EARLY POEMS.

EARLY POEMS.EARLY POEMS.

I.When buttercups are blossoming,The poets sang,’tis best to wed:So all for love we paired in Spring—Blanche and I—ere youth had sped,For Autumn’s wealth brings Autumn’s wane.Sworn fealty to royal ArtWas ours, and doubly linked the chain,With symbols of her high domain,That twined us ever heart to heart;And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,We rambled, till before us stoodThe outposts of Bohemia.II.For, roaming blithely many a day,Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,Like Christian’s follies, slipt away,Unloosened from the pilgrim’s hold,But left us just as blithe and free;Whereat our footsteps turned asideFrom lord and lady of degree,And bore us to that brave countreeWhere merrily we now abide,—That proud and humble, poor and grand,Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,The Valley of Bohemia.III.Together from the higher clime,By terraced cliff and copse along,Adown the slant we stept, in timeTo many another pilgrim’s song,And came where faded far away,Each side, the kingdom’s ancient wall,From breaking unto dying day;Beyond, the magic valley lay,With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;And here, between twin turrets, ran,Built o’er with arch and barbacan,The entrance to Bohemia.IV.Beneath the lichened parapetGrim-sculptured Gog and Magog boreThe Royal Arms,—Hope’s Anchor, setIn azure, on a field ofor,With pendent mugs, and hands that wieldA lute and tambour, graven clear;What seemed a poet’s scroll revealedThe antique legend of the shield:Cambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.V.No churlish warder barred the gate,Nor other pass was needed thereThan equal heart for either fate,And barren scrip, and hope to spare.Through the gray archway, hand in hand,We walked, beneath the rampart high,And on within the wondrous land;There, changed as by enchanter’s wand,My sweetheart, fairer to the eyeThan ever, moved along sereneIn hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,Born princess of Bohemia!VI.A fairy realm! where slope and stream,Champaign and upland, town and grange,Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,Forever blend and interchange;A magic clime! where, hour by hour,Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,Commingle, and, through shine and shower,Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,Emblazoning the distant skyWith glimmering glories of a landFar off, yet ever close at handAs hope, in brave Bohemia.VII.On either side the travelled way,Encamped along the sunny downs,The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,At smoke-stained inns of musty date,And spider-haunted attic nooksIn empty houses of the great,Still smacking of their ancient state,—Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,And robes and buskins over-worn,That well become the careless scornAnd freedom of Bohemia.VIII.For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,Too poor to make her all in all,They spurn her half-way maintenance,And let things mingle as they fall;Dissevered from all other climes,Yet compassing the whole round world,Where’er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,True love, and careless, jovial times,Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,Men that were born before their day,Kingly, without a realm to sway,Yet monarchs in Bohemia;IX.And errant wielders of the quill;And old-world princes, strayed afar,In thread-bare exile chasing stillThe glimpses of a natal star;And Woman—taking refuge thereWith woman’s toil, and trust, and song,And something of a piquant airDefiant, as who must and dareSteer her own shallop, right or wrong.A certain noble nature schools,In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,The maidens of Bohemia.X.But we pursued our pilgrimageFar on, through hazy lengths of road,Or crumbling cities gray with age;And stayed in many a queer abode,Days, seasons, years,—wherein were bornOf infant pilgrims, one, two, three;And ever, though with travel worn,Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn,We seemed a merry company,—We, and the mates whom friendship, orWhat sunshine fell within our door,Drew to us in Bohemia.XI.For Ambrose—priest without a cure—Christened our babes, and drank the wineHe blessed, to make the blessing sure;And Ralph, the limner—half-divineThe picture of my Blanche he drew,As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,—She singing; eyes a holy blue,Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,Gold rippled into amber waves.There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,Danseuse and warbler and grisette,True daughter of Bohemia,XII.But all by turns and nothing long;And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongueThe bees of Hybla must have fed;And one—a poet—nowise sageFor self, but gay companion boonAnd prophet of the golden age;He joined us in our pilgrimageLong since, one early Autumn noonWhen, faint with journeying, we sateWithin a wayside hostel-gateTo rest us in Bohemia.XIII.In rusty garb, but with an airOf grace, that hunger could not whelm,He told his wants, and—“Could we spareAught of the current of the realm—A shilling?”—which I gave; and soCame talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile;Whereat he felt his heart aglow,And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo,Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,If so much coin were spent by meFor bread, when such good companyIs gathered in Bohemia.”XIV.Richer than Kaiser on his throne,A royal stoup he bade them bring;And so, with many of mine own,His shilling vanished on the wing;And many a skyward-floating strainHe sang, we chorusing the layTill all the hostel rang again;But when the day began to wane,Along the sequel of our wayHe kept us pace; and, since that time,We never lack for song and rhymeTo cheer us, in Bohemia.XV.And once we stopped a twelvemonth, whereFive-score Bohemians beganTheir scheme to cheapen bed and fare,Upon a late-discovered plan;“For see,” they said, “the sum how smallBy which one pilgrim’s wants are met!And if a host together fall,What need of any cash at all?”Though how it worked I half forget,Yet still the same old dance and songWe found,—the kindly, blithesome throngAnd joyance of Bohemia.XVI.Thus onward through the Magic Land,With varying chance. But once there pastA mystic shadow o’er our band,Deeper than Want could ever cast,For, oh, it darkened little eyes!We saw our youngest darling die,Then robed her in her palmer’s guise,And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,And, one by one, so tenderly,Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,Strewing each sweetest flower that growsIn wildwoods of Bohemia.XVII.But last the Poet, sorrowing, stoodAbove the tiny clay, and said:“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,Whither so far away hast fled?Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:Whate’er is lacking in our livesThou dost attain; for Heaven is near,Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,As to that one who never strivesWith fortune,—has not come to knowThe pride and pain that dwell so lowIn valleys of Bohemia.”XVIII.He ceased, and pointed solemnlyThrough western windows; and we sawThat lustrous castle of the skyGleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,About us, gentle whisperingsOf unseen watchers hovering nearOur dead, and rustling angel wings!Now, whether this or that year bringsThe valley’s end, or, haply, hereOur pilgrimage for life must last,We know not; but a sacred pastHas hallowed all Bohemia.

When buttercups are blossoming,

The poets sang,’tis best to wed:

So all for love we paired in Spring—

Blanche and I—ere youth had sped,

For Autumn’s wealth brings Autumn’s wane.

Sworn fealty to royal Art

Was ours, and doubly linked the chain,

With symbols of her high domain,

That twined us ever heart to heart;

And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,

We rambled, till before us stood

The outposts of Bohemia.

II.For, roaming blithely many a day,Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,Like Christian’s follies, slipt away,Unloosened from the pilgrim’s hold,But left us just as blithe and free;Whereat our footsteps turned asideFrom lord and lady of degree,And bore us to that brave countreeWhere merrily we now abide,—That proud and humble, poor and grand,Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,The Valley of Bohemia.

For, roaming blithely many a day,

Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,

Like Christian’s follies, slipt away,

Unloosened from the pilgrim’s hold,

But left us just as blithe and free;

Whereat our footsteps turned aside

From lord and lady of degree,

And bore us to that brave countree

Where merrily we now abide,—

That proud and humble, poor and grand,

Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,

The Valley of Bohemia.

III.Together from the higher clime,By terraced cliff and copse along,Adown the slant we stept, in timeTo many another pilgrim’s song,And came where faded far away,Each side, the kingdom’s ancient wall,From breaking unto dying day;Beyond, the magic valley lay,With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;And here, between twin turrets, ran,Built o’er with arch and barbacan,The entrance to Bohemia.

Together from the higher clime,

By terraced cliff and copse along,

Adown the slant we stept, in time

To many another pilgrim’s song,

And came where faded far away,

Each side, the kingdom’s ancient wall,

From breaking unto dying day;

Beyond, the magic valley lay,

With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;

And here, between twin turrets, ran,

Built o’er with arch and barbacan,

The entrance to Bohemia.

IV.Beneath the lichened parapetGrim-sculptured Gog and Magog boreThe Royal Arms,—Hope’s Anchor, setIn azure, on a field ofor,With pendent mugs, and hands that wieldA lute and tambour, graven clear;What seemed a poet’s scroll revealedThe antique legend of the shield:Cambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.

Beneath the lichened parapet

Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore

The Royal Arms,—Hope’s Anchor, set

In azure, on a field ofor,

With pendent mugs, and hands that wield

A lute and tambour, graven clear;

What seemed a poet’s scroll revealed

The antique legend of the shield:

Cambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.

Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.

O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.

To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.

V.No churlish warder barred the gate,Nor other pass was needed thereThan equal heart for either fate,And barren scrip, and hope to spare.Through the gray archway, hand in hand,We walked, beneath the rampart high,And on within the wondrous land;There, changed as by enchanter’s wand,My sweetheart, fairer to the eyeThan ever, moved along sereneIn hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,Born princess of Bohemia!

No churlish warder barred the gate,

Nor other pass was needed there

Than equal heart for either fate,

And barren scrip, and hope to spare.

Through the gray archway, hand in hand,

We walked, beneath the rampart high,

And on within the wondrous land;

There, changed as by enchanter’s wand,

My sweetheart, fairer to the eye

Than ever, moved along serene

In hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,

Born princess of Bohemia!

VI.A fairy realm! where slope and stream,Champaign and upland, town and grange,Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,Forever blend and interchange;A magic clime! where, hour by hour,Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,Commingle, and, through shine and shower,Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,Emblazoning the distant skyWith glimmering glories of a landFar off, yet ever close at handAs hope, in brave Bohemia.

A fairy realm! where slope and stream,

Champaign and upland, town and grange,

Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,

Forever blend and interchange;

A magic clime! where, hour by hour,

Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,

Commingle, and, through shine and shower,

Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,

Emblazoning the distant sky

With glimmering glories of a land

Far off, yet ever close at hand

As hope, in brave Bohemia.

VII.On either side the travelled way,Encamped along the sunny downs,The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,At smoke-stained inns of musty date,And spider-haunted attic nooksIn empty houses of the great,Still smacking of their ancient state,—Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,And robes and buskins over-worn,That well become the careless scornAnd freedom of Bohemia.

On either side the travelled way,

Encamped along the sunny downs,

The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;

Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,

At smoke-stained inns of musty date,

And spider-haunted attic nooks

In empty houses of the great,

Still smacking of their ancient state,—

Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,

And robes and buskins over-worn,

That well become the careless scorn

And freedom of Bohemia.

VIII.For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,Too poor to make her all in all,They spurn her half-way maintenance,And let things mingle as they fall;Dissevered from all other climes,Yet compassing the whole round world,Where’er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,True love, and careless, jovial times,Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,Men that were born before their day,Kingly, without a realm to sway,Yet monarchs in Bohemia;

For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,

Too poor to make her all in all,

They spurn her half-way maintenance,

And let things mingle as they fall;

Dissevered from all other climes,

Yet compassing the whole round world,

Where’er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,

True love, and careless, jovial times,

Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,

Men that were born before their day,

Kingly, without a realm to sway,

Yet monarchs in Bohemia;

IX.And errant wielders of the quill;And old-world princes, strayed afar,In thread-bare exile chasing stillThe glimpses of a natal star;And Woman—taking refuge thereWith woman’s toil, and trust, and song,And something of a piquant airDefiant, as who must and dareSteer her own shallop, right or wrong.A certain noble nature schools,In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,The maidens of Bohemia.

And errant wielders of the quill;

And old-world princes, strayed afar,

In thread-bare exile chasing still

The glimpses of a natal star;

And Woman—taking refuge there

With woman’s toil, and trust, and song,

And something of a piquant air

Defiant, as who must and dare

Steer her own shallop, right or wrong.

A certain noble nature schools,

In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,

The maidens of Bohemia.

X.But we pursued our pilgrimageFar on, through hazy lengths of road,Or crumbling cities gray with age;And stayed in many a queer abode,Days, seasons, years,—wherein were bornOf infant pilgrims, one, two, three;And ever, though with travel worn,Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn,We seemed a merry company,—We, and the mates whom friendship, orWhat sunshine fell within our door,Drew to us in Bohemia.

But we pursued our pilgrimage

Far on, through hazy lengths of road,

Or crumbling cities gray with age;

And stayed in many a queer abode,

Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born

Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three;

And ever, though with travel worn,

Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn,

We seemed a merry company,—

We, and the mates whom friendship, or

What sunshine fell within our door,

Drew to us in Bohemia.

XI.For Ambrose—priest without a cure—Christened our babes, and drank the wineHe blessed, to make the blessing sure;And Ralph, the limner—half-divineThe picture of my Blanche he drew,As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,—She singing; eyes a holy blue,Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,Gold rippled into amber waves.There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,Danseuse and warbler and grisette,True daughter of Bohemia,

For Ambrose—priest without a cure—

Christened our babes, and drank the wine

He blessed, to make the blessing sure;

And Ralph, the limner—half-divine

The picture of my Blanche he drew,

As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,—

She singing; eyes a holy blue,

Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,

Gold rippled into amber waves.

There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,

Danseuse and warbler and grisette,

True daughter of Bohemia,

XII.But all by turns and nothing long;And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongueThe bees of Hybla must have fed;And one—a poet—nowise sageFor self, but gay companion boonAnd prophet of the golden age;He joined us in our pilgrimageLong since, one early Autumn noonWhen, faint with journeying, we sateWithin a wayside hostel-gateTo rest us in Bohemia.

But all by turns and nothing long;

And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;

And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue

The bees of Hybla must have fed;

And one—a poet—nowise sage

For self, but gay companion boon

And prophet of the golden age;

He joined us in our pilgrimage

Long since, one early Autumn noon

When, faint with journeying, we sate

Within a wayside hostel-gate

To rest us in Bohemia.

XIII.In rusty garb, but with an airOf grace, that hunger could not whelm,He told his wants, and—“Could we spareAught of the current of the realm—A shilling?”—which I gave; and soCame talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile;Whereat he felt his heart aglow,And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo,Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,If so much coin were spent by meFor bread, when such good companyIs gathered in Bohemia.”

In rusty garb, but with an air

Of grace, that hunger could not whelm,

He told his wants, and—“Could we spare

Aught of the current of the realm—

A shilling?”—which I gave; and so

Came talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile;

Whereat he felt his heart aglow,

And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo,

Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,

If so much coin were spent by me

For bread, when such good company

Is gathered in Bohemia.”

XIV.Richer than Kaiser on his throne,A royal stoup he bade them bring;And so, with many of mine own,His shilling vanished on the wing;And many a skyward-floating strainHe sang, we chorusing the layTill all the hostel rang again;But when the day began to wane,Along the sequel of our wayHe kept us pace; and, since that time,We never lack for song and rhymeTo cheer us, in Bohemia.

Richer than Kaiser on his throne,

A royal stoup he bade them bring;

And so, with many of mine own,

His shilling vanished on the wing;

And many a skyward-floating strain

He sang, we chorusing the lay

Till all the hostel rang again;

But when the day began to wane,

Along the sequel of our way

He kept us pace; and, since that time,

We never lack for song and rhyme

To cheer us, in Bohemia.

XV.And once we stopped a twelvemonth, whereFive-score Bohemians beganTheir scheme to cheapen bed and fare,Upon a late-discovered plan;“For see,” they said, “the sum how smallBy which one pilgrim’s wants are met!And if a host together fall,What need of any cash at all?”Though how it worked I half forget,Yet still the same old dance and songWe found,—the kindly, blithesome throngAnd joyance of Bohemia.

And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where

Five-score Bohemians began

Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare,

Upon a late-discovered plan;

“For see,” they said, “the sum how small

By which one pilgrim’s wants are met!

And if a host together fall,

What need of any cash at all?”

Though how it worked I half forget,

Yet still the same old dance and song

We found,—the kindly, blithesome throng

And joyance of Bohemia.

XVI.Thus onward through the Magic Land,With varying chance. But once there pastA mystic shadow o’er our band,Deeper than Want could ever cast,For, oh, it darkened little eyes!We saw our youngest darling die,Then robed her in her palmer’s guise,And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,And, one by one, so tenderly,Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,Strewing each sweetest flower that growsIn wildwoods of Bohemia.

Thus onward through the Magic Land,

With varying chance. But once there past

A mystic shadow o’er our band,

Deeper than Want could ever cast,

For, oh, it darkened little eyes!

We saw our youngest darling die,

Then robed her in her palmer’s guise,

And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,

And, one by one, so tenderly,

Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,

Strewing each sweetest flower that grows

In wildwoods of Bohemia.

XVII.But last the Poet, sorrowing, stoodAbove the tiny clay, and said:“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,Whither so far away hast fled?Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:Whate’er is lacking in our livesThou dost attain; for Heaven is near,Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,As to that one who never strivesWith fortune,—has not come to knowThe pride and pain that dwell so lowIn valleys of Bohemia.”

But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood

Above the tiny clay, and said:

“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,

Whither so far away hast fled?

Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:

Whate’er is lacking in our lives

Thou dost attain; for Heaven is near,

Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,

As to that one who never strives

With fortune,—has not come to know

The pride and pain that dwell so low

In valleys of Bohemia.”

XVIII.He ceased, and pointed solemnlyThrough western windows; and we sawThat lustrous castle of the skyGleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,About us, gentle whisperingsOf unseen watchers hovering nearOur dead, and rustling angel wings!Now, whether this or that year bringsThe valley’s end, or, haply, hereOur pilgrimage for life must last,We know not; but a sacred pastHas hallowed all Bohemia.

He ceased, and pointed solemnly

Through western windows; and we saw

That lustrous castle of the sky

Gleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,

About us, gentle whisperings

Of unseen watchers hovering near

Our dead, and rustling angel wings!

Now, whether this or that year brings

The valley’s end, or, haply, here

Our pilgrimage for life must last,

We know not; but a sacred past

Has hallowed all Bohemia.

O love! Love! Love! what times were those,Long ere the age of belles and beauxAnd Brussels lace and silken hose,When, in the green Arcadian close,You married Psyche, under the rose,With only the grass for bedding!Heart to heart, and hand in hand,You followed Nature’s sweet command—Roaming lovingly through the land,Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.So have we read, in classic Ovid,How Hero watched for her beloved,Impassioned youth, Leander.She was the fairest of the fair,And wrapt him round with her golden hair,Whenever he landed cold and bare,With nothing to eat and nothing to wearAnd wetter than any gander;For Love was Love, and better than money;The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;And kissing was clover, all the world over,Wherever Cupid might wander.So thousands of years have come and gone,And still the moon is shining on,Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;And hitherto, in this land of the West,Most couples in love have thought it bestTo follow the ancient way of the rest,And quietly get united.But now, True Love, you’re growing old—Bought and sold, with silver and gold,Like a house, or a horse and carriage!Midnight talks,Moonlight walks,The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,The shadowy haunts with no one by,I do not wish to disparage;But every kissHas a price for its bliss,In the modern code of marriage;And the compact sweetIs not complete,Till the high contracting parties meetBefore the altar of Mammon;And the bride must be led to a silver bower,Where pearls and rubies fall in a showerThat would frighten Jupiter Ammon!I need not tellHow it befell,(Since Jenkins has told the storyOver and over and over again,In a style I cannot hope to attain,And covered himself with glory!)How it befell, one Summer’s day,The King of the Cubans strolled this way,—King January’s his name, they say,—And fell in love with the Princess May,The reigning belle of Manhattan;Nor how he began to smirk and sue,And dress as lovers who come to woo,Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies’ view,And flourish the wondrous baton.He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,Whose presence their country somehow troubles,And so our cities receive them;Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,Until the poor girls believe them.No, he was no such charlatan—Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,Full of gasconade and bravado,But a regular, rich Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado!His was the rental of half HavanaAnd all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,Rich as he was, could hardly holdA candle to light the mines of goldOur Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;And broad plantations, that, in round figures,Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”The Señor swore to carry the day,To capture the beautiful Princess May,With his battery of treasure;Velvet and lace she should not lack;Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,Genin and Stewart, his suit should back,And come and go at her pleasure;Jet and lava—silver and gold—Garnets—emeralds rare to behold—Diamonds—sapphires—wealth untold—All were hers, to have and to hold;Enough to fill a peck-measure!He didn’t bring all his forces onAt once, but like a crafty old Don,Who many a heart had fought and won,Kept bidding a little higher;And every time he made his bid,And what she said, and all they did—’Twas written down,For the good of the town,By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.A coach and horses, you’d think, would buyFor the Don an easy victory;But slowly our Princess yielded.A diamond necklace caught her eye,But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.She knew the worth of each maiden glance,And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,She led the Don a deuce of a dance,In spite of the wealth he wielded.She stood such a fire of silks and laces,Jewels, and golden dressing-cases,And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,That every one of her dainty curlsBrought the price of a hundred common girls;Folks thought the lass demented!But at last a wonderful diamond ring,An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing,And, sighing with love, or something the same,(What’s in a name?)The Princess May consented.Ring! ring the bells, and bringThe people to see the marrying!Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poorThrong round the great Cathedral door,To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,And sometimes stupidly wonderAt so much sunshine and brightness, whichFall from the church upon the rich,While the poor get all the thunder.Ring! ring, merry bells, ring!O fortunate few,With letters blue,Good for a seat and a nearer view!Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!We commoners stood by the street façadeAnd caught a glimpse of the cavalcade;We saw the brideIn diamonded pride,With jewelled maidens to guard her side,—Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.She led the van of the caravan;Close behind her, her mother(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antique,That told, as plainly as words could speak,She was more antique than the other,)Leaned on the arm of Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.Happy mortal! fortunate man!And Marquis of El Dorado!In they swept, all riches and grace,Silks and satins, jewels and lace;In they swept from the dazzled sun,And soon in the church the deed was done.Three prelates stood on the chancel high;A knot that gold and silver can buyGold and silver may yet untie,Unless it is tightly fastened;What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,And the sale of a young Manhattan belleIs not to be pushed or hastened;So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,And the tall Archbishop stood between,By prayer and fasting chastened.The Pope himself would have come from Rome,But Garibaldi kept him at home.Haply these robed prelates thoughtTheir words were the power that tied the knot;But another power that love-knot tied,And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride,—A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,Coiled with diamonds again and again,As befits a diamond wedding;Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,And half-way longed for the will to undo it,By the secret tears she was shedding.But isn’t it odd, to think wheneverWe all go through that terrible River,—Whose sluggish tide alone can sever(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,By floating one into EternityAnd leaving the other alive as ever,—As each wades through that ghastly stream,The satins that rustle and gems that gleamWill grow pale and heavy, and sink awayTo the noisome River’s bottom-clay;Then the costly bride and her maidens sixWill shiver upon the banks of the Styx,Quite as helpless as they were born,—Naked souls, and very forlorn;The Princess, then, must shift for herself,And lay her royalty on the shelf;She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder,And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,Who calico wear each morn of their lives,And the sewing girls, andles chiffoniers,In rags and hunger,—a gaunt array,—And all the grooms of the caravan—Ay, even the great Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado—That gold-encrusted, fortunate man!—All will land in naked equality:The lord of a ribboned principalityWill mourn the loss of hiscordon.Nothing to eat, and nothing to wearWill certainly be the fashion there!Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,Those most used to a rag and bone,Though here on earth they labor and groan,Will stand it best, as they wade abreastTo the other side of Jordan.

O love! Love! Love! what times were those,

Long ere the age of belles and beaux

And Brussels lace and silken hose,

When, in the green Arcadian close,

You married Psyche, under the rose,

With only the grass for bedding!

Heart to heart, and hand in hand,

You followed Nature’s sweet command—

Roaming lovingly through the land,

Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,How Hero watched for her beloved,Impassioned youth, Leander.She was the fairest of the fair,And wrapt him round with her golden hair,Whenever he landed cold and bare,With nothing to eat and nothing to wearAnd wetter than any gander;For Love was Love, and better than money;The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;And kissing was clover, all the world over,Wherever Cupid might wander.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,

How Hero watched for her beloved,

Impassioned youth, Leander.

She was the fairest of the fair,

And wrapt him round with her golden hair,

Whenever he landed cold and bare,

With nothing to eat and nothing to wear

And wetter than any gander;

For Love was Love, and better than money;

The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;

And kissing was clover, all the world over,

Wherever Cupid might wander.

So thousands of years have come and gone,And still the moon is shining on,Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;And hitherto, in this land of the West,Most couples in love have thought it bestTo follow the ancient way of the rest,And quietly get united.

So thousands of years have come and gone,

And still the moon is shining on,

Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;

And hitherto, in this land of the West,

Most couples in love have thought it best

To follow the ancient way of the rest,

And quietly get united.

But now, True Love, you’re growing old—Bought and sold, with silver and gold,Like a house, or a horse and carriage!Midnight talks,Moonlight walks,The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,The shadowy haunts with no one by,I do not wish to disparage;But every kissHas a price for its bliss,In the modern code of marriage;And the compact sweetIs not complete,Till the high contracting parties meetBefore the altar of Mammon;And the bride must be led to a silver bower,Where pearls and rubies fall in a showerThat would frighten Jupiter Ammon!

But now, True Love, you’re growing old—

Bought and sold, with silver and gold,

Like a house, or a horse and carriage!

Midnight talks,

Moonlight walks,

The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,

The shadowy haunts with no one by,

I do not wish to disparage;

But every kiss

Has a price for its bliss,

In the modern code of marriage;

And the compact sweet

Is not complete,

Till the high contracting parties meet

Before the altar of Mammon;

And the bride must be led to a silver bower,

Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower

That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!

I need not tellHow it befell,(Since Jenkins has told the storyOver and over and over again,In a style I cannot hope to attain,And covered himself with glory!)How it befell, one Summer’s day,The King of the Cubans strolled this way,—King January’s his name, they say,—And fell in love with the Princess May,The reigning belle of Manhattan;Nor how he began to smirk and sue,And dress as lovers who come to woo,Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies’ view,And flourish the wondrous baton.

I need not tell

How it befell,

(Since Jenkins has told the story

Over and over and over again,

In a style I cannot hope to attain,

And covered himself with glory!)

How it befell, one Summer’s day,

The King of the Cubans strolled this way,—

King January’s his name, they say,—

And fell in love with the Princess May,

The reigning belle of Manhattan;

Nor how he began to smirk and sue,

And dress as lovers who come to woo,

Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,

When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies’ view,

And flourish the wondrous baton.

He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,Whose presence their country somehow troubles,And so our cities receive them;Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,Until the poor girls believe them.No, he was no such charlatan—Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,Full of gasconade and bravado,But a regular, rich Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado!His was the rental of half HavanaAnd all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,Rich as he was, could hardly holdA candle to light the mines of goldOur Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;And broad plantations, that, in round figures,Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”The Señor swore to carry the day,To capture the beautiful Princess May,With his battery of treasure;Velvet and lace she should not lack;Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,Genin and Stewart, his suit should back,And come and go at her pleasure;Jet and lava—silver and gold—Garnets—emeralds rare to behold—Diamonds—sapphires—wealth untold—All were hers, to have and to hold;Enough to fill a peck-measure!

He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,

Whose presence their country somehow troubles,

And so our cities receive them;

Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,

Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,

Until the poor girls believe them.

No, he was no such charlatan—

Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,

Full of gasconade and bravado,

But a regular, rich Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado!

His was the rental of half Havana

And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,

Rich as he was, could hardly hold

A candle to light the mines of gold

Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;

And broad plantations, that, in round figures,

Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”

The Señor swore to carry the day,

To capture the beautiful Princess May,

With his battery of treasure;

Velvet and lace she should not lack;

Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,

Genin and Stewart, his suit should back,

And come and go at her pleasure;

Jet and lava—silver and gold—

Garnets—emeralds rare to behold—

Diamonds—sapphires—wealth untold—

All were hers, to have and to hold;

Enough to fill a peck-measure!

He didn’t bring all his forces onAt once, but like a crafty old Don,Who many a heart had fought and won,Kept bidding a little higher;And every time he made his bid,And what she said, and all they did—’Twas written down,For the good of the town,By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.

He didn’t bring all his forces on

At once, but like a crafty old Don,

Who many a heart had fought and won,

Kept bidding a little higher;

And every time he made his bid,

And what she said, and all they did—

’Twas written down,

For the good of the town,

By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.

A coach and horses, you’d think, would buyFor the Don an easy victory;But slowly our Princess yielded.A diamond necklace caught her eye,But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.She knew the worth of each maiden glance,And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,She led the Don a deuce of a dance,In spite of the wealth he wielded.

A coach and horses, you’d think, would buy

For the Don an easy victory;

But slowly our Princess yielded.

A diamond necklace caught her eye,

But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.

She knew the worth of each maiden glance,

And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,

She led the Don a deuce of a dance,

In spite of the wealth he wielded.

She stood such a fire of silks and laces,Jewels, and golden dressing-cases,And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,That every one of her dainty curlsBrought the price of a hundred common girls;Folks thought the lass demented!But at last a wonderful diamond ring,An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing,And, sighing with love, or something the same,(What’s in a name?)The Princess May consented.

She stood such a fire of silks and laces,

Jewels, and golden dressing-cases,

And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,

That every one of her dainty curls

Brought the price of a hundred common girls;

Folks thought the lass demented!

But at last a wonderful diamond ring,

An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing,

And, sighing with love, or something the same,

(What’s in a name?)

The Princess May consented.

Ring! ring the bells, and bringThe people to see the marrying!Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poorThrong round the great Cathedral door,To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,And sometimes stupidly wonderAt so much sunshine and brightness, whichFall from the church upon the rich,While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring! ring the bells, and bring

The people to see the marrying!

Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor

Throng round the great Cathedral door,

To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,

And sometimes stupidly wonder

At so much sunshine and brightness, which

Fall from the church upon the rich,

While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring! ring, merry bells, ring!O fortunate few,With letters blue,Good for a seat and a nearer view!Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!We commoners stood by the street façadeAnd caught a glimpse of the cavalcade;We saw the brideIn diamonded pride,With jewelled maidens to guard her side,—

Ring! ring, merry bells, ring!

O fortunate few,

With letters blue,

Good for a seat and a nearer view!

Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;

Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!

We commoners stood by the street façade

And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade;

We saw the bride

In diamonded pride,

With jewelled maidens to guard her side,—

Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.She led the van of the caravan;Close behind her, her mother(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antique,That told, as plainly as words could speak,She was more antique than the other,)Leaned on the arm of Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.Happy mortal! fortunate man!And Marquis of El Dorado!

Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.

She led the van of the caravan;

Close behind her, her mother

(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antique,

That told, as plainly as words could speak,

She was more antique than the other,)

Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.

Happy mortal! fortunate man!

And Marquis of El Dorado!

In they swept, all riches and grace,Silks and satins, jewels and lace;In they swept from the dazzled sun,And soon in the church the deed was done.Three prelates stood on the chancel high;A knot that gold and silver can buyGold and silver may yet untie,Unless it is tightly fastened;What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,And the sale of a young Manhattan belleIs not to be pushed or hastened;So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,And the tall Archbishop stood between,By prayer and fasting chastened.The Pope himself would have come from Rome,But Garibaldi kept him at home.Haply these robed prelates thoughtTheir words were the power that tied the knot;But another power that love-knot tied,And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride,—A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,Coiled with diamonds again and again,As befits a diamond wedding;Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,And half-way longed for the will to undo it,By the secret tears she was shedding.

In they swept, all riches and grace,

Silks and satins, jewels and lace;

In they swept from the dazzled sun,

And soon in the church the deed was done.

Three prelates stood on the chancel high;

A knot that gold and silver can buy

Gold and silver may yet untie,

Unless it is tightly fastened;

What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,

And the sale of a young Manhattan belle

Is not to be pushed or hastened;

So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,

And the tall Archbishop stood between,

By prayer and fasting chastened.

The Pope himself would have come from Rome,

But Garibaldi kept him at home.

Haply these robed prelates thought

Their words were the power that tied the knot;

But another power that love-knot tied,

And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride,—

A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,

Coiled with diamonds again and again,

As befits a diamond wedding;

Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,

And half-way longed for the will to undo it,

By the secret tears she was shedding.

But isn’t it odd, to think wheneverWe all go through that terrible River,—Whose sluggish tide alone can sever(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,By floating one into EternityAnd leaving the other alive as ever,—As each wades through that ghastly stream,The satins that rustle and gems that gleamWill grow pale and heavy, and sink awayTo the noisome River’s bottom-clay;Then the costly bride and her maidens sixWill shiver upon the banks of the Styx,Quite as helpless as they were born,—Naked souls, and very forlorn;The Princess, then, must shift for herself,And lay her royalty on the shelf;She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder,And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,Who calico wear each morn of their lives,And the sewing girls, andles chiffoniers,In rags and hunger,—a gaunt array,—And all the grooms of the caravan—Ay, even the great Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado—That gold-encrusted, fortunate man!—All will land in naked equality:The lord of a ribboned principalityWill mourn the loss of hiscordon.Nothing to eat, and nothing to wearWill certainly be the fashion there!Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,Those most used to a rag and bone,Though here on earth they labor and groan,Will stand it best, as they wade abreastTo the other side of Jordan.

But isn’t it odd, to think whenever

We all go through that terrible River,—

Whose sluggish tide alone can sever

(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,

By floating one into Eternity

And leaving the other alive as ever,—

As each wades through that ghastly stream,

The satins that rustle and gems that gleam

Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away

To the noisome River’s bottom-clay;

Then the costly bride and her maidens six

Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx,

Quite as helpless as they were born,—

Naked souls, and very forlorn;

The Princess, then, must shift for herself,

And lay her royalty on the shelf;

She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,

Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder,

And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,

Who calico wear each morn of their lives,

And the sewing girls, andles chiffoniers,

In rags and hunger,—a gaunt array,—

And all the grooms of the caravan—

Ay, even the great Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado—

That gold-encrusted, fortunate man!—

All will land in naked equality:

The lord of a ribboned principality

Will mourn the loss of hiscordon.

Nothing to eat, and nothing to wear

Will certainly be the fashion there!

Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,

Those most used to a rag and bone,

Though here on earth they labor and groan,

Will stand it best, as they wade abreast

To the other side of Jordan.

Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word,Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment,And halt assurances, canst thou evadeMy heart’s discernment. Think not such a filmHath touched these aged eyes, to make them loseThe subtlest mood of those even now adroop,Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze.Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles!O man of restless yearnings—fate-impelled,Fate-conquering—like a waif thrown back and forthO’er many waters! Oft I see thee standAt eve, a landmark on the outer cliff,Looking far westward; later, when the feastSmokes in the hall, and nimble servants passGreat bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus singsThe deeds of Peleus’ son, thy right hand movesStraight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home;Then, when thou hearest him follow in the songThine own miraculous sojourn of long yearsThrough stormy seas, weird islands, and the landOf giants, and the gray companions smiteTheir shields, and cry,What do we longer here?Afloat! and let the great waves bear us on!I know thou growest weary of the realm,Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame.I too have had my longings. Am I notPenelope, who, when Ulysses cameTo Sparta, and Icarius bade her chooseBetwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her faceAnd stept upon the galley silver-oared,And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls?Then when the hateful Helen fled to TroyWith Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailedThen ships to Aulis, I would have thee go—Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war.So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy sonTo know his father’s wisdom, and, apartAmong my maidens, wove the yellow wool.But then, returning one by one, they came,—The island-princes; high-born dames of CreteAnd Cephalonia saw again their lords;Only Ulysses came not; yet the warWas over, and his vessels, like a troopOf cranes in file, had spread their wings for home.More was unknown. Then many a winter’s nightThe servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar,High on the palace-roof; with mine own handsI fired the heaps, that, haply, far awayOn the dark waters, might my lord take heartAnd know the glory of his kingly towers.So winter passed; and summer came and went,And winter and another summer; then—Alas, how many weary months and days!But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowestPelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly giftsAnd pledge of dower, gathered in the halls;But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yetThou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores.And great Athenè often in my dreamsShone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all,The people rose, swearing a king should rule,To keep their ancient empery of the islesInviolate and thrifty: bade me chooseA mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayedRespite, until the web within my loom,Of gold and purple curiously devisedFor old Laertes’ shroud, should fall completeFrom hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowestHow like a ghost I left my couch at night,Unravelling the labor of the day,And warded off the fate, till came that timeWhen my lost sea-king thundered in his halls,And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts.So constant was I! now not thirty moonsGo by, and thou forgettest all. Alas!What profit is there any more in love?What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith!Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years,Safe-housed in royalty, like a god reveredBy all the people,—if thou yearnest yetOnce more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate,I will not linger in a widowed age;I will not lose Ulysses, hardly foundAfter long vigils; but will cleave aboutThy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears,Until thou take me with thee. As I leftMy sire, I leave my son, to follow whereUlysses goeth, dearer for the strengthOf that great heart which ever drives him onTo large experience of newer toils!Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove,But, like Athenè’s helm, a guiding star,A glory and a comfort! O, be sureMy heart shall take its lesson from thine own!My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oarsIn the night watches; it shall warble songs,Whose music shall o’erpower the luring airsOf Nereïd or Siren. If we findThose isles thou namest, where the golden fountGives youth to all who taste it, we will drinkDeep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow,And I shall walk in beauty, as when firstI saw thee from afar in Sparta’s groves.But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swiftBlack currents bear us down the noisome waveThat leads to Hades, till the vessel sinkIn Stygian waters, none the less our soulsShall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand,Walk from the strand across Elysian fields,’Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say:“There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods,And she, his wife, most faithful unto death!”

Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word,

Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment,

And halt assurances, canst thou evade

My heart’s discernment. Think not such a film

Hath touched these aged eyes, to make them lose

The subtlest mood of those even now adroop,

Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze.

Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles!

O man of restless yearnings—fate-impelled,

Fate-conquering—like a waif thrown back and forth

O’er many waters! Oft I see thee stand

At eve, a landmark on the outer cliff,

Looking far westward; later, when the feast

Smokes in the hall, and nimble servants pass

Great bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus sings

The deeds of Peleus’ son, thy right hand moves

Straight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home;

Then, when thou hearest him follow in the song

Thine own miraculous sojourn of long years

Through stormy seas, weird islands, and the land

Of giants, and the gray companions smite

Their shields, and cry,What do we longer here?

Afloat! and let the great waves bear us on!

I know thou growest weary of the realm,

Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame.

I too have had my longings. Am I notPenelope, who, when Ulysses cameTo Sparta, and Icarius bade her chooseBetwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her faceAnd stept upon the galley silver-oared,And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls?Then when the hateful Helen fled to TroyWith Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailedThen ships to Aulis, I would have thee go—Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war.So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy sonTo know his father’s wisdom, and, apartAmong my maidens, wove the yellow wool.But then, returning one by one, they came,—The island-princes; high-born dames of CreteAnd Cephalonia saw again their lords;Only Ulysses came not; yet the warWas over, and his vessels, like a troopOf cranes in file, had spread their wings for home.More was unknown. Then many a winter’s nightThe servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar,High on the palace-roof; with mine own handsI fired the heaps, that, haply, far awayOn the dark waters, might my lord take heartAnd know the glory of his kingly towers.

I too have had my longings. Am I not

Penelope, who, when Ulysses came

To Sparta, and Icarius bade her choose

Betwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her face

And stept upon the galley silver-oared,

And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls?

Then when the hateful Helen fled to Troy

With Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailed

Then ships to Aulis, I would have thee go—

Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war.

So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy son

To know his father’s wisdom, and, apart

Among my maidens, wove the yellow wool.

But then, returning one by one, they came,—

The island-princes; high-born dames of Crete

And Cephalonia saw again their lords;

Only Ulysses came not; yet the war

Was over, and his vessels, like a troop

Of cranes in file, had spread their wings for home.

More was unknown. Then many a winter’s night

The servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar,

High on the palace-roof; with mine own hands

I fired the heaps, that, haply, far away

On the dark waters, might my lord take heart

And know the glory of his kingly towers.

So winter passed; and summer came and went,And winter and another summer; then—Alas, how many weary months and days!But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowestPelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly giftsAnd pledge of dower, gathered in the halls;But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yetThou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores.And great Athenè often in my dreamsShone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all,The people rose, swearing a king should rule,To keep their ancient empery of the islesInviolate and thrifty: bade me chooseA mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayedRespite, until the web within my loom,Of gold and purple curiously devisedFor old Laertes’ shroud, should fall completeFrom hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowestHow like a ghost I left my couch at night,Unravelling the labor of the day,And warded off the fate, till came that timeWhen my lost sea-king thundered in his halls,And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts.So constant was I! now not thirty moonsGo by, and thou forgettest all. Alas!What profit is there any more in love?What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith!

So winter passed; and summer came and went,

And winter and another summer; then—

Alas, how many weary months and days!

But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowest

Pelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly gifts

And pledge of dower, gathered in the halls;

But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yet

Thou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores.

And great Athenè often in my dreams

Shone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all,

The people rose, swearing a king should rule,

To keep their ancient empery of the isles

Inviolate and thrifty: bade me choose

A mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayed

Respite, until the web within my loom,

Of gold and purple curiously devised

For old Laertes’ shroud, should fall complete

From hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowest

How like a ghost I left my couch at night,

Unravelling the labor of the day,

And warded off the fate, till came that time

When my lost sea-king thundered in his halls,

And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts.

So constant was I! now not thirty moons

Go by, and thou forgettest all. Alas!

What profit is there any more in love?

What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith!

Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years,Safe-housed in royalty, like a god reveredBy all the people,—if thou yearnest yetOnce more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate,I will not linger in a widowed age;I will not lose Ulysses, hardly foundAfter long vigils; but will cleave aboutThy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears,Until thou take me with thee. As I leftMy sire, I leave my son, to follow whereUlysses goeth, dearer for the strengthOf that great heart which ever drives him onTo large experience of newer toils!

Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years,

Safe-housed in royalty, like a god revered

By all the people,—if thou yearnest yet

Once more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate,

I will not linger in a widowed age;

I will not lose Ulysses, hardly found

After long vigils; but will cleave about

Thy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears,

Until thou take me with thee. As I left

My sire, I leave my son, to follow where

Ulysses goeth, dearer for the strength

Of that great heart which ever drives him on

To large experience of newer toils!

Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove,But, like Athenè’s helm, a guiding star,A glory and a comfort! O, be sureMy heart shall take its lesson from thine own!My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oarsIn the night watches; it shall warble songs,Whose music shall o’erpower the luring airsOf Nereïd or Siren. If we findThose isles thou namest, where the golden fountGives youth to all who taste it, we will drinkDeep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow,And I shall walk in beauty, as when firstI saw thee from afar in Sparta’s groves.But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swiftBlack currents bear us down the noisome waveThat leads to Hades, till the vessel sinkIn Stygian waters, none the less our soulsShall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand,Walk from the strand across Elysian fields,’Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say:“There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods,And she, his wife, most faithful unto death!”

Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove,

But, like Athenè’s helm, a guiding star,

A glory and a comfort! O, be sure

My heart shall take its lesson from thine own!

My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oars

In the night watches; it shall warble songs,

Whose music shall o’erpower the luring airs

Of Nereïd or Siren. If we find

Those isles thou namest, where the golden fount

Gives youth to all who taste it, we will drink

Deep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow,

And I shall walk in beauty, as when first

I saw thee from afar in Sparta’s groves.

But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swift

Black currents bear us down the noisome wave

That leads to Hades, till the vessel sink

In Stygian waters, none the less our souls

Shall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand,

Walk from the strand across Elysian fields,

’Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say:

“There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods,

And she, his wife, most faithful unto death!”

O lark! sweet lark!Where learn you all your minstrelsy?What realms are those to which you fly?While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,You soar on high,—Forever in the sky.O child! dear child!Above the clouds I lift my wingTo hear the bells of Heaven ring;Some of their music, though my flights be wild,To Earth I bring;Then let me soar and sing!

O lark! sweet lark!Where learn you all your minstrelsy?What realms are those to which you fly?While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,You soar on high,—Forever in the sky.

O lark! sweet lark!

Where learn you all your minstrelsy?

What realms are those to which you fly?

While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,

You soar on high,—

Forever in the sky.

O child! dear child!Above the clouds I lift my wingTo hear the bells of Heaven ring;Some of their music, though my flights be wild,To Earth I bring;Then let me soar and sing!

O child! dear child!

Above the clouds I lift my wing

To hear the bells of Heaven ring;

Some of their music, though my flights be wild,

To Earth I bring;

Then let me soar and sing!

I walk in the morning twilight,Along a garden-slope,To the shield of moss encirclingMy beautiful Heliotrope.O sweetest of all the floweretsThat bloom where angels tread!But never such marvellous odorFrom heliotrope was shed,As the passionate exhalation,The dew of celestial wine,That floats in tremulous languorAround this darling of mine.For, only yester-even,I saw the dearest scene!I heard the delicate footfall,The step of my love, my queen.Along the walk she glided:I made no sound nor sign,But ever, at the turningOf her star-white neck divine,I shrunk in the shade of the cypress,And crouched in the swooning grass,Like some Arcadian shepherdTo see an Oread pass.But when she came to the borderAt the end of the garden-slope,She bent, like a rose-tree, overThat beautiful Heliotrope.The cloud of its subtile fragranceEntwined her in its wreath,And all the while commingledWith the incense of her breath.And so she glistened onward,Far down the long parterre,Beside the statue of Hesper,And a hundred times more fair.But ah! her breath had addedThe perfume that I findIn this, the sweetest of flowerets,And the paragon of its kind.I drink deep draughts of its nectar;I faint with love and hope!Oh, what did she whisper to you,My beautiful Heliotrope?

I walk in the morning twilight,Along a garden-slope,To the shield of moss encirclingMy beautiful Heliotrope.

I walk in the morning twilight,

Along a garden-slope,

To the shield of moss encircling

My beautiful Heliotrope.

O sweetest of all the floweretsThat bloom where angels tread!But never such marvellous odorFrom heliotrope was shed,

O sweetest of all the flowerets

That bloom where angels tread!

But never such marvellous odor

From heliotrope was shed,

As the passionate exhalation,The dew of celestial wine,That floats in tremulous languorAround this darling of mine.

As the passionate exhalation,

The dew of celestial wine,

That floats in tremulous languor

Around this darling of mine.

For, only yester-even,I saw the dearest scene!I heard the delicate footfall,The step of my love, my queen.

For, only yester-even,

I saw the dearest scene!

I heard the delicate footfall,

The step of my love, my queen.

Along the walk she glided:I made no sound nor sign,But ever, at the turningOf her star-white neck divine,

Along the walk she glided:

I made no sound nor sign,

But ever, at the turning

Of her star-white neck divine,

I shrunk in the shade of the cypress,And crouched in the swooning grass,Like some Arcadian shepherdTo see an Oread pass.

I shrunk in the shade of the cypress,

And crouched in the swooning grass,

Like some Arcadian shepherd

To see an Oread pass.

But when she came to the borderAt the end of the garden-slope,She bent, like a rose-tree, overThat beautiful Heliotrope.

But when she came to the border

At the end of the garden-slope,

She bent, like a rose-tree, over

That beautiful Heliotrope.

The cloud of its subtile fragranceEntwined her in its wreath,And all the while commingledWith the incense of her breath.

The cloud of its subtile fragrance

Entwined her in its wreath,

And all the while commingled

With the incense of her breath.

And so she glistened onward,Far down the long parterre,Beside the statue of Hesper,And a hundred times more fair.

And so she glistened onward,

Far down the long parterre,

Beside the statue of Hesper,

And a hundred times more fair.

But ah! her breath had addedThe perfume that I findIn this, the sweetest of flowerets,And the paragon of its kind.

But ah! her breath had added

The perfume that I find

In this, the sweetest of flowerets,

And the paragon of its kind.

I drink deep draughts of its nectar;I faint with love and hope!Oh, what did she whisper to you,My beautiful Heliotrope?

I drink deep draughts of its nectar;

I faint with love and hope!

Oh, what did she whisper to you,

My beautiful Heliotrope?

“There’s Rosemary, that’s for Remembrance.”

Years ago, when a summer sunWarmed the greenwood into life,I went wandering with oneSoon to be my wife.Birds were mating, and Love beganAll the copses to infold;Our two souls together ranMelting in one mould.Skies were bluer than ever before:It was joy to love you then,And to know I loved you moreThan could other men!Winds were fresh and your heart was brave,Sang to mine a sweet refrain,And for every pledge I gavePledged me back again.How it happened I cannot tell,But there came a cursed hour,When some hidden shape of hellCrept within our bower.Sudden and sharply either spokeBitter words of doubt and scorn;Pride the golden linklets broke,—Left us both forlorn.Seven long years have gone since then,And I suffered, but, at last,Rose and joined my fellow-men,Crushing down the past.Far away over distant hills,Now I know your life is led;Have you felt the rust that kills?Are your lilies dead?Summer and winter you have dwelt,Like a statue, cold and white;None, of all the crowd who knelt,Read your soul aright.O, I knew the tremulous swellOf its secret undertone!That diviner music fellOn my ear alone!Ever in dreams we meet with tears:Lake and mountain—all are past:With the stifled love of seven long yearsHold each other fast!Though the glamoury of the nightFades with morning far away,Oftentimes a strange delightHaunts the after-day.Even now, when the summer sunWarms the greenwood far within,Even now my fancies runOn what might have been.

Years ago, when a summer sunWarmed the greenwood into life,I went wandering with oneSoon to be my wife.

Years ago, when a summer sun

Warmed the greenwood into life,

I went wandering with one

Soon to be my wife.

Birds were mating, and Love beganAll the copses to infold;Our two souls together ranMelting in one mould.

Birds were mating, and Love began

All the copses to infold;

Our two souls together ran

Melting in one mould.

Skies were bluer than ever before:It was joy to love you then,And to know I loved you moreThan could other men!

Skies were bluer than ever before:

It was joy to love you then,

And to know I loved you more

Than could other men!

Winds were fresh and your heart was brave,Sang to mine a sweet refrain,And for every pledge I gavePledged me back again.

Winds were fresh and your heart was brave,

Sang to mine a sweet refrain,

And for every pledge I gave

Pledged me back again.

How it happened I cannot tell,But there came a cursed hour,When some hidden shape of hellCrept within our bower.

How it happened I cannot tell,

But there came a cursed hour,

When some hidden shape of hell

Crept within our bower.

Sudden and sharply either spokeBitter words of doubt and scorn;Pride the golden linklets broke,—Left us both forlorn.

Sudden and sharply either spoke

Bitter words of doubt and scorn;

Pride the golden linklets broke,—

Left us both forlorn.

Seven long years have gone since then,And I suffered, but, at last,Rose and joined my fellow-men,Crushing down the past.

Seven long years have gone since then,

And I suffered, but, at last,

Rose and joined my fellow-men,

Crushing down the past.

Far away over distant hills,Now I know your life is led;Have you felt the rust that kills?Are your lilies dead?

Far away over distant hills,

Now I know your life is led;

Have you felt the rust that kills?

Are your lilies dead?

Summer and winter you have dwelt,Like a statue, cold and white;None, of all the crowd who knelt,Read your soul aright.

Summer and winter you have dwelt,

Like a statue, cold and white;

None, of all the crowd who knelt,

Read your soul aright.

O, I knew the tremulous swellOf its secret undertone!That diviner music fellOn my ear alone!

O, I knew the tremulous swell

Of its secret undertone!

That diviner music fell

On my ear alone!

Ever in dreams we meet with tears:Lake and mountain—all are past:With the stifled love of seven long yearsHold each other fast!

Ever in dreams we meet with tears:

Lake and mountain—all are past:

With the stifled love of seven long years

Hold each other fast!

Though the glamoury of the nightFades with morning far away,Oftentimes a strange delightHaunts the after-day.

Though the glamoury of the night

Fades with morning far away,

Oftentimes a strange delight

Haunts the after-day.

Even now, when the summer sunWarms the greenwood far within,Even now my fancies runOn what might have been.

Even now, when the summer sun

Warms the greenwood far within,

Even now my fancies run

On what might have been.

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