Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 28

I joy'd in solemn woods to see, Where sudden sunbeams clung, On open s.p.a.ce of mossy lea, The violet and anemone, Wave their frail heads and beckon me-- Sure then the earth was young!

I heard the fresh wild breezes birr, New budded boughs among, I saw the deeper tinting stir In the green ta.s.sels of the fir, I heard the pheasant rise and whirr, Above her callow young.

I saw the tall fresh ferns prest, By scudding doe and fawn; I say the grey dove's swelling breast, Above the margin of her nest; When north and south and east and west Roll'd all the red of dawn.

At eventide at length I lay, On gra.s.sy pillow flung; I saw the parting bark of day, With crimson sails and shrouds all gay, With golden fires drift away, The billowy clouds among.

I saw the stately planets sail On that blue ocean wide; I saw blown by some mystic gale, Like silver ship in elfin tale, That bore some damsel rare and pale, The moon's slim crescent glide.

And ev'ry throb of spring The rust'ling boughs among, That filled the silver vein of brook, That lit with bloom the mossy nook, Cried to my boyish bosom: "Look!

How fresh the earth and young!"

The winds were fresh, the days as clear As crystals set in gold.

No shape, with prophet-mantle drear, Thro' those old woods came drifting near, To whisper in my wond'ring ear, "The green earth waxeth old."

"THE WISHING STAR."

Day floated down the sky; a perfect day, Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold Along the west, that when her lover, Night, Fled with his starry lances in pursuit, Across the sky, the way she went might shew.

From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave, Which as she climb'd the sky still held Her golden tresses to its swelling breast, Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay, (Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red, As flowers that look forever towards the Sun), A terrace with a fountain and an oak Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph, Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew Before some h.o.a.ry king, while high above, He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze-- And sigh'd deep sighs of "All is vanity!"

Behind, a wall of Norman William's time Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there Torn wide apart to let a cas.e.m.e.nt peer Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant (A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose) And look'd above me into two such eyes As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page That new old cry that hearts so often write In their own ashes, "All is vanity!"

"Know'st thou--" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd, On the wide arch that domes our little earth, "That when a star hurls on with shining wings, "On some swift message from his throne of light, "The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit-- "Fulfilment--drop into the eager palm?"

"Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I.

"Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale."

But some swift feeling smote upon her brow A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky-- Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on, Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd The night's device upon his ripe-red shield.

And suddenly down towards the moon there ran-- From some high s.p.a.ce deep-veil'd in solemn blue, A little star, a point of trembling gold, Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I, "Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star?

"Its brightness died not, it but disappeared, "To whirl undim'd thro' s.p.a.ce. I wish'd our love "Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life, "Burning brightly as that star and winging on "Thro' unseen s.p.a.ce of veil'd Eternity, "Brightened by Immortality--not lost."

"Awful and sweet the wish!" she said, and so-- We rested in the silence of content.

HOW DEACON FRY BOUGHT A "d.u.c.h.eSS."

It sorter skeer'd the neighbours round, For of all the 'tarnal set thet clutches Their dollars firm, he wus the boss; An' yet he went and byed a "d.u.c.h.ess."

I never will forget the day He druv her from the city market; I guess thar warn't more'n two Thet stayed to hum thet day in Clarket.

And one of them wus Gran'pa Finch, Who's bed-rid up to Spense's attic: The other Aunt Mehitabel, Whose jints and temper is rheumatic.

She said she "guessed that Deacon Fry Would some day see he'd done more fitter To send his dollars savin' souls Than waste 'em on a horn'd critter!"

We all turn'd out at Pewse's store, The last one jest inside the village; The Jedge he even chanc'd along, And so did good old Elder Millage.

We sot around on kegs and planks, And on the fence we loung'd precarious; The Elder felt to speak a word, And sed his thoughts wus very various.

He sed the Deacon call'd to mind The blessed patriarchs and their cattle; "To whose herds c.u.m a great increase When they in furrin parts did settle."

We nodded all our skulls at this, But Argue Bill he rapped his crutches; Sed he, "I guess they never paid Five hundred dollars for a 'd.u.c.h.ess.'"

Bill and the Elder allers froze To subjects sorter disputatious, So on the 'la.s.ses keg they sot, And had an argue fair and s.p.a.cious.

Good land! when Solon c.u.m in sight, By lawyer Smithett's row o' beeches; His black span seemed to crawl along Ez slow ez Dr. Jones's leeches.

Sez Sister Fry, who was along, "I sorter think my specs is muggy; "But Solon started out from hum "This mornin' in the new top buggy.

"Jeddiah rid old chestnut Jim, "An' Sammy rid the roan filly; "I told 'em when they started off "It looked redikless, soft and silly,

"To see three able-bodied men "An' four stout horses drive one critter; "O land o' song! will some one look?

"From hed to foot I'm in a twitter."

Wal, up we swarm'd on Pewse's fence, And Bill he histed on his crutches; We all was curus to behold The Deac's five hundred dollar "d.u.c.h.ess."

I've heerd filosofurs declar, This life be's kind o' snarly jinted; And every human standin' thar Felt sorter gin'ral disappointed.

What sort o' crazy animile Hed got the Deacon in its clutches?

They c.u.m along in spankin' style-- Old Solon and his sons and "d.u.c.h.ess."

Her heels wus up, her hed wus down, An or'nary cross-gritted critter As ever browsed around the town, And kept the women folks a-twitter, A-boostin' up the garding rails, And browsin' on the factory bleachin', And kickin' up the milkin' pails: Bill he riz up, ez true ez preachin'.

Sez he, excited like, "I'll 'low, To swaller both these here old crutches- Ef thet ain't Farmer Slyby's cow, Old Bossie turn'd inter a "d.u.c.h.ess!"

Wal,'twus k'rect! The Deacon swore Some hefty swars and sot the clutches Of law to work; but seed no more The chap thet sold him thet thar "d.u.c.h.ess."

MY IRISH LOVE.

Beside the saffron of a curtain, lit With broidered flowers, below a golden fringe That on her silver shoulder made a glow, Like the sun kissing lilies in the dawn; She sat--my Irish love--slim, light and tall.

Between his mighty paws her stag-hound held, (Love-jealous he) the foam of her pale robes, Rare laces of her land, and his red eyes, Half lov'd me, grown familiar at her side, Half pierc'd me, doubting my soul's right to stand His lady's wooer in the courts of Love.

Above her, knitted silver, fell a web Of light from waxen tapers slipping down, First to the wide-winged star of em'ralds set On the black crown with its blue burnish'd points Of raven light; thence, fonder, to the cheek O'er which flew drifts of rose-leaves wild and rich, With lilied pauses in the wine-red flight; For when I whispered, like a wind in June, My whisper toss'd the roses to and fro In her dear face, and when I paus'd they lay Still in her heart. Then lower fell the light.

A silver chisel cutting the round arm Clear from the gloom; and dropped like dew On the crisp lily, di'mond clasp'd, that lay In happy kinship on her pure, proud breast, And thence it sprang like Cupid, nimble-wing'd, To the quaint love-ring on her finger bound And set it blazing like a watch-fire, lit To guard a treasure. Then up sprang the flame Mad for her eyes, but those grey worlds were deep In seas of native light: and when I spoke They wander'd shining to the shining moon That gaz'd at us between the parted folds Of yellow, rich with gold and daffodils, Dropping her silver cloak on Innisfail.

O worlds, those eyes! there Laughter lightly toss'd His gleaming cymbals; Large and most divine Pity stood in their crystal doors with hands All generous outspread; in their pure depths Mov'd Modesty, chaste G.o.ddess, snow-white of brow, And shining, vestal limbs; rose-fronted stood Blushing, yet strong; young Courage, knightly in His virgin arms, and simple, russet Truth Play'd like a child amongst her tender thoughts-- Thoughts white as daisies snow'd upon the lawn.

Unheeded, Dante on the cushion lay, His golden clasps yet lock'd--no poet tells The tale of Love with such a wizard tongue That lovers slight dear Love himself to list.

Our wedding eve, and I had brought to her The jewels of my house new set for her (As I did set the immemorial pearl Of our old honour in the virgin gold Of her high soul) with grave and well pleased eyes, And critic lips, and kissing finger tips, She prais'd the bright tiara and its train Of lesser splendours--nor blush'd nor smil'd: They were but fitting pages to her state, And had no tongues to speak between our souls.

But I would have her smile ripe for me then, Swift treasure of a moment--so I laid Between her palms a little simple thing, A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone, And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich, Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said, "Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!"

"A golden prophet of eternal truth,"

I said, and kissed the roses of her palms, And then the shy, bright roses of her lips, And all the jealous jewels shone forgot In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck.

My fair, pure soul! My n.o.ble Irish love!

A HUNGRY DAY.

I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap, Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod, He hired me wanst to help his harvest in; The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be G.o.d!

He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself, Just landed in the emigration shed, Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes, Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead.