Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 8

XCIII.

As the discus smites the ground, Smote his golden head the stone; Of a tall shaft--burst a sound And but one--his dying groan!

XCIV.

Lo! the tyrant's iron might!

Lo! the Helot's yokes and chains!

Slave-slain in the throbbing light Lay the sole child of his veins.

XCV.

Laugh'd the Helot loud and full, Gazing at his tyrant's face; Low'r'd his front like captive bull, Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.

XCVI.

Rose the pale shaft redly flush'd, Red with Bacchic light and blood; On its stone the Helot rush'd-- Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.

XCVII.

Lo! the magic of the wine From far marsh of Amyclae!

Bier'd upon the ruddy vine, Spartan dust and Helot lay!

XCVIII.

Spouse of Bacchus reel'd the day, Red track'd on the throbbing sods; Dead--but free--the Helot lay, Just and changeless stand the G.o.ds!

MALCOLM'S KATIE: A LOVE STORY

PART I.

Max plac'd a ring on little Katie's hand, A silver ring that he had beaten out From that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wage For boyish labour, kept thro' many years.

"See, Kate," he said, "I had no skill to shape Two hearts fast bound together, so I grav'd Just K. and M., for Katie and for Max."

"But, look; you've run the lines in such a way, That M. is part of K., and K. of M.,"

Said Katie, smiling. "Did you mean it thus?

I like it better than the double hearts."

"Well, well," he said, "but womankind is wise!

Yet tell me, dear, will such a prophecy Not hurt you sometimes, when I am away?

Will you not seek, keen ey'd, for some small break In those deep lines, to part the K. and M.

For you? Nay, Kate, look down amid the globes Of those large lilies that our light canoe Divides, and see within the polish'd pool That small, rose face of yours,--so dear, so fair,-- A seed of love to cleave into a rock, And bourgeon thence until the granite splits Before its subtle strength. I being gone-- Poor soldier of the axe--to bloodless fields, (Inglorious battles, whether lost or won).

That sixteen summer'd heart of yours may say: "'I but was budding, and I did not know My core was crimson and my perfume sweet; I did not know how choice a thing I am; I had not seen the sun, and blind I sway'd To a strong wind, and thought because I sway'd, 'Twas to the wooer of the perfect rose-- That strong, wild wind has swept beyond my ken-- The breeze I love sighs thro' my ruddy leaves."

"O, words!" said Katie, blushing, "only words!

You build them up that I may push them down; If hearts are flow'rs, I know that flow'rs can root-- "Bud, blossom, die--all in the same lov'd soil; They do so in my garden. I have made Your heart my garden. If I am a bud And only feel unfoldment--feebly stir Within my leaves: wait patiently; some June, I'll blush a full-blown rose, and queen it, dear, In your lov'd garden. Tho' I be a bud, My roots strike deep, and torn from that dear soil Would shriek like mandrakes--those witch things I read Of in your quaint old books. Are you content?"

"Yes--crescent-wise--but not to round, full moon.

Look at yon hill that rounds so gently up From the wide lake; a lover king it looks, In cloth of gold, gone from his bride and queen; And yet delayed, because her silver locks Catch in his gilded fringes; his shoulders sweep Into blue distance, and his gracious crest, Not held too high, is plum'd with maple groves;-- One of your father's farms. A mighty man, Self-hewn from rock, remaining rock through all."

"He loves me, Max," said Katie: "Yes, I know-- A rock is cup to many a crystal spring.

Well, he is rich; those misty, peak-roof'd barns-- Leviathans rising from red seas of grain-- Are full of ingots, shaped like grains of wheat.

His flocks have golden fleeces, and his herds Have monarchs worshipful, as was the calf Aaron call'd from the furnace; and his ploughs, Like Genii chained, snort o'er his mighty fields.

He has a voice in Council and in Church--"

"He work'd for all," said Katie, somewhat pain'd.

"Aye, so, dear love, he did; I heard him tell How the first field upon his farm was ploughed.

He and his brother Reuben, stalwart lads, Yok'd themselves, side by side, to the new plough; Their weaker father, in the grey of life (But rather the wan age of poverty Than many winters), in large, gnarl'd hands The plunging handles held; with mighty strains They drew the ripping beak through knotted sod, Thro' tortuous lanes of blacken'd, smoking stumps; And past great flaming brush heaps, sending out Fierce summers, beating on their swollen brows.

O, such a battle! had we heard of serfs Driven to like hot conflict with the soil, Armies had march'd and navies swiftly sail'd To burst their gyves. But here's the little point-- The polish'd di'mond pivot on which spins The wheel of Difference--they OWN'D the rugged soil, And fought for love--dear love of wealth and pow'r, And honest ease and fair esteem of men; One's blood heats at it!" "Yet you said such fields Were all inglorious," Katie, wondering, said.

"Inglorious? yes; they make no promises Of Star or Garter, or the thundering guns That tell the earth her warriors are dead.

Inglorious! aye, the battle done and won Means not--a throne propp'd up with bleaching bones; A country sav'd with smoking seas of blood; A flag torn from the foe with wounds and death; Or Commerce, with her housewife foot upon Colossal bridge of slaughter'd savages, The Cross laid on her brawny shoulder, and In one sly, mighty hand her reeking sword; And in the other all the woven cheats From her dishonest looms. Nay, none of these.

It means--four walls, perhaps a lowly roof; Kine in a peaceful posture; modest fields; A man and woman standing hand in hand In hale old age, who, looking o'er the land, Say: 'Thank the Lord, it all is mine and thine!'

It means, to such thew'd warriors of the Axe As your own father;--well, it means, sweet Kate, Outspreading circles of increasing gold, A name of weight; one little daughter heir.

Who must not wed the owner of an axe, Who owns naught else but some dim, dusky woods In a far land; two arms indifferent strong--"

"And Katie's heart," said Katie, with a smile; For yet she stood on that smooth, violet plain, Where nothing shades the sun; nor quite believed Those blue peaks closing in were aught but mist Which the gay sun could scatter with a glance.

For Max, he late had touch'd their stones, but yet He saw them seam'd with gold and precious ores, Rich with hill flow'rs and musical with rills.

"Or that same bud that will be Katie's heart, Against the time your deep, dim woods are clear'd, And I have wrought my father to relent."

"How will you move him, sweet? why, he will rage And fume and anger, striding o'er his fields, Until the last bought king of herds lets down His lordly front, and rumbling thunder from His polish'd chest, returns his chiding tones.

How will you move him, Katie, tell me how?"

"I'll kiss him and keep still--that way is sure,"

Said Katie, smiling. "I have often tried."

"G.o.d speed the kiss," said Max, and Katie sigh'd, With pray'rful palms close seal'd, "G.o.d speed the axe!"

O, light canoe, where dost thou glide?

Below thee gleams no silver'd tide, But concave heaven's chiefest pride.

Above thee burns Eve's rosy bar; Below thee throbs her darling star; Deep 'neath thy keel her round worlds are!

Above, below, O sweet surprise, To gladden happy lover's eyes; No earth, no wave--all jewell'd sides!

PART II.

The South Wind laid his moccasins aside, Broke his gay calumet of flow'rs, and cast His useless wampun, beaded with cool dews, Far from him, northward; his long, ruddy spear Flung sunward, whence it came, and his soft locks Of warm, fine haze grew silver as the birch.

His wigwam of green leaves began to shake; The crackling rice-beds scolded harsh like squaws: The small ponds pouted up their silver lips; The great lakes ey'd the mountains, whisper'd "Ugh!"

"Are ye so tall, O chiefs? Not taller than Our plumes can reach." And rose a little way, As panthers stretch to try their velvet limbs, And then retreat to purr and bide their time.

At morn the sharp breath of the night arose From the wide prairies, in deep struggling seas, In rolling breakers, bursting to the sky; In tumbling surfs, all yellow'd faintly thro'

With the low sun--in mad, conflicting crests, Voic'd with low thunder from the hairy throats Of the mist-buried herds; and for a man To stand amid the cloudy roll and moil, The phantom waters breaking overhead, Shades of vex'd billows bursting on his breast, Torn caves of mist wall'd with a sudden gold, Reseal'd as swift as seen--broad, s.h.a.ggy fronts, Fire-ey'd and tossing on impatient horns The wave impalpable--was but to think A dream of phantoms held him as he stood.

The late, last thunders of the summer crash'd, Where shrieked great eagles, lords of naked cliffs.