Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 21

THE Sh.e.l.l.

O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring sh.e.l.l, say cans't thou tell to me Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea?

I press my ear, O little sh.e.l.l, against thy rosy lips; Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships?

What, not a word? Ah hearken, sh.e.l.l, I've shut the cottage door; There's scarce a sound to drown thy voice, so silent is the moor, A bell may tinkle far away upon its purple rise; A bee may buz among the heath--a lavrock cleave the skies.

But if you only breathe the name I name upon my knees, Ah, surely I should catch the word above such sounds as these.

And Grannie's needles click no more, the ball of yarn is done, And she's asleep outside the door where shines the merry sun.

One night while Grannie slept, I dreamed he came across the moor, And stood, so handsome, brown and tall, beside the open door: I thought I turned to pick a rose that by the sill had blown, (He liked a rose) and when I looked, O sh.e.l.l, I was alone!

Across the moor there dwells a wife; she spaed my fortune true, And said I'd plight my troth with one who ware a jacket blue; That morn before my Grannie woke, just when the lapwing stirred, I sped across the misty rise and sought the old wife's word.

With her it was the milking time, and while she milk'd the goat, I ask'd her then to spae my dream, my heart was in my throat-- But that was just because the way had been so steep and long, And not because I had the fear that anything was wrong.

"Ye'll meet, ye'll meet," was all she said; "Ye'll meet when it is mirk."

I gave her tippence that I meant for Sabbath-day and kirk; And then I hastened back again; it seemed that never sure The happy sun delay'd so long to gild the purple moor.

That's six months back, and every night I sit beside the door, And while I knit I keep my gaze upon the mirky moor; I keep old Collie by my side--he's sure to spring and bark, When Ronald comes across the moor to meet me in the dark.

I _know_ the old wife spaed me true, for did she not fore-tell I'd break a ring with Ronald Grey beside the Hidden Well?

It came to pa.s.s at shearing-time, before he went to sea (We're nighbours' bairns) how _could_ she know that Ronald cared for me.

So night by night I watch for him--by day I sing and work, And try to never mind the latch--he's coming in the dark; Yet as the days and weeks and months go slipping slowly thro', I wonder if the wise old wife has spaed my fortune true!

Ah, not a word about his ship? Well, well, I'll lay thee by.

I see a heron from the marsh go sailing in the sky, The purple moor is like a dream, a star is twinkling clear-- Perhaps the meeting that she spaed is drawing very near!

TWO SONGS OF SPAIN.

Fountain, cans't thou sing the song My Juan sang to me The moonlit orange groves among?

Then list the words from me, And mark thee, by the morning's light, Or by the moon's soft beam, Or when my eyes with smiles are bright, Or when I wake or dream.

O, Fountain, thou must sing the song My Juan sang to me; Yet stay--the only words I know Are "Inez, Love and Thee!"

Fountain, on my light guitar I'll play the strain to thee, And while I watch yon laughing star, The words will come to me.

And mark thee, when my heart is sad, And full of sweet regrets, Or when it throbs to laughter glad, Like feet to castanets.

O, Fountain, thou must sing the song My Juan sang to me; Yet stay--the only words I know Are "Inez, Love, and Thee!"

Fountain, clap thy twinkling hands Beneath yon floating moon, And twinkle to the starry bands That dance upon the gloom, For I am glad, for who could crave, The joyous night to fill, A richer treasure than I have In Juan's seguedille?

So, Fountain, mark, no other song Dare ever sing, to me, Tho' only four short words I know, Just, "Inez, Love and Thee!"

Morello strikes on his guitar, When over the olives the star Of eve, like a rose touch'd with gold, Doth slowly its sweet rays unfold.

Perchance 'tis in some city square, And the people all follow us there.

Don, donna, slim chulo, padrone, The very dog runs with his bone; One half of the square is in the shade, On the other the red sunset fades; The fount, as it flings up its jets, Responds to my brisk castanets; I wear a red rose at my ear; And many a whisper I hear: "If she were a lady, behold, None other should share my red gold!"

"St. Anthony save us, what eyes!

How gem-like her little foot flies!"

"These dancers should all be forbid To dance in the streets of Madrid."

"If I were a monarch I'd own No other to sit on my throne!"

Two scarlet streamers tie my hair; They burn like red stars on the air; My dark eyes flash, my clear cheek burns, My kirtle eddies in swift turns, My golden necklet tinkles sweet; Yes, yes, I love the crowded street!

THE CITY TREE.

I stand within the stony, arid town, I gaze for ever on the narrow street; I hear for ever pa.s.sing up and down, The ceaseless tramp of feet.

I know no brotherhood with far-lock'd woods, Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap; Where o'er moss'd roots, in cool, green solitudes, Small silver brooklets lap.

No em'rald vines creep wistfully to me, And lay their tender fingers on my bark; High may I toss my boughs, yet never see Dawn's first most glorious spark.

When to and fro my branches wave and sway, Answ'ring the feeble wind that faintly calls, They kiss no kindred boughs but touch alway The stones of climbing walls.

My heart is never pierc'd with song of bird; My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest, Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard, When wild birds build a nest.

There never glance the eyes of violets up, Blue into the deep splendour of my green: Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup, My quivering leaves between.

Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight Of wood-bine breathings, honey sweet, and warm; With kin embattl'd rear my glorious height To greet the coming storm!

Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast; The level, silver lances of great rains, Blown onward by the blast.

Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy, Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves: Defender of small flowers that trembling lie Against my barky greaves.

Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above, Balanced on wings that could not choose between The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love, And my own tender green.

And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight, In the close prison of the drooping air: When sun-vex'd noons are at their fiery height, My shade is broad, and there

Come city toilers, who their hour of ease Weave out to precious seconds as they lie Pillow'd on h.o.r.n.y hands, to hear the breeze Through my great branches die.

I see no flowers, but as the children race With noise and clamour through the dusty street, I see the bud of many an angel face-- I hear their merry feet.

No violets look up, but shy and grave, The children pause and lift their chrystal eyes To where my emerald branches call and wave-- As to the mystic skies.

LATE LOVED--WELL LOVED.