Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 8

III.

And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- Though faltering, as before-- Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore.

SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION.

I thought the deacon liked me, yit I warn't adzackly sh.o.r.e of it-- Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, When jiners 'ud be comin' in, I'd seed him shakin' hands as free With all the sistern as with me!

But jurin' last Revival, where He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, An' kneeled there with me, side by side, A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- That settled things as fur as them- Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- And--well!--I know I must a-turned A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- No mortal sinner never saw A gladder widder than the one A-kneelin' there and wonderun'

Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, I railly could n't thank the Lord!

THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT.

All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- What dread command hath put This awful curse upon me-- The curse of the wandering foot!

Forward and backward and thither, And hither and yon again-- Wandering ever! And whither?

Answer them, G.o.d! Amen.

The blue skies are far o'er me--- The bleak fields near below: Where the mother that bore me?-- Where her grave in the snow?-- Glad in her trough of a coffin-- The sad eyes frozen shut That wept so often, often, The curse of the wandering foot!

Here in your marts I care not Whatsoever ye think.

Good folk many who dare not Give me to eat and drink: Give me to sup of your pity-- Feast me on prayers!--O ye, Met I your Christ in the city He would fare forth with me--

Forward and onward and thither, And hither again and yon, With milk for our drink together And honey to feed upon-- Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, Since the one Father put The blessed curse upon us-- The curse of the wandering foot.

A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS.

A monument for the Soldiers!

And what will ye build it of?

Can ye build it of marble, or bra.s.s, or bronze, Outlasting the Soldiers' love?

Can ye glorify it with legends As grand as their blood hath writ From the inmost shrine of this land of thine To the outermost verge of it?

And the answer came: We would build it Out of our hopes made sure, And out of our purest prayers and tears, And out of our faith secure: We would build it out of the great white truths Their death hath sanctified, And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, And their faces ere they died.

And what heroic figures Can the sculptor carve in stone?

Can the marble breast be made to bleed, And the marble lips to moan?

Can the marble brow be fevered?

And the marble eyes be graved To look their last, as the flag floats past, On the country they have saved?

And the answer came: The figures Shall all be fair and brave, And, as befitting, as pure and white As the stars above their grave!

The marble lips, and breast and brow Whereon the laurel lies, Bequeath us right to guard the flight Of the old flag in the skies!

A monument for the Soldiers!

Built of a people's love, And blazoned and decked and panoplied With the hearts ye build it oft And see that ye build it stately, In pillar and niche and gate, And high in pose as the souls of those It would commemorate!

THE RIVAL.

I so loved once, when Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place.

The dread shade pa.s.sed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again.

And lo! she answered not: And she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me.

IRY AND BILLY AND JO.

Iry an' Billy an' Jo!-- Iry an' Billy's _the boys_, An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,-- Their pictures took all in a row.

Bet they kin kick up a noise-- Iry and Billy, the boys, And that-air little dog Jo!

_Iry's_ the one 'at stands Up there a-lookin' so mild An' meek--with his hat in his hands, Like such a 'bediant child-- (_Sakes-alive_!)--An' _Billy_ he sets In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' _sweats_ Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho!

Iry an' Billy an' Jo!

Yit the way them boys, you know, Usen to jes turn in An' fight over that dog Jo Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !-- Iry _he'd_ argy 'at, by gee-whizz!

That-air little Jo-dog wuz _his_!-- An' Billy _he'd_ claim it wuzn't so-- 'Cause the dog wuz _his'n_!--An' at it they'd go, Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know-- Iry an' Billy an' Jo!

But their Pa--(He wuz the marshal then) He 'tended-like 'at he _jerked 'em up_; An' got a jury o' Brickyard men An' helt a _trial_ about the pup: An' _he_ says _he_ jes like to a-died When the rest o' us town-boys _testified_-- Regardin', you know, Iry an' Billy an' Jo.--

'Cause we all knowed, when _the Gypsies_ they Camped down here by the crick last Fall, They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!-- So the jury fetched in the _verd.i.c.k_ so Jo he ain't _neether_ o' theirn fer _sh.o.r.e_-- He's _both_ their dog, an' jes no more!

An' so They've quit quarrelin' long ago, Iry an' Billy an' Jo.

A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME.

In its color, shade and shine, 'T was a summer warm as wine, With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, And a fragrance and a taste Of ripe roses gone to waste, And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced.

'Twas a summer such as broods O'er enchanted solitudes, Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, And with lavish love out-pours All the wealth of out-of-doors, And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors.

'Twas a summertime long dead,-- And its roses, white and red, And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,-- O they all are ghostly things-- For the ripple never sings, And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings!

HER BEAUTIFUL EYES.

O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run: As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies-- So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.