The Summer Palace stood by night
Lit up in dazzling sheen,
The doors unfolded, and the pomp
Stirred in between;
—To a burst of royal music
Came the Queen.
Her eyes like stars of speedwell
Shone down the great saloon;
She came, and all before her
Knew it was June;
The passing of her presence
Was too soon.
The little curls around her head
Were all her crown of gold,
Her delicate arms drooped downward
In slender mould,
As white-veined leaves of lilies
Curve and fold.
All in white,—not ivory
For young bloom past away,—
Blossom-white, rose-white,
White of the May;
'Twixt white dress and white neck,
Who could say?
She moved to measure of music,
As a swan sails the stream;
Where her looks fell was summer,
When she smiled was a dream;
All faces bowing towards her
Sunflowers seem.
O the rose upon her silent mouth,
The perfect rose that lies!
O the roses red, the roses deep,
Within her cheeks that rise!
O the rose of rapture of her face
To our eyes!
The tall fair Princes smile and sigh
For grace of one sweet glance,
The glittering dancers fill the floor,
The Queen leads the dance;
The dial-hands to midnight
Still advance.
Dance down to the melting music!
Hark to the viols' strain!
Their notes are piercing, piercing,
Again, again;
The pulse of the air is beating
Throbs of pain.
Does the dancing languish slower?
Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh;
In silver falling and calling,
They seek reply;
And the heart is sinking, sinking,
Why, ah why?
Oh, the high harp-strings resounding!
So long, so clear they are:
A cry is ringing in heaven
From star to star,
Rising sharper and fainter
From afar.
The Queen has danced from end to end;
Oh, the candles burn so bright!
But her blue eyes look far away
Into the night;
And the roses on her cheeks and lips
Have grown white.
Oh, why is the Queen so pale to-night?
And why does silence fall,
As one by one they turn to her,
Upon them all?
Whence comes that cold wind shivering
Down the hall?
The hour draws close to midnight,
The banquet board is spread;
The lamps are lit, the guests are set,
The Queen at the head:
For the feasting at kings' tables
Grace be said!
The shaded light of rubies
Streams from every part
Down the golden supper;—
Who is sick at heart?
Oh, hush! for the Queen is listening,
Lips apart.
She sits with wide and open eyes,
The wine-cup in her hand;
And all the guests are ill at ease,
Nor understand;
Is it not some enchanted
Strange far land?
The twelve long strokes of midnight
With clash and clang affright;
The rose-glow seems to darken
Before their sight;
But the Queen has swooned back heavily,
Cold and white.
They lifted her, a burden
Like broken lily-flowers;
They laid her on her own bed,
Within her bowers;
They mourned, and they tended her,
For six hours.
At the first hour after midnight,
The Queen nor spoke nor stirred;
At the second, by her bedside,
No breath they heard;
They said, "Is she living?"
At the third.
At the fourth hour they watched sadly
At her feet and her head;
At the fifth, standing idle,
No word they said;
At the sixth, "Bring candles
For one dead."
Swept low down across the East,
Through the morning grey,
A flock of white clouds swiftly,
Dim, far away;
Like a flight of white wings:—
What were they?
Through the palace suddenly,
Through every floor,
Wailed a wind and whistled,
Shook every door,
Rattled through the windows,
Then passed o'er.
And as they stood with tapers tall
Around the Queen, there came
A soft and far-off fluttering
Over her frame,
And from between her sleeping lips,
One faint flame.
They take her hand, they call on her,
She answers them likewise;
She sits upright, she looks around,
With her blue eyes,
And a smile as of thy secrets,
Paradise!
Winter is here, and has not brought
The Traveller of renown;
Why has he not come back again
To court and town?
Rumours and questionings pass
Up and down.
Is it only the wolves of the Northland
Know where his bones lie white?
Only the swans could tell us,
In southward flight?
Is it only the wind could whisper
To the night?
The Queen sits still and smiling,
She hears the talk prevail,
She speaks no word, she gives no glance,
She tells no tale;
In the golden shadow always
She is pale.
—-H. E. Hamilton-King.
0089m
Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods
Were gay with summer sheen,
A mother wept for her little Willie,
All in his grave so green.
'Twas Yule, and on the mountain-side
The wind was shrill and cold;
The mother wept for her little Willie,
Who lay within the mould.
O cold, cold is a winter grave,
O but a shroud is thin—
A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,
"O mother, let me in."
"I dare not let thee in, Willie,"
The sister up and said,
"For mother's away at Jane's lykewake,—
Go to thy graveyard bed."
"O cold and lonely is the night,
Madly the fierce winds rave;
How should I sleep?—The shroud is wet
That wraps me in the grave."
She sign'd the cross upon her brow,
The cross upon her breast,
With:—"Avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee,
ghost,
And get thee to thy rest."
'Twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth,
The wind howl'd down the lin;
A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,
"O mother, let me in."
Up sprung the father to his feet,
And many a cross sign'd he,
With:—"Angels defend us from thee, child,
And from the like of thee."
"O cold, cold is the winter snow,
That drifts adown the steep,
But colder far this clammy shroud
Which will not let me sleep."
The wind had swept away the clouds,
But still its laugh was wild;
Before the father slept, he pray'd
The saints to ban his child.
Ah! who shall help a houseless soul?
What refuge shall it win?
Again the hand tapp'd on the door:
"O mother, let me in."
Quick was her ear to catch the cry,
Her foot upon the floor,
Her hand to draw away the bolt,
And open wide the door.
"Come in, come in, thou child of mine,
Right welcome unto me,
Come in, and warm thee in the breast
That erewhile suckled thee."
She took him up within her arms
Or ere a word was said,
She set him down before the hearth,
All wan and damp and dead.
"Cold was the snow that beat on me,
The grave that let me out,
O take away this wet wet shroud
That wraps me round about.
"Your tears fall on my face, mother,
Your tears fall on my feet,
Your tears drip through the coffin-lid
Upon my winding-sheet.
"Now weep no more for me, mother,
It lets me in my rest,
But wrap me in another shroud
And warm me in thy breast."
The sister peep'd from out her bed,
Her face was pale with fear,—
"O mother, give him nought of mine
Or I shall die this year."
0092m
Out spoke the father from his bed,
Harsh was his voice and wild,—
"O woman, take not aught of mine,
To wrap about the child."
A strange strange smile was on her lips,
But ne'er a word she said;
Her best seem'd hardly good enough
To wrap around the dead.
She bore him to and fro, and sang
Old songs and lullabies;
He laid his hands upon her cheeks
And smiled into her eyes.
'Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods
Were gay with summer sheen,
The mother slept with her little Willie
All in the grave so green.
——Charles Grant.
Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.
Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Tho' the red moon went by.
'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Look'd on it in despair.
0094m
The breath of the world came and went
Like a sick man's in rest;
Drop by drop on the world's eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan—
"I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.
"I will bury deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
The body will be gone!
"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and cold, God wot;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot!"
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,
And carried it away.
And as he bare it from the field
Its touch was cold as ice,
And the ivory teeth within the jaw
Rattled aloud, like dice.
As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye,
Opened and shut again.
Half he walk'd, and half he seem'd
Lifted on the cold wind;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.
The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.
The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated light as wool.
He drew the body on his back,
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place he came unto
Was a Cross upon a hill.
A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swing thereon,
Who had been crucified.
And on the middle cross bar sat
A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.
0097m
And underneath the middle cross
A grave yawn'd wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shiver'd, and glided past.
The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep, and swift, and red.
He dared not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim,
And arms were waved in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splashed the body red.
For days and nights he wandered on,
Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.
For days and nights he wandered on,
All thro' the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like moaning wind,
And the days like drifting snow.
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face—
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place!
He wandered east, he wandered west,
And heard no human sound;
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He wandered round and round.
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walked the silent night;
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceived a far-off light.
A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like the lighthouse
gleam
On a black night at sea.
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Crawl'd to the distant gleam;
And the rain came down, and the rain was
blown
Against him with a scream.
For days and nights he wandered on,
Push'd on by hands behind;
And the days went by like black, black rain,
And the nights like rushing wind.
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange, and sad, and tall
Stood all alone at dead of night
Before a lighted hall.
And the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silvern moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.
And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Pass'd on the window light.
The shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch'd along the snow.
The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.
To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen pole
Glideth the lean white bear.
'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
And the lights burnt bright and clear—
"Oh, who is that," the Bridegroom said,
"Whose weary feet I hear?"
'Twas one looked from the lighted hall.
And answered soft and slow,
"It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow."
The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head—
"Oh, who is that who moans without?"
The blessed Bridegroom said.
'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
"'Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro."
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.
The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord's Supper
Was spread so broad and bright.
The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd,
And his face was bright to see—
"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper
With thy body's sins?" said he.
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare—
"I have wandered many nights and days:
There is no light elsewhere."
'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright—
"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!"
The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.
And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touch'd the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.
'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.
'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open
door,
And beckon'd, smiling sweet;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.
"The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!"
The supper wine is poured at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet
And dries them with his hair.
——R. Buchanan.
There's some think Injins p'ison."—(It was
Parson Pete who spoke,
As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like
shadows among the smoke.
'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our
faces burned bright red,
And the wind all round made a screeching sound,
and the pines roared overhead.
Ay, Parson Pete was talking; we called him
Parson Pete,
For you must learn he'd a talking turn, and
handled things so neat;
He'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and,
when all talk was spent,
Six shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int
his argyment.
Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we
had a guess, you bet,
They might be creeping, while we were sleeping,
to catch us in the net;
And half were asleep and snoring deep, while
the others vigil kept,
But devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke
or slept.)
"There's some think Injins p'ison, and others
count'em scum,
And night and day they are melting away, clean
into Kingdom Come;
But don't you go and make mistakes, like many
derned fools I've known,
For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an
Injin's flesh and bone!
We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and
we'd had a blaze of luck,
More rich and rare the stuff ran there at every
foot we struck;
Like men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and
never seemed to tire,
The hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed
with the sweat of a mad desire.
I was captain then of the mining men, and I had
a precious life,
For a wilder set I never met at derringer and
knife;
Nigh every day there was some new fray, a
bullet in some one's brain,
And the viciousest brute to stab and to shoot,
was an Imp of Hell from Maine.
Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with
a squint to make you skeer'd,
His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd,
with carroty hair and beard,
Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a
grizzly's squeal,
Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd
him in the heel.
No beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript
to the waist and bare,
With his grim-set jaws, and his panther-paws,
and his hawk's eye all aglare;
With pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd
like darnation,
But when his spell was over,—well! he was
fond of his recreation!
And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport
he had,
When work was over, seemed to us a bit too
rough and bad;
For to put some lead in a comrade's head was
the greatest fun in life,
And the sharpest joke he was known to poke
was the p'int of his precious knife.
But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and
he always fought most fair,
With as good a will to be killed as kill, true
grit as any there:
Of honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent,
though not so keen,
Would rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do
what he thought mean.
But his eddication to his ruination had not been
over nice,
And his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar
prejudice;
With anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in
fair and open fray;
But to murder and kill was his wicked will, if
an Injin came his way!
* A sarpent's hide has p'ison inside, and an
Injin's heart's the same,
If he seems your friend for to gain his end,
look out for the sarpent's game;
Of the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the
snake in a skin of red,
A spotted Snake, and no mistake?' that's what
he always said.
Well, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were
wild as raving men,
When who should stray to our camp one day,
but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;
Drest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one
joins our band,
And though the rest look'd black as sin, he
shakesmeby the hand.
Now, the poor old cuss had been good to us,
and I knew that he was true,—
I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon
as I*d trustyou;
For tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank
like any fish,
His heart was kind, he was well inclined, as
even a white could wish.
Food had got low, for we didn't know the run
of the hunting-ground,
And our hunters were sick, when, jest in the
nick, the friend in need was found;
For he knew the place like his mother's face (or
better, a heap, you'd say,
Since she was a squaw of the roaming race,
and himself a castaway).
Well, I took the Panther into camp, and the
critter was well content,
And off with him, on the hunting tramp, next
day our hunters went,
And I reckon that day and the next we didn't
want for food,
And only one in the camp looked vext—that
Imp of Hell, Phil Blood.
Nothing would please his contrairy ideas! an
Injin made him rile!
He didn't speak, but I saw on his cheek, a kind
of an ugly smile;
And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I
kept the Panther apart,
For the Injin he was too blind to see the dirt
in a white man's heart!
Well, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon-
time by the creek,
The red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too
beat to stir or speak;
'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and
we couldn't see the sky,
For the lian-flowers in bright blue showers
hung through the branches high.
It was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and I
felt like earth's first Man,
In an Eden bower with the yellow flower of a
cactus for a fan;
Oranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster'd,
ripen'd, and fell,
And the cedar scent was pleasant, blent with
the soothing 'cacia smell.
The squirrels red ran overhead, and I saw the
lizards creep,
And the woodpecker bright with the chest so
white tapt like a sound in sleep;
I dreamed and dozed, with eyes half-closed,
and felt like a three-year child,
And, a plantain blade on his brow for a shade,
even Phil Blood look'd mild.
Well, back, jest then, came our hunting men,
with the Panther at their head,
Full of his fun was every one, and the Panther's
eyes were red,
And he skipt about with grin and shout, for he'd
had a drop that day,
And he twisted and twirled, and squeal'd and
skirl'd, in the foolish Injin way.
To the waist all bare Phil Blood lay there, with
only his knife in his belt,
And I saw his bloodshot eye-balls stare, and I
knew how fierce he felt,—
When the Injin dances with grinning glances
around him as he lies,
With his painted skin and his monkey grin,—
and leers into his eyes!
Then before I knew what I should do Phil Blood
was on his feet,
And the Injin could trace the hate in his face,
and his heart began to beat,
And, "Git out o' the way," he heard them say,
"for he means to hev your life!"
But before he could fly at the warning cry, he
saw the flash of the knife.
"Run, Panther run!" cried each mother's son,
and the Panther took the track;
With a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, Phil
Blood sprang at his back.
Up the side so steep of the canon deep the poor
old critter sped,
And the devil's limb ran after him, till they
faded overhead.
Now, the spot of ground where our luck was
found, was a queerish place, you'll mark,
Jest under the jags of the mountain crags and
the precipices dark,
Far up on high, close to the sky, the two crags
leant together,
Leaving a gap, like an open trap, with a gleam
of golden weather.
A pathway led from the beck's dark bed up to
the crags on high,
And along that path the Injin fled, fast as a man
could fly.
Some shots were fired, for I desired to keep the
white beast back;
But I missed my man, and away he ran on the
flying Injin's track.
Now all below is thick, you know, with 'cacia,
alder, and pine,
And the bright shrubs deck the side of the
beck, and the lian flowers so fine,
For the forest creeps all under the steeps, and
feathers the feet of the crags
With boughs So thick that your path you pick,
like a steamer among the snags.
But right above you, the crags, Lord love you!
are bare as this here hand,
And your eyes you wink at the bright blue
chink, as looking up you stand,
If a man should pop in that trap at the top, he'd
never rest arm or leg,
Till neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop—
and smash on the stones like an egg!
'Come back, you cuss! come back to us! and
let the critter be!'
I screamed out loud, while the men in a crowd
stood grinning at them and me....
But up they went, and my shots were spent, and
at last they disappeared,—
One minute more, and we gave a roar, for the
Injin had leapt,—andcleared!
A leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,—and the
bloodiest grave below!
But the critter was smart and mad with fear,
and he went like a bolt from a bow!
Close after him came the devil's limb, with his
eyes as dark as death,
But when he came to the gulch's brim, I reckon
he paused for breath!
For breath at the brink! but—a white man
shrink, when a red had passed so neat?
I knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd turn
his back dead beat!
He takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds
from the slippery ledge,
And he clears the hole, but—God help his soul!
just touches the tother edge!
One scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from
the men that stand and stare,—
Black in the blue, where the sky looks thro', he
staggers, dwarfd up there;
The edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches
the rock—our eyes grow dim—
I turn away—what's that they say?—he's hang-
ing on to the brim!
... On the very brink of the fatal chink a
ragged shrub there grew,
And to that he clung, and in silence swung
betwixt us and the blue,
And as soon as a man could run I ran the way I
had seen them flee,
And I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, and—
what do you think I see?
All up? Not quite. Still hanging? Right!
but he'd torn away the shrub;
With lolling tongue, he clutched and swung—
to what? Ay, that's the rub!
I saw him glare, and dangle in air,—for the
empty hole he trod—
Helped by apair of handsup there!—the InJin's?
Yes, by God!
Now, boys, look here! for many a year I've
roamed in this here land—
And many a sight both day and night I've seen
that I think grand;
Over the whole wide world I've been, and I
know both things and men,
But the biggest sight I've ever seen was the
sight I saw jest then.
I held my breath—so nigh to death Phil Blood
swung hand and limb,
And it seemed to us all that down he'd fall, with
the Panther after him,
But the Injin at length put out his strength—
and another minute past,—
Then safe and sound to the solid ground he
drew Phil Blood, at last!!
Saved? True for you, by an Injin too!—and the
man he meant to kill!
There, all alone, on the brink of stone, I see
them standing still;
Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle and
fright, like a great mad bull at bay,
And the Injin meanwhile, with a half skeer'd
smile, ready to spring away.
What did Phil do? Well I watched the two,
and I saw Phil Blood turn back,
Bend over the brink and take a blink right down
the chasm black,
Then stooping low for a moment or so, he
sheath'd his bowie bright,
Spat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as
the spittle sank from sight!
Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent,