fingers tore the grape-vine,But Segwun laughed upon him from behindA maple, shaking little leaves of gold fresh-budded."Gheezis, where are thy feet, O sun, O chief?""Follow," sigh'd Mudjekeewis, "Gheezis must wed"With Spring, with Segwun, or all nature die."The red chief Gheezis swift ran down the hills,And as he ran the pools and watercoursesSnatch'd at his yellow hair; the thickets caughtIts tendrils on their brambles; and the budsThat Segwun dropp'd, opened as they touched.His moccasins were flame, his wampum gold;His plumes were clouds white as the snow, and redAs Sumach in the moon of falling leaves.He slipp'd beside the maple, Segwun laugh'd."O Gheezis, I am hid amid the lily-pads,"And thou hast no canoe to seek me there; farewell!""I see thine eyes, O Segwun, laugh behind the buds;"The Manitou is love, and gives me love, and love"Gives all of power." His moccasins wide laidRed tracks upon the waves: When Segwun leap'dGold-red and laughing from the lily-pads,To flit before him like a fire-fly, she foundThe golden arms of Gheezis round her cast, the budsBurst into flower in her hands, and all the earthLaughing where Gheezis look'd; and Mudjekeewis,Heart friend of Gheezis, laugh'd, "Now life is come"Since Segwun and red Gheezis wed and reign!"
What doth the moon so lily white,Busily weave this Summer night?Silver ropes and diamond strandsFor Baby's pink and dimpl'd hands;Cords for her rosy palms to hold,While she floats, she flies,To Dream Land set with its shores of gold,And its buds like stars shaken out of the skies;Where the trees have tongues and the flowers have lipsTo coax, to kiss,The velvet cheek of the Babe who slipsThro' the Dream gate up to a land like this.
What is the mild sea whisp'ring clearIn the rosy shell of Baby's ear?See! she laughs in her dimpl'd sleep—What does she hear from the shining deep?
* * * * *
"Thy father comes a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,Safely comes a-sailing from islands fair and far.O Baby, bid thy mother cease her tears and bitter wailingThe sailor's wife's his only port, his babe his beacon star!"
Softly the Wind doth blow,What say its murmurs low?What doth it bringOn the wide soft plume of its dewy wing?"Only scented blissesOf innocent, sweet kisses,For such cheeks as this isOf Baby in her nest.From all the dreaming flowers,A nodding in their bowers;Or bright on leafy towers,Where the fairy monarchs rest.""But chiefly I bring,On my fresh sweet mouth,Her father's kiss,As he sails out of the south.He hitherward blew it at break of day,I lay it, Babe, on thy tender lip;I'll steal another and hie away,And kiss it to him on his wave-rock'd ship."
I saw a fairy twineOf star-white Jessamine;A dainty seat shaped like an airy swing;With two round yellow stars,Against the misty barsOf Night; she nailed it highIn the pansy-purple sky,With four taps of her little rainbow wing.To and froThat swing I'll blow.
The baby moon in the amethyst skyWill laugh at us as we float and fly,And stretch her silver arms and tryTo catch the earth-babe swinging by.
Young Mary stole along the vale,To keep her tryst with Ulnor's lord;A warrior clad in coat of mailStood darkling by the brawling ford.
"O let me pass; O let me pass,Dark falls the night on hill and lea;Flies, flies the bright day swift and fast,From lordly bower and greenwood tree.The small birds twitter as they flyTo dewy bough and leaf-hid nest;Dark fold the black clouds on the sky,And maiden terrors throng my breast!"
"And thou shalt pass, thou bonnie maid,If thou wilt only tell to me—Why hiest thou forth in lonesome shade;Where may thy wish'd-for bourne be?""O let me by, O let me by,My granddam dwells by Ulnor's shore;She strains for me her failing eye—Beside her lowly ivied door."
"I rode by Ulnor's shore at dawn,I saw no ancient dame and cot;I saw but startl'd doe and fawn—Thy bourne thou yet hast told me not.""O let me pass—my father liesLong-stretch'd in coffin and in shroud,—Where Ulnor's turrets climb the skies,Where Ulnor's battlements are proud!"
"I rode by Ulnor's walls at noon;I heard no bell for passing sprite;And saw no henchman straik'd for tomb;Thou hast not told thy bourne aright.""O let me pass—a monk doth dwellIn lowly hut by Ulnor's shrine;I seek the holy friar's cell,That he may shrive this soul of mine."
"I rode by Ulnor's shrine this day,I saw no hut—no friar's cowl;I heard no holy hermit pray—I heard but hooting of the owl!""O let me pass—time flies apace—And since thou wilt not let me be;I tryst with chief of Ulnor's race,Beneath the spreading hawthorn tree!"
"I rode beside the bonnie thorn,When this day's sun was sinking low;I saw a damsel like the morn,I saw a knight with hound and bow;The chief was chief of Ulnor's name,The maid was of a high degree;I saw him kiss the lovely dame,I saw him bend the suitor's knee!
"I saw the fond glance of his eyeTo her red cheek red roses bring;Between them, as my steed flew by,I saw them break a golden ring.""O wouldst thou know, thou curious knight,Where Mary's bourne to-night will be?Since thou has seen such traitor sight,Beneath the blooming hawthorn tree."
Fair shone the yellow of her locks,Her cheek and bosom's drifted snow;She leap'd adown the sharp grey rocks,She sought the sullen pool below.The knight his iron vizard rais'd,He caught young Mary to his heart;She lifted up her head and gaz'd—She drew her yellow locks apart.
* * * * *
The roses touch'd her lovely face;The lilies white did faint and flee;The knight was chief of Ulnor's race,—His only true love still was she!
"IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS SOUL!"
Long time one whisper'd in his ear—"Give me my strong, pure soul; behold'Tis mine to give what men hold dear—The treasure of red gold."
"I bribe thee not with crown and throne,Pale spectres they of kingly pow'r!I give thee gold—red gold aloneCan crown a king each hour!"
He frown'd, perchance he felt a throe,Gold-hunger gnawing at his heart—A passing pang—for, stern and low,He bade the fiend depart!
Again there came the voice and said:"Gold for that soul of thine were shame;Thine be that thing for which have bledBoth Gods and men,—high Fame.
"And in long ages yet to sweepTheir gloom and glory on the day;When mould'ring kings, forgot, shall sleepIn ashes, dust, and clay:
"Thy name shall, starlike, pulse and burnOn heights most Godlike; and divine,Immortal bays thy funereal urnShall lastingly entwine!"
He sigh'd; perchance he felt the thrill,The answ'ring pulse to Fame's high call;But answer made his steadfast will—"I will not be thy thrall!"
Again there came the voice and cried:"Dost thou my kingly bribes disdain?Yet shalt thou barter soul and prideFor things ignobly vain!
"Two shameless eyes—two false, sweet eyes—A sinful brow of sinless white,Shall hurl, thy soul from high clear skiesTo ME, and Stygian night.
"Beneath the spell of gilded hair,Thy palms, like sickly weeds, shall die!God-strong Resolves, a sensuous airShall mock and crucify.
"Go to! my thrall at last thou art!Ere bud to rounded blossom change;Thou wilt for wanton lips and heartMost false, thy soul exchange!"
Where is the Land of Kisses,Can you tell, tell, tell?Ah, yes; I know its blissesVery well!'Tis not beneath the swingingOf the Jessamine,Where gossip-birds sit singingIn the vine!
Where is the Land of Kisses,Do you know, know, know?Is it such a land as this is?No, truly no!Nor is it 'neath the Myrtle,Where each butterflyCan brush your lady's kirtle,Flitting by!
Where is the Land of Kisses,Can you say, say, say?Yes; there a red lip pressesMine ev'ry day!But 'tis not where the PansiesOpen purple eyes,And gossip all their fanciesTo the skies!
I know the Land of KissesPassing well, well, well;Who seeks it often misses—Let me tell.Fly, lover, like a swallow,Where your lady goes;You'll find it if you follow,'Neath the Rose.
"If thou wilt hold my silver hair,O Lady sweet and bright;I'll bring thee, maiden darling, whereThy lover is to-night.Lay down thy robe of cloth of gold—Gold, weigheth heavily,Thy necklace wound in jewell'd fold,And hie thee forth with me."
"O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down,I've laid my robe aside;My necklace and my jewell'd crown,And yet I cannot glideAlong the silver crests of nightWith thee, light thing, with thee.Rain would I try the airy flight,What sayest thou to me?"
"If thou wilt hold my silver hair,O maiden fair and proud;We'll float upon the purple airHigh as yon lilied cloud.There is a jewel weighs thy heart;If thou with me wouldst glideThat cold, cold jewel place apart—The jewel of thy pride!"
"O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-downThat jewel part I've set;With golden robe and shining crownAnd cannot follow yet!Fain would I clasp thy silver tressAnd float on high with thee;Yet somewhat me to earth doth press—What sayest thou to me?
"If thou wilt hold my silver hairO lady, sweet and chaste;We'll dance upon the sparkling airAnd to thy lover haste.A lily lies upon thy breastSnow-white as it can be—It holds thee strong—sweet, with the restYield lilied chastity."
"O Thistle-down, false Thistle-downI've parted Pride and Gold;Laid past my jewels and my crown—My golden robings' fold.I will not lay my lily past—Love's light as vanityWhen to the mocking wind is castThe lily, Chastity."
Bouche-Mignonne liv'd in the mill;Past the vineyards shady;Where the sun shone on a rillJewell'd like a lady.Proud the stream with lily-bud,Gay with glancing swallow;Swift its trillion-footed flood,Winding ways to follow.Coy and still when flying wheelRested from its labour;Singing when it ground the mealGay as lute or tabor."Bouche-Mignonne" it called, when, redIn the dawn were glowing,Eaves and mill-wheel, "leave thy bed,"Hark to me a-flowing!"
Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quickGlossy tresses braided;Curious sunbeams cluster'd thickVines her casement shaded.Deep with leaves and blossoms whiteOf the morning glory,Shaking all their banners brightFrom the mill, eaves hoary.Swallows turn'd glossy throats,Timorous, uncertain,When to hear their matin notes,Peep'd she thro' her curtain,Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear,With its silver laughter—Shook the mill from flooring sereUp to oaken ratter."Bouche-Mignonne" it cried "come down!"Other flowers are stirring;"Pierre with fingers strong and brown"Sets the wheel a-birring."
Bouche-Mignonne her distaff pliesWhere the willows shiver,Round the mossy mill-wheel flies;Dragon-flies a-quiver—Flash a-thwart the lily-beds,Pierce the dry reed's thicket:Where the yellow sunlight treadsChants the friendly cricket.Butterflies about her skim(Pouf! their simple fancies!)In the willow shadows dimTake her eyes for pansies!Buzzing comes a velvet beeSagely it supposesThose red lips beneath the treeAre two crimson roses!Laughs the mill-stream wise and brightIt is not so simpleKnew it, since she first saw lightEv'ry blush and dimple!"Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries"Pierre as the bee is silly"Thinks two morning stars thine eyes—"And thy neck a lily!"
Bouche-Mignonne when shadows creptFrom the vine-dark hollows;When the mossy mill-wheel sleptCurv'd the airy swallows.When the lilies clos'd white lidsOver golden fancies—Homeward drove her goats and kidsBright the gay moon dances.With her light and silver feet,On the mill-stream flowing,Come a thousand perfumes sweet,Dewy buds are blowing.Comes an owl and grely flitsJewell'd ey'd and hooting—Past the green tree where she sitsNightingales are flutingSoft the wind as rust'ling silkOn a courtly lady,Tinkles down the flowing milkHuge and still and shady—Stands the mill-wheel resting still.From its loving labor,Dances on the tireless rillGay as lute or tabor!"Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries"Do not blush and tremble;"If the night has ears and eyes"I'll for thee disemble!"Loud and clear and sweet I'll sing"Oh my far way straying,"I will hide the whisper'd thing"Pierre to thee is saying."Bouche-Mignonne, good night, good night!"Ev'ry silver hour"I will toss my lilies white"'Gainst thy maiden bower!"
One time he dream'd beside a sea,That laid a mane of mimic stars;In fondling quiet on the knee,Of one tall, pearl'd, cliff—the bars;Of golden beaches upward swept,Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.
The full moon swung her ripen'd sphereAs from a vine; and clouds as smallAs vine leaves in the opening yearKissed the large circle of her ball.The stars gleamed thro' them as one seesThro' vine leaves drift the golden bees.
He dream'd beside this purple sea,Low sang its tranced voice, and he—He knew not if the wordless strainMade prophecy of joy or pain;He only knew far stretch'd that sea,He knew its name—Eternity!
A shallop with a rainbow sail,On the bright pulses of the tide,Throbb'd airily; a fluting galeKiss'd the rich gilding of its side;By chain of rose and myrtle fast,A light sail touch'd the slender mast.
"A flower-bright rainbow thing," he saidTo one beside him, "far too frail"To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,"To dare sharp talons of the gale."Belov'd, thou woulds't not forth with me"In such a bark on such a sea?"
"First tell me of its name?" she bentHer eyes divine and innocentOn his. He raised his hand aboveIts prow, and answ'ring swore, "'Tis Love!""Now tell," she ask'd, "how is it built,Of gold or worthless timber gilt?"
"Of gold," he said. "Whence named?" asked she,The roses of her lips apart,She paus'd—a lily by the sea—Came his swift answer, "From my heart!"She laid her light palm in his hand."Let loose the shallop from the strand!"
I marvel if my heart,Hath any room apart,Built secretly its mystic walls within;With subtly warded key.Ne'er yielded unto me—Where even I have surely never been.
Ah, surely I know allThe bright and cheerful hallWith the fire ever red upon its hearth;My friends dwell with me there,Nor comes the step of CareTo sadden down its music and its mirth.
Full well I know as mine,The little cloister'd shrineNo foot but mine alone hath ever trod;There come the shining wings—The face of one who bringsThe pray'rs of men before the throne of God.
And many know full well,The busy, busy cell,Where I toil at the work I have to do,Nor is the portal fast,Where stand phantoms of the past,Or grow the bitter plants of darksome rue.
I know the dainty spot(Ah, who doth know it not?)Where pure young Love his lily-cradle made;And nestled some sweet springsWith lily-spangled wings—Forget-me-nots upon his bier I laid.
Yet marvel I, my soul,Know I thy very whole,Or dost thou hide a chamber still from me?Is it built upon the wall?Is it spacious? is it small?Is it God, or man, or I who holds the key?
"No," said old Farmer Downs to me,"I ain't the facts denyin',That all young folks in love must be,As birds must be a-flyin'.Don't go agin sech facts, becauseI'm one as re-specks Natur's laws.
"No, sir! Old Natur knows a thingOr two, I'm calculatin',She don't make cat-fish dance and sing,Or sparrow-hawks go skatin';She knows her business ev'ry time,You bet your last an' lonely dime!
"I guess, I'm posted pooty fairOn that old gal's capers;She allers acts upon the squareSpite o' skyentific papers.(I borrows one most ev'ry weekFrom Jonses down to "Pincher's Creek.")
"It sorter freshens up a manTo read the newest notions,Tho' I don't freeze much tew that thar plan,About the crops ratotions;You jest leave Natur do her work,She'll do it! she ain't one tew shirk!
"I'm all fur lettin Natur goThe way she's sot on choosin'.Ain't that the figger of a beauThat's talkin' thar tew Susan?Down by the orchard snake-fence? Yes.All right, it's Squire Sims, I guess.
"He's jest the one I want tew seeCome sparkin'; guess they're lyin',That say that of old age he beMost sartinly a-dyin'—He's no sech thing! Good sakes alive,The man is only seventy-five!
"An' she's sixteen. I'm not the manTew act sort of inhuman,An' meanly spile old Natur's planTo jine a man and womanIn wedlock's bonds. Sirree, she makes,This grand old Natur, no mistakes.
"They're standin' pooty clus; the leavesIs round 'em like a bower,The Squire's like the yaller sheavesAn' she's the Corn Flower,Natur's the binder, allus true,Tew make one heart of them thar two.
"Yas—as I was a-sayin', friend,I'm all for Natur's teachins;Sheain't one in the bitter endTew practice over-reachins.You trust her, and she'll treat you well,Don't doubt her by the leastest spell.
"I'm not quite clar but subsoil looksJest kinder not quite pious;I sorter think them farmin' books,Will in the long run sky us,Right in the mud; the way they balkOld Natur with thar darn fool talk!
"When Susie marries Squire Sims,I'll lease his upland farm;I'll get it cheap enough from him—Jest see his long right armAbout her waist—looks orful big!Why, gosh! he's bought a new brown wig!
"Wal, that's the way old Natur actsWhen bald folks go a-sparkin';The skyentists can't alter factsWith all their hard work larkin',A sparkin manwilllook his best—That's Natur—tain't no silly jest!
"Old Natur, you and me is twins;I never will git snarlyWith you, old gal. Why, darn my shins!That's only Jonses Charlie.She's cuddlin' right agin his vest!Eh? What? "Old Natur knows what's best!"
"Oh, does she? Wal, p'raps 'tis so;Jest see the rascal's armAbout her waist! You've got tew goYoung man, right off this farm;Old Natur knows a pile, no doubt,But you an' her hed best get out!
"You, Susie, git right hum. I'm madEs enny bilin' crater!In futur, sick or well or sadI'll take no stock in Natur.I'm that disgusted with her capersI'll run the farm by skyence papers."
A peaceful spot, a little street,So still between the double roarOf sea and city that it seemedA rest in music, set beforeSome clashing chords—vibrating yetWith hurried measures fast and sweet;For so the harsh chords of the town,And so the ocean's rythmic beat.
A little street with linden treesSo thickly set, the belfry's faceWas leaf-veiled, while above them pierced,Four slender spires flamboyant grace.Old porches carven when the trees,Were seedlings yellow in the sunFive hundred years ago that brightUpon the quaint old city shone.
A fountain prim, and richly cutIn ruddy granite, carved to tellHow a good burgomeister rear'dThe stone above the people's well.A sea-horse from his nostrils blewTwo silver threads; a dragon's lipDropp'd di'monds, and a giant handHeld high an urn on finger tip.
'Twas there I met my little maid,There saw her flaxen tresses first;She filled the cup for one who lean'd(A soldier, crippl'd and athirst)Against the basin's carven rim;Her dear small hand's white lovelinessWas pinkly flush'd, the gay bright dropsPlash'd on her brow and silken dress.
I took the flagon from her hand,Too small, dear hand, for such a weight.From cobweb weft and woof is spunThe tapestry of Life and Fate!The linden trees had gilded buds,The dove wheeled high on joyous wing,When on that darling hand of hersI slipped the glimmer of a ring.Ah, golden heart, and golden locksYe wove so sweet, so sure a spell!That quiet day I saw her firstBeside the Burgomeister's Well!
"Come with me," said the WindTo the ship within the dock"Or dost thou fear the shockOf the ocean-hidden rock,When tempests strike thee full and leave thee blind;And low the inky clouds,Blackly tangle in thy shrouds;And ev'ry strained cordFinds a voice and shrills a word,That word of doom so thunderously upflungFrom the tongueOf every forked wave,Lamenting o'er a graveDeep hidden at its base,Where the dead whom it has slainLie in the strict embraceOf secret weird tendrils; but the painOf the ocean's strong remorseDoth fiercely forceThe tale of murder from its bosom outIn a mighty tempest clangour, and its shoutIn the threat'ning and lamenting of its swellIs as the voice of Hell,Yet all the word it saithIs 'Death.'"
"Come with me," sang the Wind,"Why art thou, love, unkind?Thou are too fair, O ship,To kiss the slimy lipOf the cold and dismal shore; and, prithee, mark,How chill and darkShew the vast and rusty linkings of the chain,Hoarse grating as with pain,Which moors theeAnd secures theeFrom the transports of the soft wind and the main.Aye! strain thou and pull,Thy sails are dullAnd dim from long close furling on thy spars,But come thou forth with me,And full and free,I'll kiss them, kiss them, kiss them, till they beWhite as the Arctic stars,Or as the salt-white pinions of the gulf!"
"Come with me," sang the Wind,"O ship belov'd, and findHow golden-gloss'd and blueIs the sea.How thrush-sweet is my voice; how dearly trueI'll keep my nuptial promises to thee.O mine to guide thy sailsBy the kisses of my mouth;Soft as blow the gales,On the roses in the south.O mine to guide thee farFrom ruddy coral bar,From horizon to horizon thou shalt glimmer like a star;Thou shalt lean upon my breast,And I shall rest,And murmur in thy sails,Such fond tales,That thy finest cordsWill, syren-like, chant back my mellow wordsWith such renew'd enchantment unto meThat I shall be,By my own singing, closer bound to thee!"
"Come with me," sang the Wind,"Thou knowest, love, my mind,No more I'll try to woo thee,Persuade thee or pursue thee,For thou art mine;Since first thy mast, a tall and stately pineBeneath Norwegian skies,Sang to my sighs.Thou, thou wert built for me,Strong lily of the sea!Thou cans't not choose,The calling of my low voice to refuse;And if DeathWere the sole, sad, wailing burthen of my breath,Thy timbers at my call,Would shudder in their thrall,Thy sails outburst to touch my stormy lip;Like a giant quick in a grave,Thy anchor heave,And close upon my thunder-pulsing breast, O ship,Thou would'st tremble, nor repine,That being mine,Thy spars,Like long pale lights of falling stars,Plunged in the Stygian blackness of the sea,And to billowy ruin castThy tall and taper mast,Rushed shrieking headlong down to an abyss.O ship! O love! if DeathWere such sure portion, thou could'st not refuseBut thou would'st chooseAs mine to die, and call such choosing bliss;For thou for meWert plann'd from all eternity!"
The silver fangs of the mighty axe,Bit to the blood of our giant boles;It smote our breasts and smote our backs,Thunder'd the front-cleared leaves—As sped in fire,The whirl and flame of scarlet leavesWith strong desireLeaped to the air our captive souls.
While down our corpses thunder'd,The air at our strong souls gazed and wonderedAnd cried to us, "YeAre full of all mystery to me!I saw but thy plumes of leaves,Thy strong, brown greaves;The sinewy roots and lusty branches,And fond and anxious,I laid my ear and my restless breastBy each pride-high crest;And softly stoleAnd listen'd by limb and listen'd by bole,Nor ever the stir of a soul,Heard I in ye—Great is the mystery!"
The strong, brown eagle plung'd from his peak,From the hollow iron of his beak;The wood pigeon fell; its breast of blueCold with sharp death all thro' and thro',To our ghosts he cried."With talons of steel,I hold the storm;Where the high peaks reel,My young lie warm.In the wind-rock'd spaces of air I bide;My wings too wide—Too angry-strong for the emerald gyves,Of woodland cell where the meek dove thrives.And when at the bar,Of morn I smote with my breast its star,And under—My wings grew purple, the jealous thunder,With the flame of the skiesHot in my breast, and red in my eyes;From peak to peak of sunrise pil'dThat set space glowing,With flames from air-based crater's blowing—I downward swept, beguiledBy the close-set forest gilded and spreadA sea for the lordly tread,Of a God's wardship—I broke its leafy turf with my breast;My iron lipI dipp'd in the cool of each whispering crest;From thy leafy steeps,I saw in my deeps,Red coral the flame necked oriole—But never the stir of a soulHeard I in ye—Great is the mystery!"
From its ferny coasts,The river gazed at our strong, free ghosts,And with rocky fingers shedApart the silver curls of its head;Laid its murmuring hands,On the reedy bands;And at gazeStood in the half-moon's of brown, still bays;Like gloss'd eyes of stagsIts round pools gaz'd from the rusty flags,At our ghostly crestsAt the bark-shields strong on our phantom breasts;And its tideTook lip and tongue and cried."I have push'd apartThe mountain's heart;I have trod the valley down;With strong hands curled,Have caught and hurled,To the earth the high hill's crown!
My brow I thrust,Through sultry dust,That the lean wolf howl'd upon;I drove my tides,Between the sides,Of the bellowing canon.
From chrystal shoulders,I hurled my boulders,On the bridge's iron span.When I rear'd my headFrom its old time bed,Shook the pale cities of man!
I have run a courseWith the swift, wild horse;I have thunder'd pace for pace,With the rushing herds—I have caught the beardsOf the swift stars in the race!
Neither moon nor sunCould me out-run;Deep cag'd in my silver bars,I hurried with me,To the shouting sea,Their light and the light of the stars!
The reeling earthIn furious mirthWith sledges of ice I smote.I whirled my swordWhere the pale berg roar'd,I took the ship by the throat!
With stagnant breathI called chill DeathMy guest to the hot bayou.I built men's graves,With strong thew'd wavesThat thing that my strength might do.
I did right well—Men cried "From HellThe might of Thy hand is given!"By loose rocks stonedThe stout quays groaned,Sleek sands by my spear were riven.
O'er shining slides,On my gloss'd tides,The brown cribs close woven roll'd;The stout logs sprung,Their height amongMy loud whirls of white and gold!
The great raft prest,My calm, broad breast—A dream thro' my shady trance,The light canoe—A spirit flew—The pulse of my blue expanse.
Wing'd swift the ships.My foaming lipsMade rich with dewy kisses,All night and morn,Field's red with corn,And where the mill-wheel hisses.
And shivers and sobs,With lab'ring throbs,With its whirls my strong palms play'd.I parted my flags,For thirsty stags,On the necks of arches laid.
To the dry-vined townMy tide roll'd down—Dry lips and throats a-quiver,Rent sky and sodWith shouts "From GodThe strength of the mighty river!"
I, list'ning, heardThe soft-song'd bird;The beetle about thy boles.The calling breeze,In thy crests, O Trees—Never the voices of souls!"
* * * * *
We, freed souls, of the Trees look'd downOn the river's shining eyes of brown;And upward smiledAt the tender air and its warrior child,The iron eagle strong and wild.
* * * * *
"No will of ours,The captive souls of our barky tow'rs;"His the deedWho laid in the secret earth the seed;And with strong handKnitted each woody fetter and band.Never, yeAsk of the tree,The "Wherefore" or "Why" the tall trees stand,Built in their places on the landTheir souls unknit;With any wisdom or any wit,The subtle "Why,"Ask ye not of earth or sky—But one command it.
To the Goddess Lada prayedGisli, holding high his spearBound with buds of spring, and laughedAll his heart to Lada's ear.
Damp his yellow beard with mead,Loud the harps clang'd thro the day;With bruised breasts triumphant rodeGisli's galleys in the bay.
Bards sang in the banquet hall,Set in loud verse Gisli's fame,On their lips the war gods laidFire to chaunt their warrior's name.
To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd,Buds upon his tall spear's tip;Laughter in his broad blue eyes,Laughter on his bearded lip.
To the Spring-queen Gisli pray'd,She, with mystic distaff slim,Spun her hours of love and leaves,Made the stony headlands dim—
Dim and green with tender grass,Blew on ice-fields with red mouth;Blew on lovers hearts; and luredWhite swans from the blue-arched south.
To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd,Groan'd far icebergs tall and blueAs to Lada's distaff slim,All their ice-locked fires flew.
To the Love-queen Gisli prayed,She, with red hands, caught and spun.Yellow flames from crater lips,flames from the waking sun.
To the Love-queen Gisli prayed,She with loom and beam and spell,All the subtle fires of earthWove, and wove them strong and well.
To the Spring-queen Gisli prayed,Low the sun the pale sky trod;Mute her ruddy hand she raisedBeckon'd back the parting God.
To the Love-queen Gisli prayed—Weft and woof of flame she wove—Lada, Goddess of the Spring!Lada, Goddess strong of Love!
Sire of the strong chieftain's prayer,Victory with his pulse of flame;Mead its mother—loud he laughed,Calling on great Lada's name.
"Goddess Lada—Queen of Love!"Here stand I and quaff to thee—"Deck for thee with buds my spear—"Give a comely wife to me!
"Blow not to my arms a flake"Of crisp snow in maiden guise;"Mists of pallid hair and tips"Of long ice-spears in her eyes!
"When my death-sail skims the foam—"Strain my oars on Death's black sea—"When my foot the "Glass-Hill" seeks—"Such a maid may do for me!
"Now, O Lada, mate the flesh!"Mate the fire and flame of life,"Tho' the soul go still unwed,"Give the flesh its fitting wife!
"As the galley runs between,"Skies with billows closely spun:"Feeling but the wave that leaps"Closest to it in the sun."
"Throbs but to the present kiss"Of the wild lips of the sea;"Thus a man joys in his life—"Nought of the Beyond knows he!
"Goddess! here I cast bright buds,"Spicy pine boughs at thy feet;"Give the flesh its fitting mate"Life is strong and life is sweet!"
To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd—Weft and woof of flame she wove:Lada, Goddess of the Spring—Lada, Goddess strong of Love!
* * * * *
PART II.
From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town,Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down.
His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind,His shade like a dusky God striding behind.
Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near,Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear.
As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky,The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high.
In fjords roared the ice below the dumb strokeOf the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke.
It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay—The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day.
It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose—It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes.
It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle—grew dullThe cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull.
"Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli "and drive"Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive.
"Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed,"It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead!
"Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy breast!"Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the West.
"With thy long, hissing oars, beat loud the north sea."The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and me.
"No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the sky,"Or the brows of the great Gods, bold wind, love I!
"As Gylfag, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank"Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-thew'd, lank.
"Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in its hair,"Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro' the breast of the air!
* * * * *
PART III.
The shouting of Gisli, the chieftain,Rock'd the blue hazes, and clovenIn twain by sharp prow of the west wind,To north and to south fled the thick mist.
As in burnish'd walls of Valhalla,In cleft of the mist stood the chieftain,And up to the blue shield of Heaven,Flung the load shaft of his laughter.
Smote the mist, with shrill spear the swift wind.Grey shapes fled like ghosts on the Hell way;Bay'd after their long locks hoarse Gylfag,Stared at them, triumphant, the eagles.
To mate and to eaglets, the eagleShriek'd, "Gone is my foe of the deep mist,"Rent by the vast hands of the kind Gods,"Who knows the knife-pangs of our hunger!"
Shrill whistled the winds as his dun wingsStrove with it feather by feather;Loud grated the rock as his talonsIts breast spurned slowly his red eyes.
Like fires seemed to flame in the swift wind,At his sides the darts of his hunger—At his ears the shriek of his eaglets—In his breast the love of the quarry.
Unfurl'd to the northward and southwardHis wings broke the air, and to eastwardHis breast gave its iron; and God-wardPierc'd the shrill voice of his hunger.
Bared were his great sides as he labouredUp the first steep blue of the broad sky;His gaze on the fields of his freedom,To the God's spoke the prayers of his gyres.
Bared were his vast sides as he glidedBlack in the sharp blue of the north sky:Black over the white of the tall cliffs,Black over the arrow of Gisli.
* * * * *
THE SONG OF THE ARROW.
What know I,As I bite the blue veins of the throbbing sky;To the quarry's breastHot from the sides of the sleek smooth nest?
What know IOf the will of the tense bow from which I fly?What the need or jest,That feathers my flight to its bloody rest.
What know IOf the will of the bow that speeds me on high?What doth the shrill bowOf the hand on its singing soul-string know?
Flame-swift speed I—And the dove and the eagle shriek out and die;Whence comes my sharp zestFor the heart of the quarry? the Gods know best.
Deep pierc'd the red gaze of the eagle—The breast of a cygnet below him;Beneath his dun wing from the eastwardShrill-chaunted the long shaft of Gisli!
Beneath his dun wing from the westwardShook a shaft that laugh'd in its biting—Met in the fierce breast of the eagleThe arrows of Gisli and Brynhild!
* * * * *
PART IV:
A ghost along the Hell-way sped,The Hell-shoes shod his misty tread;A phantom hound beside him sped.
Beneath the spandrils of the Way,World's roll'd to-night—from night to day;In space's ocean Suns were spray.
Group'd world's, eternal eagles, flew;Swift comets fell like noiseless dew,Young earths slow budded in the blue.
The waves of space inscrutable,With awful pulses rose and fell—Silent and godly—terrible.
Electric souls of strong Suns laid,Strong hands along the awful shadeThat God about His God-work made.
Ever from all ripe worlds did break,Men's voices, as when children speak,Eager and querulous and weak.
And pierc'd to the All-worker thro'His will that veil'd Him from the view"What hast thou done? What dost thou do?"
And ever from His heart did flowMajestical, the answer low—The benison "Ye shall not know!"
The wan ghost on the Hell-way sped,Nor yet Valhalla's lights were shedUpon the white brow of the Dead.
Nor sang within his ears the rollOf trumpets calling to his soul;Nor shone wide portals of the goal.
His spear grew heavy on his breast,Dropp'd, like a star his golden crest;Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest!
His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak,He scal'd the knit mists of a peak,That ever parted grey and bleak.
And, as by unseen talons nipp'd,To deep Abysses slowly slipp'd;Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripp'd.
By whirling winds from ashy ring,Of dank weeds blackly smoldering,The peak sprang upward a quivering
And perdurable, set its faceAgainst the pulsing breast of spaceBut for a moment to its base.
Refluent roll'd the crest new sprung,In clouds with ghastly lightnings stung,—Faint thunders to their black feet clung.
His faithful hound ran at his heel—His thighs and breast were bright with steel—He saw the awful Hellway reel.
But far along its bleak peaks rangA distant trump—its airy clangLike light through deathly shadows sprang.
He knew the blast—the voice of love!Cleft lay the throbbing peak aboveSail'd light, wing'd like a silver dove.
On strove the toiling ghost, his soulStirr'd like strong mead in wassail bowl,That quivers to the shout of "Skoal!"
Strode from the mist close-curv'd and coldAs is a writhing dragon's fold;A warrior with shield of gold.
A sharp blade glitter'd at his hip,Flamed like a star his lance's tip;His bugle sang at bearded lip.
Beneath his golden sandels flewStars from the mist as grass flings dew;Or red fruit falls from the dark yew.
As under shelt'ring wreaths of snowThe dark blue north flowers richly blow—Beneath long locks of silver glow.
Clear eyes, that burning on a hostWould win a field at sunset lost,Ere stars from Odin's hand were toss'd.
He stretch'd his hand, he bowed his head:The wan ghost to his bosom sped—Dead kiss'd the bearded lips of Dead!
"What dost thou here, my youngest born?"Thou—scarce yet fronted with life's storm—"Why art thou from the dark earth torn?
"When high Valhalla puls'd and rang"With harps that shook as grey bards sang—"'Mid the loud joy I heard the clang.
"Of Death's dark doors—to me alone"Smote in thy awful dying groan—"My soul recall'd its blood and bone.
"Viewless the cord which draws from far"To the round sun some mighty star;"Viewless the strong-knit soul-cords are!
"I felt thy dying gasp—thy soul"Towards mine a kindred wave in roll,"I left the harps—I left the bowl.
"I sought the Hellway—I—the blest;"That thou, new death-born son should rest"Upon the strong rock of my breast.
"What dost thou here, young, fair and bold?"Sleek with youth's gloss thy locks of gold;"Thy years by flow'rs might yet be told!
"What dost thou at the ghostly goal,"While yet thy years were to thy soul,"As mead yet shallow in the bowl?"
His arm about the pale ghost cast,The warrior blew a clear, loud blast;Like frighten'd wolves the mists fled past.
Grew firm the way; worlds flame to lightThe awful peak that thrusts its height,With swift throbs upward, like a flight.
Of arrows from a host close setLong meteors pierc'd its breast of jet—Again the trump his strong lips met—
And at its blast blew all the day,In broad winds on the awful Way;Sun smote at Sun across the grey;
As reindeer smite the high-pil'd snowTo find the green moss far below—They struck the mists thro' which did glow
Bright vales—and on a sea afar,Lay at a sunlit harbour bar,A galley gold-sail'd like a star!
Spake the pale ghost as onward spedHeart-press'd to heart the valiant dead;Soft the green paths beneath their tread.
"I lov'd, this is my tale, and died—The fierce chief hunger'd for my bride—The spear of Gisli pierc'd my side!
"And she—her love fill'd all my need—Her vows were sweet and strong as mead;Look, father—doth my heart still bleed?
"I built her round with shaft and spear,I kept her mine for one brief year—She laugh'd above my blood stain'd bier!
"Upon a far and ice-peak'd coastMy galleys by long winds were toss'd—There Gisli feasted with his host.
"Of warriors triumphant—heStrode out from harps and revelry;And sped his shaft above the sea!
"Look, father, doth my heart bleed yet?His arrow Brynhild's arrow met—My gallies anchor'd in their rest.
"Again their arrows meet—swift liesThat pierc'd me from their smiling eyes;How fiercely hard a man's heart dies!
"She false—he false! There came a dayPierc'd by the fierce chief's spear I lay—My ghost rose shrieking from its clay.
"I saw on Brynhild's golden vestThe shining locks of Gisli rest;I sought the Hell-way to the Blest.
"Father, put forth thy hand and tearTheir twin shafts from my heart, all bareTo thee—they rankle death—like there!
* * * * *
Said the voice of Evil to the ear of Good,"Clasp thou my strong, right hand,"Nor shall our clasp be known or understood"By any in the land."
"I, the dark giant, rule strongly on the earth,"Yet thou, bright one, and I"Sprang from the one great mystery—at one birth"We looked upon the sky!
"I labour at my bleak, my stern toil accurs'dOf all mankind—nor stay,To rest, to murmur "I hunger" or "I thirst!"Nor for my joy delay.
"My strength pleads strongly with thee; doth any beatWith hammer and with stonePast tools to use them to his deep defeat—To turn them on his throne?
"Then I of God the mystery—toil thou with meBrother; but in the sightOf men who know not, I, the stern son shall beOf Darkness—Thou of Light!"
O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to meGood news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea?I press my ear, O little shell, against thy rosy lips;Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships?
What, not a word? Ah hearken, shell, I've shut the cottage door;There's scarce a sound to drown thy voice, so silent is the moor,A bell may tinkle far away upon its purple rise;A bee may buz among the heath—a lavrock cleave the skies.
But if you only breathe the name I name upon my knees,Ah, surely I should catch the word above such sounds as these.And Grannie's needles click no more, the ball of yarn is done,And she's asleep outside the door where shines the merry sun.
One night while Grannie slept, I dreamed he came across the moor,And stood, so handsome, brown and tall, beside the open door:I thought I turned to pick a rose that by the sill had blown,(He liked a rose) and when I looked, O shell, I was alone!
Across the moor there dwells a wife; she spaed my fortune true,And said I'd plight my troth with one who ware a jacket blue;That morn before my Grannie woke, just when the lapwing stirred,I sped across the misty rise and sought the old wife's word.
With her it was the milking time, and while she milk'd the goat,I ask'd her then to spae my dream, my heart was in my throat—But that was just because the way had been so steep and long,And not because I had the fear that anything was wrong.
"Ye'll meet, ye'll meet," was all she said; "Ye'll meet when it is mirk."I gave her tippence that I meant for Sabbath-day and kirk;And then I hastened back again; it seemed that never sureThe happy sun delay'd so long to gild the purple moor.
That's six months back, and every night I sit beside the door,And while I knit I keep my gaze upon the mirky moor;I keep old Collie by my side—he's sure to spring and bark,When Ronald comes across the moor to meet me in the dark.
Iknowthe old wife spaed me true, for did she not fore-tellI'd break a ring with Ronald Grey beside the Hidden Well?It came to pass at shearing-time, before he went to sea(We're nighbours' bairns) howcouldshe know that Ronald caredfor me.
So night by night I watch for him—by day I sing and work,And try to never mind the latch—he's coming in the dark;Yet as the days and weeks and months go slipping slowly thro',I wonder if the wise old wife has spaed my fortune true!
Ah, not a word about his ship? Well, well, I'll lay thee by.I see a heron from the marsh go sailing in the sky,The purple moor is like a dream, a star is twinkling clear—Perhaps the meeting that she spaed is drawing very near!
Fountain, cans't thou sing the songMy Juan sang to meThe moonlit orange groves among?Then list the words from me,And mark thee, by the morning's light,Or by the moon's soft beam,Or when my eyes with smiles are bright,Or when I wake or dream.O, Fountain, thou must sing the songMy Juan sang to me;Yet stay—the only words I knowAre "Inez, Love and Thee!"
Fountain, on my light guitarI'll play the strain to thee,And while I watch yon laughing star,The words will come to me.And mark thee, when my heart is sad,And full of sweet regrets,Or when it throbs to laughter glad,Like feet to castanets.O, Fountain, thou must sing the songMy Juan sang to me;Yet stay—the only words I knowAre "Inez, Love, and Thee!"
Fountain, clap thy twinkling handsBeneath yon floating moon,And twinkle to the starry bandsThat dance upon the gloom,For I am glad, for who could crave,The joyous night to fill,A richer treasure than I haveIn Juan's seguedille?So, Fountain, mark, no other songDare ever sing, to me,Tho' only four short words I know,Just, "Inez, Love and Thee!"
* * * * *
Morello strikes on his guitar,When over the olives the starOf eve, like a rose touch'd with gold,Doth slowly its sweet rays unfold.Perchance 'tis in some city square,And the people all follow us there.Don, donna, slim chulo, padrone,The very dog runs with his bone;One half of the square is in the shade,On the other the red sunset fades;The fount, as it flings up its jets,Responds to my brisk castanets;I wear a red rose at my ear;And many a whisper I hear:"If she were a lady, behold,None other should share my red gold!"
"St. Anthony save us, what eyes!How gem-like her little foot flies!""These dancers should all be forbidTo dance in the streets of Madrid.""If I were a monarch I'd ownNo other to sit on my throne!"Two scarlet streamers tie my hair;They burn like red stars on the air;My dark eyes flash, my clear cheek burns,My kirtle eddies in swift turns,My golden necklet tinkles sweet;Yes, yes, I love the crowded street!