John Smith, U.S.A Part 9

EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG.

Grim is the face that looks into the night Over the stretch of sands; A sullen rock in the sea of white-- A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, Peering and moaning it stands.

"_Oh, is it the king that rides this way-- Oh, is it the king that rides so free?

I have looked for the king this many a day, But the years that mock me will not say Why tarrieth he!_"

'Tis not your king that shall ride to-night, But a child that is fast asleep; And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-Horse white-- Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light Where the ghostly shadows creep!

"_My eyes are dull and my face is sere, Yet unto the word he gave I cling, For he was a Pharoah that set me here-- And lo! I have waited this many a year For him--my king!_"

Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride Swift as the burning winds that bear The sand clouds over the desert wide-- Swift to the verdure and palms beside The wells off there!

"_And is it the mighty king I shall see Come riding into the night?

Oh, is it the king come back to me-- Proudly and fiercely rideth he, With centuries dight!_"

I know no king but my dark-eyed dear That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; But see! he wakes at my bosom here, While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near To speed with my babe to-night!

_And out of the desert darkness peers A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing Like a spirit come out of the moldering years, And ever that waiting specter hears The coming king!_

ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE PARTRIDGE.

As beats the sun from mountain crest, With "pretty, pretty", Cometh the partridge from her nest; The flowers threw kisses sweet to her (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); Yet hasteneth she to mine and me-- Ah! pretty, pretty; Ah! dear little partridge!

And when I hear the partridge cry So pretty, pretty, Upon the house-top, breakfast I; She comes a-chirping far and wide, And swinging from the mountain side-- I see and hear the dainty dear!

Ah! pretty, pretty; Ah! dear little partridge!

Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare.

And pretty, pretty Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; The place is full of balmy dew (The tears of flowers in love with you!) And one and all impa.s.sioned call; "O pretty, pretty-- O dear little partridge!"

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek-- So pretty, pretty!

Long is thy neck and small thy breast; The color of thy plumage far More bright than rainbow colors are!

Sweeter than dove is she I love-- My pretty, pretty-- My dear little partridge!

When comes the partridge from the tree, So pretty, pretty!

And sings her little hymn to me, Why, all the world is cheered thereby-- The heart leaps up into the eye, And echo then gives back again Our "Pretty, pretty,"

Our "Dear little partridge!"

Admitting the most blest of all And pretty, pretty, The birds come with thee at thy call; In flocks they come and round they play, And this is what they seem to say-- They say and sing, each feathered thing; "Ah! pretty, pretty; Ah! dear little partridge!"

ALASKAN BALLADRY, NO. 1.

The Northland reared his h.o.a.ry head And spied the Southland leagues away-- "Fairest of all fair brides," he said, "Be thou my bride, I pray!"

Whereat the Southland laughed and cried "I'll bide beside my native sea, And I shall never be thy bride 'Til thou com'st wooing me!"

The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, A diamond glacier, mountain high-- Oh, love is sweet at my price, As well know you and I!

So gayly the Northland took his heart; And cast it in the wailing sea-- "Go, thou, with all my cunning art And woo my bride for me!"

For many a night and for many a day, And over the leagues that rolled between The true heart messenger sped away To woo the Southland queen.

But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long While ever the Northland cried in glee: "Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, When comes my bride, O sea!"

At the foot of the Southland's golden throne The heart of the Northland ever throbs-- For that true heart speaks in the waves that moan The songs that it sings are sobs.

Ever the Southland spurns the cries Of the messenger pleading the Northland's part-- The summer shines in the Southland's eyes-- The winter bides in her heart.

And ever unto that far-off place Which love doth render a hallow spot, The Northland turneth his honest face And wonders she cometh not.

The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, As the ages of waiting drift slowly by, But the sea shall sing no bridal song-- As well know you and I!

OLD DUTCH LOVE SONG.

I am not rich, and yet my wealth Surpa.s.seth human measure; My store untold Is not of gold Nor any sordid treasure.

Let this one h.o.a.rd his earthly pelf, Another court ambition-- Not for a throne Would I disown My poor and proud condition!

The worldly gain achieved to-day To-morrow may be flying-- The gifts of kings Are fleeting things-- The gifts of love undying!

In her I love is all my wealth-- For her my sole endeavor; No heart, I ween, Hath fairer queen, No liege such homage, ever!

AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL.

(The exile Meliboeus finds t.i.tyrus in possession of his own farm, restored to him by the emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is in praise of Augustus, peace and pastoral life.)

_Meliboeus_-- t.i.tyrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech tree reclining, Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender; Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining, As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender.

_t.i.tyrus_-- A G.o.d--yes, a G.o.d, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions, And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar, He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and halter.

_Meliboeus_-- I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle; To exile and hardship devote and by merciless enemies hounded, I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle.

Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me-- But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who is this good deity, tell me!

_t.i.tyrus_ (reminiscently)-- The city--the city called Rome, with, my head full of herding and tillage, I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander; But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpa.s.ses the village As the cypress surpa.s.ses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out yonder.