And hollerin' over all the fields, And ploughin' ev'ry furrow; We sort ov felt discouraged, for Spense wusn't one to borrow; An' wus—the old chap wouldn't lend A cent's wuth to his dearest friend!

Good land! the neighbours seed to wunst Them snortin', screamin' notions Wus jest enough tew drown the yearth In wrath, like roarin' oceans, "An' guess'd the Lord would give old Spense Blue fits for fightin' Pruvidence!"

Spense wus thet harden'd; when the yearth Wus like a bak'd pertater; Instead ov prayin' hard fur rain, He fetched an irrigator. "The wicked flourish like green bays!" Sed folks for comfort in them days.

I will allow his place was grand With not a stump upon it, The loam wus jest as rich an' black Es school ma'am's velvet bunnit; But tho' he flourish'd, folks all know'd What spiritooal ear-marks he show'd.

Spense had a notion in his mind, Ef some poor human grapples With pesky worms thet eat his vines, An' spile his summer apples, It don't seem enny kind ov sense Tew call that "cheekin' Pruvidence!"

An' ef a chap on Sabbath sees A thunder cloud a-strayin' Above his fresh cut clover an' Gets down tew steddy prayin', An' tries tew shew the Lord's mistake, Instead ov tacklin' tew his rake,

He ain't got enny kind ov show Tew talk ov chast'ning trials; When thet thar thunder cloud lets down It's sixty billion vials; No! when it looks tew rain on hay, First take yer rake an' then yer pray!

Old Spense was one 'ov them thar chaps Thet in this life of tussle An' rough-an'-tumble, sort ov set A mighty store on muscle; B'liev'd in hustlin' in the crop, An' prayin' on the last load top!

An' yet he hed his p'ints—his heart Wus builded sort ov spacious; An' solid—ev'ry beam an' plank, An', Stranger, now, veracious. A wore-out hoss he never shot, But turn'd him in the clover lot!

I've seed up tew the meetin' house; The winkin' an' the nudgin', When preacher sed, "No doubt that Dives Been drefful mean an' grudgin'; Tew church work seal'd his awful fate Whar thar ain't no foolin' with the gate!"

I mind the preacher met old Spense, Beneath the maples laggin', The day was hot, an' he'd a pile Ov 'cetrees in his waggin'; A sack of flour, a hansum hog, Sum butter and his terrier dog.

Preacher, he halted up his hoss, Ask'd for Miss Spense an' Deely, Tew limber up his tongue a mite, And sez right slick an' mealy: "Brother, I really want tew know Hev you got religion? Samson, whoa!"

Old Spense, he bit a noble chaw, An' sort ov meditated; Samson he nibbl'd at the grass, An' preacher smil'd and waited; Ye'd see it writ upon his face— "I've got Spense in a tightsome place!"

The old man curl'd his whip-lash round An alto-vic'd muskitter, Preacher, sort ov triumphant, strok'd His ornary old critter. Spense p'ints tew flour, an' hog, an' jar, Sez he, "I've got religion thar!

"Them's goin' down tew Spinkses place, Whar old man Spinks is stayin'; The bank he dealt at bust last month, An' folks is mostly sayin': Him bein' ag'd, an' poor, an' sick, They'll put him in the poor-house slick!

"But no, they don't! Not while I own The name ov Jedediah; Yer movin'? How's yer gran'ma Green, An' yer cousin, Ann Maria? Boss, air they? Yas, sirree, I dar Tew say, I've got religion thar!"

Preacher, he in his stirrups riz, His visage kind ov cheerin'; An' keerful look'd along the road, Over sugarbush an' clearin'; Thar wa'n't a deacon within sight; Sez he, "My brother, guess you're right."

"You keep your waggon Zionward, With that religion on it; I calculate we'll meet"—jest here A caliker sun bonnet, On a sister's head, cum round the Jog, An' preacher dispars'd like mornin' fog!

One day a kind ov judgment come, The lightnin'-rod conductor Got broke—the fluid struck his aunt, An' in the root-house chuck'd her. It laid her up for quite a while, An' the judgment made the neighbors smile.

Old Spense he swore a mighty swar, He didn't mince nor chew it; For when he spoke, 'most usual, It had a backbone tew it. He sed he'd find a healthy plan Tew square things with the agent man,

Who'd sold him thet thar useless rod To put upon his roofin'; An' ef he found him round the place, He'd send the scamp a-hoofin'. "You sort ov understand my sense?" "Yes, pa,"—said pooty Deely Spense.

"Yes, pa," sez she, es mild es milk Tew thet thar strong oration, An' when a woman acts like that— It's bin my observation— (An' reckin that you'll find it sound) She means tew turn creation round,

An' fix the univarse the way She sort ov feels the notion. So Deely let the old man rave, Nor kick'd up no commotion; Tho' thet cute agent man an' she Were know'd es steady company.

He'd chance around when Spense was out, A feller sort o' airy; An' poke around free's the wind, With Deely in the dairy. (Old Spense hed got a patent churn, Thet gev the Church a drefful turn).

I am a married man myself, More sot on steddy plowin', An' cuttin' rails, than praisin' gals, Yet honestly allowin'— A man must be main hard tew please Thet didn't freeze tew Deely's cheese.

I reckon tho' old Spense hed sign'd With Satan queer law papers, He'd fill'd that dairy up chock full Of them thar patent capers. Preacher once took fur sermon text— "Rebellious patent vats.—What next?"

I've kind of stray'd from thet thar scare That cum on Spense—tho', reely, I'll allus hold it was a shine Of thet thar pooty Deely: Thar's them es holds thro' thin an' thick, 'Twas a friendly visit from Old Nick.

Es time went on, old Spense he seem'd More sot on patent capers; So he went right off tew fetch a thing He'd read ov in the papers. 'Twas a moony night in airly June, The Whip-poor-wills wus all in tune;

The Katydids wus callin' clar, The fire bugs was glowin', The smell ov clover fill'd the air. Thet day old Spense'd bin mowin'— With a mower yellin' drefful screams, Like them skreeks we hear in nightmare dreams.

Miss Spense wus in the keepin'-room, O'erlookin' last yar's cherries; The Help wus settin' on the bench, A-hullin' airly berries; The hir'd man sot on the step, An' chaw'd, an' watch'd the crickets lep.

Not one ov them thar folks thet thought Ov Deely in the dairy: The Help thought on the hir'd man, An' he ov Martin's Mary; Miss Spense she ponder'd thet she'd found Crush'd sugar'd riz a cent a pound.

I guess hed you an' I bin thar, A peepin' thro' the shutter Ov thet thar dairy, we'd a swore Old Spense's cheese an' butter Wus gilded, from the manner thet Deely she smil'd on pan an' vat.

The Agent he had chanc'd around, In evenin's peaceful shadder; He'd glimps'd Spense an' his tarrier go Across the new-mown medder— To'ard Crampville—so he shew'd his sense, By slidin' o'er the garden fence,

An' kind of unassumin' glode, Beneath the bendin' branches, Tew the dairy door whar Deely watch'd— A-twitterin' an' anxious. It didn't suit Miss Deely's plan Her pa should catch that Agent man.

I kind ov mind them days I went With Betsy Ann a-sparking'. Time hed a'drefful sneakin way Ov passin' without markin' A single blaze upon a post, An' walkin' noiseless es a ghost!

I guess thet Adam found it thus, Afore he hed to grapple With thet conundrum Satan rais'd About the blam'd old apple; He found Time sort ov smart tew pass Afore Eve took tew apple sass.

Thar ain't no changes cum about Sence them old days in Eden, Except thet lovers take a spell Of mighty hearty feedin'. Now Adam makes his Eve rejice By orderin' up a lemon ice.

He ain't got enny kind ov show To hear the merry pealins' Of them thar weddin' bells, unless He kind ov stirs her feelins'— By treatin' her tew ginger pop, An' pilin' peanuts in a-top.

Thet Agent man know'd how to run The business real handy; An' him an' Deely sot an' laugh'd, An' scrunch'd a pile o' candy; An' talk'd about the singin' skule— An' stars—an' Spense's kickin' mule—

An' other elevatin' facts In Skyence an' in Natur. An' Time, es I wus sayin', glode Past, like a champion skater,— When—Thunder! round the orchard fence. Come thet thar tarrier dog an' Spense,

An' made straight for the dairy door. Thar's times in most experrence, We feel how trooly wise 'twould be To make a rapid clearance; Nor wait tew practice them thar rules We larn tew city dancin' skules.

The Agent es a gen'ral plan Wus polish'd es the handles Ov my old plough; an' slick an' smooth Es Betsey's tallow candles. But when he see'd old Spense—wal, neow, He acted homely es a ceow!

His manners wusn't in the grain, His wool wus sorter shoddy; His courage wus a poorish sort, It hadn't got no body. An' when he see'd old Spense, he shook Es ef he'd see'd his gran'ma's spook.

Deely she wrung her pooty hands, She felt her heart a-turnin' Es poor es milk when all the cream Is taken off fur churnin'. When all to once her eyes fell pat Upon old Spense's patent vat!

The Agent took no sort ov stock Thet time in etiquettin; It would hev made a punkin laugh Tew see his style of gettin'! In thet thar empty vat he slid, An' Deely shet the hefty lid.

Old Spense wus smilin' jest es clar Es stars in the big "Dipper"; An' Deely made believe tew hum "Old Hundred" gay an' chipper, But thinkin' what a tightsome squeeze The vat wus fur the Agent's knees.

Old Spense he sed, "I guess, my gal, "Ye've been a sort ov dreamin'; "I see ye haven't set the pans, "Nor turn'd the mornin's cream in; "Now ain't ye spry? Now, darn my hat "Ef the milk's run inter thet thar vat."

Thar's times one's feelin's swell like bread In summer-time a-risin', An' Deely's heart swole in a way Wus mightily surprising When Spense gripp'd one ov them thar pans Ov yaller cream in his big han's!

The moon glode underneath a cloud, The breeze sigh'd loud an' airy; The pans they faintlike glimmer'd on The white walls ov the dairy. Deely she trembl'd like an ash, An' lean'd agin the old churn dash.

"Tarnation darksome," growl'd old Spense, Arf liftin' up the cover— He turn'd the pan ov cream quite spry On Deely's Agent lover. Good sakes alive! a curdlin' skreek From thet thar Agent man did break!

All drippin' white he ros'd tew view. His curly locks a-flowin' With clotted cream, an' in the dusk, His eyes with terror glowin'. He made one spring—'tis certain, reely, He never sed "Good night" tew Deely.

Old Spense he riz up from the ground, An' with a kind ov wonder, He look'd inter thet patent vat, An' simply sed, "By thunder"! Then look'd at Deely hard, and sed, "The milk will sop clar thro' his hed"!

Folks look'd right solemn when they heard The hull ov thet thar story, An' sed, "It might be plainly seen Twas clar agin the glory Of Pruvidence to use a vat Thet Satan in had boldly sat"!

They shook their heads when Spense declar'd 'Twas Deely's beau in hidin'; They guess'd they know'd a thing or two, An' wasn't so confidin':— 'Twas the "Devourin' Lion" cum Tew ask old Spense testep down hum!

Old Spense he kinder spil'd the thing Fur thet thar congregation, By holdin' on tew life in spite Ov Satan's invitation; An' hurts thar feelin's ev'ry Spring, Buyin' some pesky patent thing.

The Agent man slid out next day, To peddle round young Hyson; And Deely fur a fortnight thought Ov drinkin' sum rat pison; Didn't put no papers in her har; An' din'd out ov the pickle jar.

Then at Aunt Hesby's sewin' bee She met a slick young feller, With a city partin' tew his har An' a city umbereller. He see'd her hum thet night, an' he Is now her steddy company!



THE ROMAN ROSE-SELLER

Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries Drop honey amber, and their petals throw Rich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrine Where snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow, As crimson lips of Love may seek to warm A sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn. Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day; Patricians, buy my royal roses; strew His way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'd A tide of musky roses from his bed to do A wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thou To-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses, To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look, I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems, The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower; Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia, Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yet It is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smells Than those death hath not touched. To-day they bear The shield of Claudius with his spear upon it, Close upon Caesar's chariot—heap, heap it up With roses such as these; 'tis true he's dead And there's the canker! but, Romans, he Died glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtues Are these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow. No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess! Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and not A white one, though thy chaste hands attend On Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour—be it that Which ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods; Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth; Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star upon The solemn sky which bridges same sad life, So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pure As Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek, And know no quality of love, thou art A sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love! I would my roses could but chorus Thee. No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here— I give thee this last blossom: A bee as red As Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets; A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'd Its new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stole The dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinks A bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yet It hath some beauty left! a little scarlet—for The Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life, Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I make My roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beat In god-like silver bursts of sound; I go To see great Caesar leading Glory home, From Campus Martius to the Capitol!



THE WOOING OF GHEEZIS.

The red chief Gheezis, chief of the golden wampum, lay And watched the west-wind blow adrift the clouds, With breath all flowery, that from his calumet Curl'd like to smoke about the mountain tops. Gheezis look'd from his wigwam, blue as little pools Drained from the restless mother-wave, that lay Dreaming in golden hollows of her sands; And deck'd his yellow locks with feath'ry clouds, And took his pointed arrows and so stoop'd And leaning with his red hands on the hills, Look'd with long glances all along the earth. "Mudjekeewis, West-Wind, in amongst the forest, "I see a maid, gold-hued as maize full ripe; her eyes "Laugh under the dusk boughs like watercourses; "Her moccasins are wrought with threads of light: her hands "Are full of blue eggs of the robin, and of buds "Of lilies, and green spears of rice: O Mudjekeewis, "Who is the maid, gold-hued as maize full-ripen'd?" "O sun, O Gheezis, that is Spring, is Segwun—woo her!" "I cannot, for she hides behind the behmagut— "The thick leav'd grape-vine, and there laughs upon me." "O Gheezis," cried Segwun from behind the grape-vine. "Thy arms are long but all too short to reach me, "Thou art in heaven and I upon the earth!" Gheezis, with long, golden fingers tore the grape-vine, But Segwun laughed upon him from behind A maple, shaking little leaves of gold fresh-budded. "Gheezis, where are thy feet, O sun, O chief?" "Follow," sigh'd Mudjekeewis, "Gheezis must wed "With Spring, with Segwun, or all nature die." The red chief Gheezis swift ran down the hills, And as he ran the pools and watercourses Snatch'd at his yellow hair; the thickets caught Its tendrils on their brambles; and the buds That Segwun dropp'd, opened as they touched. His moccasins were flame, his wampum gold; His plumes were clouds white as the snow, and red As Sumach in the moon of falling leaves. He slipp'd beside the maple, Segwun laugh'd. "O Gheezis, I am hid amid the lily-pads, "And thou hast no canoe to seek me there; farewell!" "I see thine eyes, O Segwun, laugh behind the buds; "The Manitou is love, and gives me love, and love "Gives all of power." His moccasins wide laid Red tracks upon the waves: When Segwun leap'd Gold-red and laughing from the lily-pads, To flit before him like a fire-fly, she found The golden arms of Gheezis round her cast, the buds Burst into flower in her hands, and all the earth Laughing where Gheezis look'd; and Mudjekeewis, Heart friend of Gheezis, laugh'd, "Now life is come "Since Segwun and red Gheezis wed and reign!"



BABY'S DREAMS.

What doth the moon so lily white, Busily weave this Summer night? Silver ropes and diamond strands For Baby's pink and dimpl'd hands; Cords for her rosy palms to hold, While she floats, she flies, To Dream Land set with its shores of gold, And its buds like stars shaken out of the skies; Where the trees have tongues and the flowers have lips To coax, to kiss, The velvet cheek of the Babe who slips Thro' the Dream gate up to a land like this.

What is the mild sea whisp'ring clear In the rosy shell of Baby's ear? See! she laughs in her dimpl'd sleep— What does she hear from the shining deep?

* * * * *

"Thy father comes a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, Safely comes a-sailing from islands fair and far. O Baby, bid thy mother cease her tears and bitter wailing The sailor's wife's his only port, his babe his beacon star!"

Softly the Wind doth blow, What say its murmurs low? What doth it bring On the wide soft plume of its dewy wing? "Only scented blisses Of innocent, sweet kisses, For such cheeks as this is Of Baby in her nest. From all the dreaming flowers, A nodding in their bowers; Or bright on leafy towers, Where the fairy monarchs rest." "But chiefly I bring, On my fresh sweet mouth, Her father's kiss, As he sails out of the south. He hitherward blew it at break of day, I lay it, Babe, on thy tender lip; I'll steal another and hie away, And kiss it to him on his wave-rock'd ship."

I saw a fairy twine Of star-white Jessamine; A dainty seat shaped like an airy swing; With two round yellow stars, Against the misty bars Of Night; she nailed it high In the pansy-purple sky, With four taps of her little rainbow wing. To and fro That swing I'll blow.

The baby moon in the amethyst sky Will laugh at us as we float and fly, And stretch her silver arms and try To catch the earth-babe swinging by.



MARY'S TRYST.

Young Mary stole along the vale, To keep her tryst with Ulnor's lord; A warrior clad in coat of mail Stood darkling by the brawling ford.

"O let me pass; O let me pass, Dark falls the night on hill and lea; Flies, flies the bright day swift and fast, From lordly bower and greenwood tree. The small birds twitter as they fly To dewy bough and leaf-hid nest; Dark fold the black clouds on the sky, And maiden terrors throng my breast!"

"And thou shalt pass, thou bonnie maid, If thou wilt only tell to me— Why hiest thou forth in lonesome shade; Where may thy wish'd-for bourne be?" "O let me by, O let me by, My granddam dwells by Ulnor's shore; She strains for me her failing eye— Beside her lowly ivied door."

"I rode by Ulnor's shore at dawn, I saw no ancient dame and cot; I saw but startl'd doe and fawn— Thy bourne thou yet hast told me not." "O let me pass—my father lies Long-stretch'd in coffin and in shroud,— Where Ulnor's turrets climb the skies, Where Ulnor's battlements are proud!"

"I rode by Ulnor's walls at noon; I heard no bell for passing sprite; And saw no henchman straik'd for tomb; Thou hast not told thy bourne aright." "O let me pass—a monk doth dwell In lowly hut by Ulnor's shrine; I seek the holy friar's cell, That he may shrive this soul of mine."

"I rode by Ulnor's shrine this day, I saw no hut—no friar's cowl; I heard no holy hermit pray— I heard but hooting of the owl!" "O let me pass—time flies apace— And since thou wilt not let me be; I tryst with chief of Ulnor's race, Beneath the spreading hawthorn tree!"

"I rode beside the bonnie thorn, When this day's sun was sinking low; I saw a damsel like the morn, I saw a knight with hound and bow; The chief was chief of Ulnor's name, The maid was of a high degree; I saw him kiss the lovely dame, I saw him bend the suitor's knee!

"I saw the fond glance of his eye To her red cheek red roses bring; Between them, as my steed flew by, I saw them break a golden ring." "O wouldst thou know, thou curious knight, Where Mary's bourne to-night will be? Since thou has seen such traitor sight, Beneath the blooming hawthorn tree."

Fair shone the yellow of her locks, Her cheek and bosom's drifted snow; She leap'd adown the sharp grey rocks, She sought the sullen pool below. The knight his iron vizard rais'd, He caught young Mary to his heart; She lifted up her head and gaz'd— She drew her yellow locks apart.

* * * * *

The roses touch'd her lovely face; The lilies white did faint and flee; The knight was chief of Ulnor's race,— His only true love still was she!



"IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS SOUL!"

Long time one whisper'd in his ear— "Give me my strong, pure soul; behold 'Tis mine to give what men hold dear— The treasure of red gold."

"I bribe thee not with crown and throne, Pale spectres they of kingly pow'r! I give thee gold—red gold alone Can crown a king each hour!"

He frown'd, perchance he felt a throe, Gold-hunger gnawing at his heart— A passing pang—for, stern and low, He bade the fiend depart!

Again there came the voice and said: "Gold for that soul of thine were shame; Thine be that thing for which have bled Both Gods and men,—high Fame.

"And in long ages yet to sweep Their gloom and glory on the day; When mould'ring kings, forgot, shall sleep In ashes, dust, and clay:

"Thy name shall, starlike, pulse and burn On heights most Godlike; and divine, Immortal bays thy funereal urn Shall lastingly entwine!"

He sigh'd; perchance he felt the thrill, The answ'ring pulse to Fame's high call; But answer made his steadfast will— "I will not be thy thrall!"

Again there came the voice and cried: "Dost thou my kingly bribes disdain? Yet shalt thou barter soul and pride For things ignobly vain!

"Two shameless eyes—two false, sweet eyes— A sinful brow of sinless white, Shall hurl, thy soul from high clear skies To ME, and Stygian night.

"Beneath the spell of gilded hair, Thy palms, like sickly weeds, shall die! God-strong Resolves, a sensuous air Shall mock and crucify.

"Go to! my thrall at last thou art! Ere bud to rounded blossom change; Thou wilt for wanton lips and heart Most false, thy soul exchange!"



THE LAND OF KISSES

Where is the Land of Kisses, Can you tell, tell, tell? Ah, yes; I know its blisses Very well! 'Tis not beneath the swinging Of the Jessamine, Where gossip-birds sit singing In the vine!

Where is the Land of Kisses, Do you know, know, know? Is it such a land as this is? No, truly no! Nor is it 'neath the Myrtle, Where each butterfly Can brush your lady's kirtle, Flitting by!

Where is the Land of Kisses, Can you say, say, say? Yes; there a red lip presses Mine ev'ry day! But 'tis not where the Pansies Open purple eyes, And gossip all their fancies To the skies!

I know the Land of Kisses Passing well, well, well; Who seeks it often misses— Let me tell. Fly, lover, like a swallow, Where your lady goes; You'll find it if you follow, 'Neath the Rose.



SAID THE THISTLE-DOWN.

"If thou wilt hold my silver hair, O Lady sweet and bright; I'll bring thee, maiden darling, where Thy lover is to-night. Lay down thy robe of cloth of gold— Gold, weigheth heavily, Thy necklace wound in jewell'd fold, And hie thee forth with me."

"O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down, I've laid my robe aside; My necklace and my jewell'd crown, And yet I cannot glide Along the silver crests of night With thee, light thing, with thee. Rain would I try the airy flight, What sayest thou to me?"

"If thou wilt hold my silver hair, O maiden fair and proud; We'll float upon the purple air High as yon lilied cloud. There is a jewel weighs thy heart; If thou with me wouldst glide That cold, cold jewel place apart— The jewel of thy pride!"

"O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down That jewel part I've set; With golden robe and shining crown And cannot follow yet! Fain would I clasp thy silver tress And float on high with thee; Yet somewhat me to earth doth press— What sayest thou to me?

"If thou wilt hold my silver hair O lady, sweet and chaste; We'll dance upon the sparkling air And to thy lover haste. A lily lies upon thy breast Snow-white as it can be— It holds thee strong—sweet, with the rest Yield lilied chastity."

"O Thistle-down, false Thistle-down I've parted Pride and Gold; Laid past my jewels and my crown— My golden robings' fold. I will not lay my lily past— Love's light as vanity When to the mocking wind is cast The lily, Chastity."



BOUCHE-MIGNONNE.

Bouche-Mignonne liv'd in the mill; Past the vineyards shady; Where the sun shone on a rill Jewell'd like a lady. Proud the stream with lily-bud, Gay with glancing swallow; Swift its trillion-footed flood, Winding ways to follow. Coy and still when flying wheel Rested from its labour; Singing when it ground the meal Gay as lute or tabor. "Bouche-Mignonne" it called, when, red In the dawn were glowing, Eaves and mill-wheel, "leave thy bed, "Hark to me a-flowing!"

Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quick Glossy tresses braided; Curious sunbeams cluster'd thick Vines her casement shaded. Deep with leaves and blossoms white Of the morning glory, Shaking all their banners bright From the mill, eaves hoary. Swallows turn'd glossy throats, Timorous, uncertain, When to hear their matin notes, Peep'd she thro' her curtain, Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear, With its silver laughter— Shook the mill from flooring sere Up to oaken ratter. "Bouche-Mignonne" it cried "come down! "Other flowers are stirring; "Pierre with fingers strong and brown "Sets the wheel a-birring."

Bouche-Mignonne her distaff plies Where the willows shiver, Round the mossy mill-wheel flies; Dragon-flies a-quiver— Flash a-thwart the lily-beds, Pierce the dry reed's thicket: Where the yellow sunlight treads Chants the friendly cricket. Butterflies about her skim (Pouf! their simple fancies!) In the willow shadows dim Take her eyes for pansies! Buzzing comes a velvet bee Sagely it supposes Those red lips beneath the tree Are two crimson roses! Laughs the mill-stream wise and bright It is not so simple Knew it, since she first saw light Ev'ry blush and dimple! "Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries "Pierre as the bee is silly "Thinks two morning stars thine eyes— "And thy neck a lily!"

Bouche-Mignonne when shadows crept From the vine-dark hollows; When the mossy mill-wheel slept Curv'd the airy swallows. When the lilies clos'd white lids Over golden fancies— Homeward drove her goats and kids Bright the gay moon dances. With her light and silver feet, On the mill-stream flowing, Come a thousand perfumes sweet, Dewy buds are blowing. Comes an owl and grely flits Jewell'd ey'd and hooting— Past the green tree where she sits Nightingales are fluting Soft the wind as rust'ling silk On a courtly lady, Tinkles down the flowing milk Huge and still and shady— Stands the mill-wheel resting still. From its loving labor, Dances on the tireless rill Gay as lute or tabor! "Bouche-Mignonne" it laughing cries "Do not blush and tremble; "If the night has ears and eyes "I'll for thee disemble! "Loud and clear and sweet I'll sing "Oh my far way straying, "I will hide the whisper'd thing "Pierre to thee is saying. "Bouche-Mignonne, good night, good night! "Ev'ry silver hour "I will toss my lilies white "'Gainst thy maiden bower!"



BESIDE THE SEA.

One time he dream'd beside a sea, That laid a mane of mimic stars; In fondling quiet on the knee, Of one tall, pearl'd, cliff—the bars; Of golden beaches upward swept, Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.

The full moon swung her ripen'd sphere As from a vine; and clouds as small As vine leaves in the opening year Kissed the large circle of her ball. The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees Thro' vine leaves drift the golden bees.

He dream'd beside this purple sea, Low sang its tranced voice, and he— He knew not if the wordless strain Made prophecy of joy or pain; He only knew far stretch'd that sea, He knew its name—Eternity!

A shallop with a rainbow sail, On the bright pulses of the tide, Throbb'd airily; a fluting gale Kiss'd the rich gilding of its side; By chain of rose and myrtle fast, A light sail touch'd the slender mast.

"A flower-bright rainbow thing," he said To one beside him, "far too frail "To brave dark storms that lurk ahead, "To dare sharp talons of the gale. "Belov'd, thou woulds't not forth with me "In such a bark on such a sea?"

"First tell me of its name?" she bent Her eyes divine and innocent On his. He raised his hand above Its prow, and answ'ring swore, "'Tis Love!" "Now tell," she ask'd, "how is it built, Of gold or worthless timber gilt?"

"Of gold," he said. "Whence named?" asked she, The roses of her lips apart, She paus'd—a lily by the sea— Came his swift answer, "From my heart!" She laid her light palm in his hand. "Let loose the shallop from the strand!"



THE HIDDEN ROOM.

I marvel if my heart, Hath any room apart, Built secretly its mystic walls within; With subtly warded key. Ne'er yielded unto me— Where even I have surely never been.

Ah, surely I know all The bright and cheerful hall With the fire ever red upon its hearth; My friends dwell with me there, Nor comes the step of Care To sadden down its music and its mirth.

Full well I know as mine, The little cloister'd shrine No foot but mine alone hath ever trod; There come the shining wings— The face of one who brings The pray'rs of men before the throne of God.

And many know full well, The busy, busy cell, Where I toil at the work I have to do, Nor is the portal fast, Where stand phantoms of the past, Or grow the bitter plants of darksome rue.

I know the dainty spot (Ah, who doth know it not?) Where pure young Love his lily-cradle made; And nestled some sweet springs With lily-spangled wings— Forget-me-nots upon his bier I laid.

Yet marvel I, my soul, Know I thy very whole, Or dost thou hide a chamber still from me? Is it built upon the wall? Is it spacious? is it small? Is it God, or man, or I who holds the key?



FARMER DOWNS CHANGES HIS OPINION OF NATURE.

"No," said old Farmer Downs to me, "I ain't the facts denyin', That all young folks in love must be, As birds must be a-flyin'. Don't go agin sech facts, because I'm one as re-specks Natur's laws.

"No, sir! Old Natur knows a thing Or two, I'm calculatin', She don't make cat-fish dance and sing, Or sparrow-hawks go skatin'; She knows her business ev'ry time, You bet your last an' lonely dime!

"I guess, I'm posted pooty fair On that old gal's capers; She allers acts upon the square Spite o' skyentific papers. (I borrows one most ev'ry week From Jonses down to "Pincher's Creek.")

"It sorter freshens up a man To read the newest notions, Tho' I don't freeze much tew that thar plan, About the crops ratotions; You jest leave Natur do her work, She'll do it! she ain't one tew shirk!

"I'm all fur lettin Natur go The way she's sot on choosin'. Ain't that the figger of a beau That's talkin' thar tew Susan? Down by the orchard snake-fence? Yes. All right, it's Squire Sims, I guess.

"He's jest the one I want tew see Come sparkin'; guess they're lyin', That say that of old age he be Most sartinly a-dyin'— He's no sech thing! Good sakes alive, The man is only seventy-five!

"An' she's sixteen. I'm not the man Tew act sort of inhuman, An' meanly spile old Natur's plan To jine a man and woman In wedlock's bonds. Sirree, she makes, This grand old Natur, no mistakes.

"They're standin' pooty clus; the leaves Is round 'em like a bower, The Squire's like the yaller sheaves An' she's the Corn Flower, Natur's the binder, allus true, Tew make one heart of them thar two.

"Yas—as I was a-sayin', friend, I'm all for Natur's teachins; She ain't one in the bitter end Tew practice over-reachins. You trust her, and she'll treat you well, Don't doubt her by the leastest spell.

"I'm not quite clar but subsoil looks Jest kinder not quite pious; I sorter think them farmin' books, Will in the long run sky us, Right in the mud; the way they balk Old Natur with thar darn fool talk!

"When Susie marries Squire Sims, I'll lease his upland farm; I'll get it cheap enough from him— Jest see his long right arm About her waist—looks orful big! Why, gosh! he's bought a new brown wig!

"Wal, that's the way old Natur acts When bald folks go a-sparkin'; The skyentists can't alter facts With all their hard work larkin', A sparkin man will look his best— That's Natur—tain't no silly jest!

"Old Natur, you and me is twins; I never will git snarly With you, old gal. Why, darn my shins! That's only Jonses Charlie. She's cuddlin' right agin his vest! Eh? What? "Old Natur knows what's best!"

"Oh, does she? Wal, p'raps 'tis so; Jest see the rascal's arm About her waist! You've got tew go Young man, right off this farm; Old Natur knows a pile, no doubt, But you an' her hed best get out!

"You, Susie, git right hum. I'm mad Es enny bilin' crater! In futur, sick or well or sad I'll take no stock in Natur. I'm that disgusted with her capers I'll run the farm by skyence papers."



THE BURGOMEISTER'S WELL.

A peaceful spot, a little street, So still between the double roar Of sea and city that it seemed A rest in music, set before Some clashing chords—vibrating yet With hurried measures fast and sweet; For so the harsh chords of the town, And so the ocean's rythmic beat.

A little street with linden trees So thickly set, the belfry's face Was leaf-veiled, while above them pierced, Four slender spires flamboyant grace. Old porches carven when the trees, Were seedlings yellow in the sun Five hundred years ago that bright Upon the quaint old city shone.

A fountain prim, and richly cut In ruddy granite, carved to tell How a good burgomeister rear'd The stone above the people's well. A sea-horse from his nostrils blew Two silver threads; a dragon's lip Dropp'd di'monds, and a giant hand Held high an urn on finger tip.

'Twas there I met my little maid, There saw her flaxen tresses first; She filled the cup for one who lean'd (A soldier, crippl'd and athirst) Against the basin's carven rim; Her dear small hand's white loveliness Was pinkly flush'd, the gay bright drops Plash'd on her brow and silken dress.

I took the flagon from her hand, Too small, dear hand, for such a weight. From cobweb weft and woof is spun The tapestry of Life and Fate! The linden trees had gilded buds, The dove wheeled high on joyous wing, When on that darling hand of hers I slipped the glimmer of a ring. Ah, golden heart, and golden locks Ye wove so sweet, so sure a spell! That quiet day I saw her first Beside the Burgomeister's Well!



SAID THE WIND.

"Come with me," said the Wind To the ship within the dock "Or dost thou fear the shock Of the ocean-hidden rock, When tempests strike thee full and leave thee blind; And low the inky clouds, Blackly tangle in thy shrouds; And ev'ry strained cord Finds a voice and shrills a word, That word of doom so thunderously upflung From the tongue Of every forked wave, Lamenting o'er a grave Deep hidden at its base, Where the dead whom it has slain Lie in the strict embrace Of secret weird tendrils; but the pain Of the ocean's strong remorse Doth fiercely force The tale of murder from its bosom out In a mighty tempest clangour, and its shout In the threat'ning and lamenting of its swell Is as the voice of Hell, Yet all the word it saith Is 'Death.'"

"Come with me," sang the Wind, "Why art thou, love, unkind? Thou are too fair, O ship, To kiss the slimy lip Of the cold and dismal shore; and, prithee, mark, How chill and dark Shew the vast and rusty linkings of the chain, Hoarse grating as with pain, Which moors thee And secures thee From the transports of the soft wind and the main. Aye! strain thou and pull, Thy sails are dull And dim from long close furling on thy spars, But come thou forth with me, And full and free, I'll kiss them, kiss them, kiss them, till they be White as the Arctic stars, Or as the salt-white pinions of the gulf!"

"Come with me," sang the Wind, "O ship belov'd, and find How golden-gloss'd and blue Is the sea. How thrush-sweet is my voice; how dearly true I'll keep my nuptial promises to thee. O mine to guide thy sails By the kisses of my mouth; Soft as blow the gales, On the roses in the south. O mine to guide thee far From ruddy coral bar, From horizon to horizon thou shalt glimmer like a star; Thou shalt lean upon my breast, And I shall rest, And murmur in thy sails, Such fond tales, That thy finest cords Will, syren-like, chant back my mellow words With such renew'd enchantment unto me That I shall be, By my own singing, closer bound to thee!"

"Come with me," sang the Wind, "Thou knowest, love, my mind, No more I'll try to woo thee, Persuade thee or pursue thee, For thou art mine; Since first thy mast, a tall and stately pine Beneath Norwegian skies, Sang to my sighs. Thou, thou wert built for me, Strong lily of the sea! Thou cans't not choose, The calling of my low voice to refuse; And if Death Were the sole, sad, wailing burthen of my breath, Thy timbers at my call, Would shudder in their thrall, Thy sails outburst to touch my stormy lip; Like a giant quick in a grave, Thy anchor heave, And close upon my thunder-pulsing breast, O ship, Thou would'st tremble, nor repine, That being mine, Thy spars, Like long pale lights of falling stars, Plunged in the Stygian blackness of the sea, And to billowy ruin cast Thy tall and taper mast, Rushed shrieking headlong down to an abyss. O ship! O love! if Death Were such sure portion, thou could'st not refuse But thou would'st choose As mine to die, and call such choosing bliss; For thou for me Wert plann'd from all eternity!"



THE GHOSTS OF THE TREES.

The silver fangs of the mighty axe, Bit to the blood of our giant boles; It smote our breasts and smote our backs, Thunder'd the front-cleared leaves— As sped in fire, The whirl and flame of scarlet leaves With strong desire Leaped to the air our captive souls.

While down our corpses thunder'd, The air at our strong souls gazed and wondered And cried to us, "Ye Are full of all mystery to me! I saw but thy plumes of leaves, Thy strong, brown greaves; The sinewy roots and lusty branches, And fond and anxious, I laid my ear and my restless breast By each pride-high crest; And softly stole And listen'd by limb and listen'd by bole, Nor ever the stir of a soul, Heard I in ye— Great is the mystery!"

The strong, brown eagle plung'd from his peak, From the hollow iron of his beak; The wood pigeon fell; its breast of blue Cold with sharp death all thro' and thro', To our ghosts he cried. "With talons of steel, I hold the storm; Where the high peaks reel, My young lie warm. In the wind-rock'd spaces of air I bide; My wings too wide— Too angry-strong for the emerald gyves, Of woodland cell where the meek dove thrives. And when at the bar, Of morn I smote with my breast its star, And under— My wings grew purple, the jealous thunder, With the flame of the skies Hot in my breast, and red in my eyes; From peak to peak of sunrise pil'd That set space glowing, With flames from air-based crater's blowing— I downward swept, beguiled By the close-set forest gilded and spread A sea for the lordly tread, Of a God's wardship— I broke its leafy turf with my breast; My iron lip I dipp'd in the cool of each whispering crest; From thy leafy steeps, I saw in my deeps, Red coral the flame necked oriole— But never the stir of a soul Heard I in ye— Great is the mystery!"

From its ferny coasts, The river gazed at our strong, free ghosts, And with rocky fingers shed Apart the silver curls of its head; Laid its murmuring hands, On the reedy bands; And at gaze Stood in the half-moon's of brown, still bays; Like gloss'd eyes of stags Its round pools gaz'd from the rusty flags, At our ghostly crests At the bark-shields strong on our phantom breasts; And its tide Took lip and tongue and cried. "I have push'd apart The mountain's heart; I have trod the valley down; With strong hands curled, Have caught and hurled, To the earth the high hill's crown!

My brow I thrust, Through sultry dust, That the lean wolf howl'd upon; I drove my tides, Between the sides, Of the bellowing canon.

From chrystal shoulders, I hurled my boulders, On the bridge's iron span. When I rear'd my head From its old time bed, Shook the pale cities of man!

I have run a course With the swift, wild horse; I have thunder'd pace for pace, With the rushing herds— I have caught the beards Of the swift stars in the race!

Neither moon nor sun Could me out-run; Deep cag'd in my silver bars, I hurried with me, To the shouting sea, Their light and the light of the stars!

The reeling earth In furious mirth With sledges of ice I smote. I whirled my sword Where the pale berg roar'd, I took the ship by the throat!

With stagnant breath I called chill Death My guest to the hot bayou. I built men's graves, With strong thew'd waves That thing that my strength might do.

I did right well— Men cried "From Hell The might of Thy hand is given!" By loose rocks stoned The stout quays groaned, Sleek sands by my spear were riven.

O'er shining slides, On my gloss'd tides, The brown cribs close woven roll'd; The stout logs sprung, Their height among My loud whirls of white and gold!

The great raft prest, My calm, broad breast— A dream thro' my shady trance, The light canoe— A spirit flew— The pulse of my blue expanse.

Wing'd swift the ships. My foaming lips Made rich with dewy kisses, All night and morn, Field's red with corn, And where the mill-wheel hisses.

And shivers and sobs, With lab'ring throbs, With its whirls my strong palms play'd. I parted my flags, For thirsty stags, On the necks of arches laid.

To the dry-vined town My tide roll'd down— Dry lips and throats a-quiver, Rent sky and sod With shouts "From God The strength of the mighty river!"

I, list'ning, heard The soft-song'd bird; The beetle about thy boles. The calling breeze, In thy crests, O Trees— Never the voices of souls!"

* * * * *

We, freed souls, of the Trees look'd down On the river's shining eyes of brown; And upward smiled At the tender air and its warrior child, The iron eagle strong and wild.

* * * * *

"No will of ours, The captive souls of our barky tow'rs; "His the deed Who laid in the secret earth the seed; And with strong hand Knitted each woody fetter and band. Never, ye Ask of the tree, The "Wherefore" or "Why" the tall trees stand, Built in their places on the land Their souls unknit; With any wisdom or any wit, The subtle "Why," Ask ye not of earth or sky— But one command it.



GISLI: THE CHIEFTAIN.

To the Goddess Lada prayed Gisli, holding high his spear Bound with buds of spring, and laughed All his heart to Lada's ear.

Damp his yellow beard with mead, Loud the harps clang'd thro the day; With bruised breasts triumphant rode Gisli's galleys in the bay.

Bards sang in the banquet hall, Set in loud verse Gisli's fame, On their lips the war gods laid Fire to chaunt their warrior's name.

To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd, Buds upon his tall spear's tip; Laughter in his broad blue eyes, Laughter on his bearded lip.

To the Spring-queen Gisli pray'd, She, with mystic distaff slim, Spun her hours of love and leaves, Made the stony headlands dim—

Dim and green with tender grass, Blew on ice-fields with red mouth; Blew on lovers hearts; and lured White swans from the blue-arched south.

To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd, Groan'd far icebergs tall and blue As to Lada's distaff slim, All their ice-locked fires flew.

To the Love-queen Gisli prayed, She, with red hands, caught and spun. Yellow flames from crater lips, flames from the waking sun.

To the Love-queen Gisli prayed, She with loom and beam and spell, All the subtle fires of earth Wove, and wove them strong and well.

To the Spring-queen Gisli prayed, Low the sun the pale sky trod; Mute her ruddy hand she raised Beckon'd back the parting God.

To the Love-queen Gisli prayed— Weft and woof of flame she wove— Lada, Goddess of the Spring! Lada, Goddess strong of Love!

Sire of the strong chieftain's prayer, Victory with his pulse of flame; Mead its mother—loud he laughed, Calling on great Lada's name.

"Goddess Lada—Queen of Love! "Here stand I and quaff to thee— "Deck for thee with buds my spear— "Give a comely wife to me!

"Blow not to my arms a flake "Of crisp snow in maiden guise; "Mists of pallid hair and tips "Of long ice-spears in her eyes!

"When my death-sail skims the foam— "Strain my oars on Death's black sea— "When my foot the "Glass-Hill" seeks— "Such a maid may do for me!

"Now, O Lada, mate the flesh! "Mate the fire and flame of life, "Tho' the soul go still unwed, "Give the flesh its fitting wife!

"As the galley runs between, "Skies with billows closely spun: "Feeling but the wave that leaps "Closest to it in the sun."

"Throbs but to the present kiss "Of the wild lips of the sea; "Thus a man joys in his life— "Nought of the Beyond knows he!

"Goddess! here I cast bright buds, "Spicy pine boughs at thy feet; "Give the flesh its fitting mate "Life is strong and life is sweet!"

To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd— Weft and woof of flame she wove: Lada, Goddess of the Spring— Lada, Goddess strong of Love!

* * * * *

PART II.

From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town, Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down.

His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind, His shade like a dusky God striding behind.

Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near, Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear.

As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky, The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high.

In fjords roared the ice below the dumb stroke Of the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke.

It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay— The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day.

It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose— It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes.

It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle—grew dull The cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull.

"Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli "and drive "Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive.

"Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed, "It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead!

"Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy breast! "Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the West.

"With thy long, hissing oars, beat loud the north sea. "The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and me.

"No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the sky, "Or the brows of the great Gods, bold wind, love I!

"As Gylfag, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank "Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-thew'd, lank.

"Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in its hair, "Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro' the breast of the air!

* * * * *

PART III.

The shouting of Gisli, the chieftain, Rock'd the blue hazes, and cloven In twain by sharp prow of the west wind, To north and to south fled the thick mist.

As in burnish'd walls of Valhalla, In cleft of the mist stood the chieftain, And up to the blue shield of Heaven, Flung the load shaft of his laughter.

Smote the mist, with shrill spear the swift wind. Grey shapes fled like ghosts on the Hell way; Bay'd after their long locks hoarse Gylfag, Stared at them, triumphant, the eagles.

To mate and to eaglets, the eagle Shriek'd, "Gone is my foe of the deep mist, "Rent by the vast hands of the kind Gods, "Who knows the knife-pangs of our hunger!"

Shrill whistled the winds as his dun wings Strove with it feather by feather; Loud grated the rock as his talons Its breast spurned slowly his red eyes.

Like fires seemed to flame in the swift wind, At his sides the darts of his hunger— At his ears the shriek of his eaglets— In his breast the love of the quarry.

Unfurl'd to the northward and southward His wings broke the air, and to eastward His breast gave its iron; and God-ward Pierc'd the shrill voice of his hunger.

Bared were his great sides as he laboured Up the first steep blue of the broad sky; His gaze on the fields of his freedom, To the God's spoke the prayers of his gyres.

Bared were his vast sides as he glided Black in the sharp blue of the north sky: Black over the white of the tall cliffs, Black over the arrow of Gisli.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE ARROW.

What know I, As I bite the blue veins of the throbbing sky; To the quarry's breast Hot from the sides of the sleek smooth nest?

What know I Of the will of the tense bow from which I fly? What the need or jest, That feathers my flight to its bloody rest.

What know I Of the will of the bow that speeds me on high? What doth the shrill bow Of the hand on its singing soul-string know?

Flame-swift speed I— And the dove and the eagle shriek out and die; Whence comes my sharp zest For the heart of the quarry? the Gods know best.

Deep pierc'd the red gaze of the eagle— The breast of a cygnet below him; Beneath his dun wing from the eastward Shrill-chaunted the long shaft of Gisli!

Beneath his dun wing from the westward Shook a shaft that laugh'd in its biting— Met in the fierce breast of the eagle The arrows of Gisli and Brynhild!

* * * * *

PART IV:

A ghost along the Hell-way sped, The Hell-shoes shod his misty tread; A phantom hound beside him sped.

Beneath the spandrils of the Way, World's roll'd to-night—from night to day; In space's ocean Suns were spray.

Group'd world's, eternal eagles, flew; Swift comets fell like noiseless dew, Young earths slow budded in the blue.

The waves of space inscrutable, With awful pulses rose and fell— Silent and godly—terrible.

Electric souls of strong Suns laid, Strong hands along the awful shade That God about His God-work made.

Ever from all ripe worlds did break, Men's voices, as when children speak, Eager and querulous and weak.

And pierc'd to the All-worker thro' His will that veil'd Him from the view "What hast thou done? What dost thou do?"

And ever from His heart did flow Majestical, the answer low— The benison "Ye shall not know!"

The wan ghost on the Hell-way sped, Nor yet Valhalla's lights were shed Upon the white brow of the Dead.

Nor sang within his ears the roll Of trumpets calling to his soul; Nor shone wide portals of the goal.

His spear grew heavy on his breast, Dropp'd, like a star his golden crest; Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest!

His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak, He scal'd the knit mists of a peak, That ever parted grey and bleak.

And, as by unseen talons nipp'd, To deep Abysses slowly slipp'd; Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripp'd.

By whirling winds from ashy ring, Of dank weeds blackly smoldering, The peak sprang upward a quivering

And perdurable, set its face Against the pulsing breast of space But for a moment to its base.

Refluent roll'd the crest new sprung, In clouds with ghastly lightnings stung,— Faint thunders to their black feet clung.

His faithful hound ran at his heel— His thighs and breast were bright with steel— He saw the awful Hellway reel.

But far along its bleak peaks rang A distant trump—its airy clang Like light through deathly shadows sprang.

He knew the blast—the voice of love! Cleft lay the throbbing peak above Sail'd light, wing'd like a silver dove.

On strove the toiling ghost, his soul Stirr'd like strong mead in wassail bowl, That quivers to the shout of "Skoal!"

Strode from the mist close-curv'd and cold As is a writhing dragon's fold; A warrior with shield of gold.

A sharp blade glitter'd at his hip, Flamed like a star his lance's tip; His bugle sang at bearded lip.

Beneath his golden sandels flew Stars from the mist as grass flings dew; Or red fruit falls from the dark yew.

As under shelt'ring wreaths of snow The dark blue north flowers richly blow— Beneath long locks of silver glow.

Clear eyes, that burning on a host Would win a field at sunset lost, Ere stars from Odin's hand were toss'd.

He stretch'd his hand, he bowed his head: The wan ghost to his bosom sped— Dead kiss'd the bearded lips of Dead!

"What dost thou here, my youngest born? "Thou—scarce yet fronted with life's storm— "Why art thou from the dark earth torn?

"When high Valhalla puls'd and rang "With harps that shook as grey bards sang— "'Mid the loud joy I heard the clang.

"Of Death's dark doors—to me alone "Smote in thy awful dying groan— "My soul recall'd its blood and bone.

"Viewless the cord which draws from far "To the round sun some mighty star; "Viewless the strong-knit soul-cords are!

"I felt thy dying gasp—thy soul "Towards mine a kindred wave in roll, "I left the harps—I left the bowl.

"I sought the Hellway—I—the blest; "That thou, new death-born son should rest "Upon the strong rock of my breast.

"What dost thou here, young, fair and bold? "Sleek with youth's gloss thy locks of gold; "Thy years by flow'rs might yet be told!

"What dost thou at the ghostly goal, "While yet thy years were to thy soul, "As mead yet shallow in the bowl?"

His arm about the pale ghost cast, The warrior blew a clear, loud blast; Like frighten'd wolves the mists fled past.

Grew firm the way; worlds flame to light The awful peak that thrusts its height, With swift throbs upward, like a flight.

Of arrows from a host close set Long meteors pierc'd its breast of jet— Again the trump his strong lips met—

And at its blast blew all the day, In broad winds on the awful Way; Sun smote at Sun across the grey;

As reindeer smite the high-pil'd snow To find the green moss far below— They struck the mists thro' which did glow

Bright vales—and on a sea afar, Lay at a sunlit harbour bar, A galley gold-sail'd like a star!

Spake the pale ghost as onward sped Heart-press'd to heart the valiant dead; Soft the green paths beneath their tread.

"I lov'd, this is my tale, and died— The fierce chief hunger'd for my bride— The spear of Gisli pierc'd my side!

"And she—her love fill'd all my need— Her vows were sweet and strong as mead; Look, father—doth my heart still bleed?

"I built her round with shaft and spear, I kept her mine for one brief year— She laugh'd above my blood stain'd bier!

"Upon a far and ice-peak'd coast My galleys by long winds were toss'd— There Gisli feasted with his host.

"Of warriors triumphant—he Strode out from harps and revelry; And sped his shaft above the sea!

"Look, father, doth my heart bleed yet? His arrow Brynhild's arrow met— My gallies anchor'd in their rest.

"Again their arrows meet—swift lies That pierc'd me from their smiling eyes; How fiercely hard a man's heart dies!

"She false—he false! There came a day Pierc'd by the fierce chief's spear I lay— My ghost rose shrieking from its clay.

"I saw on Brynhild's golden vest The shining locks of Gisli rest; I sought the Hell-way to the Blest.

"Father, put forth thy hand and tear Their twin shafts from my heart, all bare To thee—they rankle death—like there!

* * * * *

Said the voice of Evil to the ear of Good, "Clasp thou my strong, right hand, "Nor shall our clasp be known or understood "By any in the land."

"I, the dark giant, rule strongly on the earth, "Yet thou, bright one, and I "Sprang from the one great mystery—at one birth "We looked upon the sky!

"I labour at my bleak, my stern toil accurs'd Of all mankind—nor stay, To rest, to murmur "I hunger" or "I thirst!" Nor for my joy delay.

"My strength pleads strongly with thee; doth any beat With hammer and with stone Past tools to use them to his deep defeat— To turn them on his throne?

"Then I of God the mystery—toil thou with me Brother; but in the sight Of men who know not, I, the stern son shall be Of Darkness—Thou of Light!"



THE SHELL.

O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to me Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea? I press my ear, O little shell, 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, shell, 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 shell, 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 pass 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 passing 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 horny 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.

He stood beside her in the dawn (And she his Dawn and she his Spring), From her bright palm she fed her fawn, Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing: Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast Shrill silver calls to hound and dove: Her young locks wove them with the blast. To the flush'd, azure shrine above, The light boughs o'er her golden head Toss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm. The perfume of their prayer was spread On the sweet wind in breath of balm.

"Dawn of my heart," he said, "O child, Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine: O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled, Let fair love leap from mine to thine!" "The Dawn is young," she smiled and said, "Too young for Love's dear joy and woe; Too young to crown her careless head With his ripe roses. Let me go— Unquestion'd for a longer space, Perchance, when day is at the flood, In thy true palm I'll gladly place Love's flower in its rounding bud. But now the day is all too young, The Dawn and I are playmates still." She slipped the blossomed boughs among, He strode beyond the violet hill.

Again they stand (Imperial noon Lays her red sceptre on the earth), Where golden hangings make a gloom, And far off lutes sing dreamy mirth. The peacocks cry to lily cloud, From the white gloss of balustrade: Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud, Tall statues whitely strike the shade, And pulse in the dim quivering light Until, most Galatea-wise— Each looks from base of malachite With mystic life in limbs and eyes.

Her robe, (a golden wave that rose, And burst, and clung as water clings To her long curves) about her flows. Each jewel on her white breast sings Its silent song of sun and fire. No wheeling swallows smite the skies And upward draw the faint desire, Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes. In the white kisses of the tips Of her long fingers lies a rose, Snow-pale beside her curving lips, Red by her snowy breast it glows.

"Noon of my soul," he says, "behold! The day is ripe, the rose full blown, Love stands in panoply of gold, To Jovian height and strength now grown, No infant he, a king he stands, And pleads with thee for love again." "Ah, yes!" she says, "in known lands, He kings it—lord of subtlest pain; The moon is full, the rose is fair— Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red: "I know the rose that love should wear, Must redden as the heart had bled! The moon is mellow bright, and I Am happy in its perfect glow. The slanting sun the rose may dye— But for the sweet noon—let me go." She parted—shimm'ring thro' the shade, Bent the fair splendour of her head: "Would the rich noon were past," he said, Would the pale rose were flush'd to red!"

Again. The noon is past and night Binds on his brow the blood red Mars— Down dusky vineyards dies the fight, And blazing hamlets slay the stars. Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats Of thunderous cannon burst—and high Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes: The flame-dimm'd splendours of the sky. He, dying, lies beside his blade: Clear smiling as a warrior blest With victory smiles, thro' sinister shade Gleams the White Cross upon her breast.

"Soul of my soul, or is it night Or is it dawn or is it day? I see no more nor dark nor light, I hear no more the distant fray." "'Tis Dawn," she whispers: "Dawn at last! Bright flush'd with love's immortal glow For me as thee, all earth is past! Late loved—well loved, now let us go!"



LA BOUQUETIERE.

Buy my roses, citizens,— Here are roses golden white, Like the stars that lovers watch On a purple summer night. Here are roses ruddy red, Here are roses Cupid's pink; Here are roses like his cheeks— Deeper—like his lips, I think. Vogue la galere! what if they die, Roses will bloom again—so, buy!

Here is one—it should be white; As tho' in a playful mind, Flora stole the winter snow From the sleeping north'rn wind And lest he should wake and rage, Breath'd a spell of ardent pow'r On the flake, and flung it down To the earth, a snow-white flow'r. Vogue la galere! 'tis stain'd with red? That only means—a woman's dead!

Buy my flowers, citizens,— Here's a Parma violet; Ah! why is my white rose red? 'Tis the blood of a grisette; She sold her flowers by the quay; Brown her eyes and fair her hair; Sixteen summers old, I think— With a quaint, Provincial air. Vogue la galere! she's gone the way That flesh as well as flow'rs must stray.

She had a father old and lame; He wove his baskets by her side; Well, well! 'twas fair enough to see Her look of love, his glance of pride; He wore a beard of shaggy grey, And clumsy patches on his blouse; She wore about her neck a cross, And on her feet great wooden shoes. Vogue la galere! we have no cross, Th' Republic says it's gold is dross!

They had a dog, old, lame, and lean; He once had been a noble hound; And day by day he lay and starv'd, Or gnaw'd some bone that he had found. They shar'd with him the scanty crust, That barely foil'd starvation's pain; He'd wag his feeble tail and turn To gnaw that polish'd bone again. Vogue la galere! why don't ye greet My tale with laughter, prompt and meet?

No fear! ye'll chorus me with laughs When draws my long jest to its close— And have for life a merry joke, "The spot of blood upon the rose." She sold her flow'rs—but what of that? The child was either good or dense; She starv'd—for one she would not sell, Patriots, 'twas her innocence! Vogue la galere! poor little clod! Like us, she could not laugh at God.

A week ago I saw a crowd Of red-caps; and a Tricoteuse Call'd as I hurried swiftly past— "They've taken little Wooden Shoes!" Well, so they had. Come, laugh, I say; Your laugh with mine should come in pat! For she, the little sad-fac'd child, Was an accurs'd aristocrat! Vogue la galere! the Republic's said Saints, angels, nobles, all are dead.

"The old man, too!" shriek'd out the crowd; She turn'd her small white face about; And ye'd have laugh'd to see the air With which she fac'd that rabble rout! I laugh'd, I know—some laughter breeds A merry moisture in the eye: My cheeks were wet, to see her hand Try to push those brawny patriots by. Vogue la galere! we'll laugh nor weep When Death, not God, calls us to sleep.

"Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only I That noble am—take only me; I only am his foster-child,— He nurs'd me on his knee! See! he is guiltless of the crime Of noble birth—and lov'd me not, Because I claim an old descent, But that he nurs'd me in his cot!" Vogue la galere! 'tis well no God Exists, to look upon this sod!

"Believe her not!" he shriek'd; "O, no! I am the father of her life!" "Poor Jean!" she said; "believe him not, His mind with dreams is rife. Farewell, dear Jean!" she said. I laugh'd, Her air was so sedately grand. "Thou'st been a faithful servant, so Thou well may'st kiss my hand." Vogue la galere! the sun is red— And will be, Patriots, when we're dead.

"Child! my dear child!" he shriek'd; she turn'd And let the patriots close her round; He was so lame, he fell behind— He and the starving hound. "Let him go free!" yell'd out the mob; "Accurs'd be these nobles all! The, poor old wretch is craz'd it seems; Blood, Citizens, will pall. Vogue la galere! We can't buy wine, So let blood flow—be't thine or mine."

I ply my trade about the Place; Where proudly reigns La Guillotine; I pile my basket up with bloom, With mosses soft and green. This morning, not an hour ago, I stood beside a Tricoteuse; And saw the little fair head fall Off the little Wooden Shoes. Vogue la galere! By Sanson's told, Into his basket, dross and gold.

She died alone. A woman drew As close beside her as she might; And in that woman's basket lay A rose all snowy white. But sixteen summers old—a child As one might say—to die alone; Ah, well—it is the only way These nobles can atone! Vogue la galere! here is my jest— My white rose redden'd from her breast!

Buy my roses, Citizens! Here's a vi'let—here's a pink— Deeper tint than Cupid's cheek; Deeper than his lips, I think. Flora's nymphs on rosy feet Ne'er o'er brighter blossoms sprang! Ne'er a songster sweeter blooms, In his sweetest rhyming sang! Vogue la galere! Roses must die— Roses will grow again—so, buy!



CURTIUS.

How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how? Methought, while on the shadow'd terraces I walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came, Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry. "O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said; And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord, Gen'ral to ev'ry soul." And then my heart (I being here alone) beat strangely loud; Responsive to the cry—and my still soul, Inform'd me thus: "Not such a harmony Could spring from aught within the souls of men, But that which is most common to all souls. Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile, To tell thee as I listen'd to the cry, How on the silver flax which blew about The ivory distaff in my languid hand, I found large tears; such big and rounded drops As gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs, And I was sudden anger'd, for I thought: "Why should a gen'ral wail come home to me With such vibration in my trembling heart, That such great tears should rise and overflow?" Then shook them on the marble where I pac'd; Where instantly they vanished in the sun, As di'monds fade in flames, 'twas foolish, Curtius! And then methought how strange and lone it seem'd, For till thou cam'st I seem'd to be alone, On the vin'd terrace, prison'd in the gold Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps To take my alms and bless the Gods and me; No orphans touched the fringes of my robe With innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the gold I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek. Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets To catch first tidings from the Oracles. The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades, Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and high A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky, And kept my doves from cooing at my feet. My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds, Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath'd Around it as I sang—but with that wail Dying across the vines and purple slopes, And breaking on its strings, I did not care To waken music, nor in truth could force My voice or fingers to it, so I stray'd Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall, And pleased myself by filling it with thee! 'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome, Say all the armourers; all Rome and I Know thee, the lordliest bearer of a sword. Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost From out the helmet, and a ruby gone From the short sword hilt—trifles both which can Be righted by to-morrow's noon—"to-morrow's noon!" Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice When spake I those three words: "to-morrow's noon?" O, I am full of dreams—methought there was. "Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine! If lov'd I dismal thoughts I well could deem Thou saw'st not the blue of my fond eyes, But looked between the lips of that dread pit— O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the air With chills of death—we'll not speak of it, Curtius. When I had dimm'd thy shield with kissing it, I went between the olives to the stalls; White Audax neigh'd out to me as I came, As I had been Hippona to his eyes; New dazzling from the one, small, mystic cloud That like a silver chariot floated low In the ripe blue of noon, and seem'd to pause, Stay'd by the hilly round of yon aged tree. He stretch'd the ivory arch of his vast neck, Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth; Shook the long silver of his burnish'd mane, Until the sunbeams smote it into light, Such as a comet trails across the sky. I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous fires Leap from his eyes. I do truly think That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees Against his sides—the bridle in his jaws In thy lov'd hand, to pleasure thee he'd spring Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast Of Death and Chaos—of Death and Chaos!— What omens seem to strike my soul to-day? What is there in this blossom hour should knit An omen in with ev'ry simple word? Should make yon willows with their hanging locks Dusk sybils, mutt'ring sorrows to the air? The roses clamb'ring round yon marble Pan, Wave like red banners floating o'er the dead? The dead—there 'tis again. My Curtius, come And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles And what sent hither that long cry of woe. Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear. While on thy charger's throbbing neck I lean'd, Romeward there pass'd across the violet slopes, Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides, And horns as cusp'd and white as Dian's bow, And lordly breasts which laid the honey'd thyme Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose, For the great temple they; and as they pass'd With quiet gait, I heard their drivers say: The bulls were for the Altars, when should come Word from the Oracles, as to the Pit, O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see How black and fearful is its glutton throat; I will not look! O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men Wav'd their long goads, still juicy from the vine, And plum'd with bronzy leaves, and each to each, Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides, The mighty curving of the lordly breasts, The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads, And laugh'd and said, "The Gods will have it thus, The choicest of the earth for sacrifice; Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!" Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words, To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill'd, As Daphne's leaves, thrill to a wind so soft, One might not feel it on the open palm; I cannot choose but laugh—for what have I To do with altars and with sacrifice?



THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER CHERRY.

The Farmer quit what he was at, The bee-hive he was smokin': He tilted back his old straw hat— Says he, "Young man, you're jokin'! O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,) Ain't ye a cheeky sinner? Come, if I give my gal thar, Where would you find her dinner?

"Now look at me; I settl'd down When I was one and twenty, Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown, And stony land a plenty. Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine, And look at them thar cattle: I tell ye since that early time I've fit a tidy battle.

"It kinder wrestles down a man To fight the stuns and mire: But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar plan Of David and Goliar. Want was the mean old Philistine That strutted round the clearin', Of pebbles I'd a hansum line, And flung 'em nothin' fearin'.

"They hit him square, right whar they ought, Them times I had an arm! I lick'd the giant and I bought A hundred acre farm. My gal was born about them days, I was mowin' in the medder; When some one comes along and says— "The wife's gone thro' the shadder!"

"Times thought it was God's will she went— Times thought she work'd too slavin'— And for the young one that was sent, I took to steady savin'. Jest cast your eye on that thar hill The sugar bush just tetches, And round by Miller Jackson's mill, All round the farm stretches.

"'Ain't got a mind to give that land To any snip-snap feller That don't know loam from mud or sand, Or if corn's blue or yaller. I've got a mind to keep her yet— Last Fall her cheese and butter Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget Her pretty pride and flutter.

"Why, you be off! her little face For me's the only summer; Her gone, 'twould be a queer, old place, The Lord smile down upon her! All goes with her, the house and lot— You'd like to get 'em, very! I'll give 'em when this maple bears A bouncin' ripe-red cherry!"

The Farmer fixed his hat and specks And pursed his lips together, The maple wav'd above his head, Each gold and scarlet feather: The Teacher's Honest heart sank down: How could his soul be merry? He knew—though teaching in a town, No maple bears a cherry.

Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, Like Saul to David's singing, Nodded its jewelled crown, as he Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing; A something rosy—not a leaf Stirs up amid the branches; A miracle may send relief To lovers fond and anxious!

O rosy is the velvet cheek Of one 'mid red leaves sitting! The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek With the needles in her knitting. "O Pa!" The Farmer prick'd his ears, Whence came that voice so merry? (The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears) "The maple bears a cherry!"

The Farmer tilted back his hat: "Well, gal—as I'm a human, I'll always hold as doctrine that Thar's nothin' beats a woman! When crown'd that maple is with snow, And Christmas bells are merry, I'll let you have her, Jack—that's so! Be sure you're good to Cherry!"



SOME OF FARMER STEBBIN'S OPINIONS.

No, Parson, 'tain't been in my style, (Nor none ov my relations) Tew dig about the gnarly roots Ov prophetic spekkleations, Tew see what Malachai meant; Or Solomon was hintin'; Or reound what jog o' Futur's road Isaiah was a-squintin'.

I've lost my rest a-keepin' out The hogs from our cowcumbers; But never lost a wink, you bet, By wrastlin' over Numbers. I never took no comfort when The year was bald with losses, A-spekkleatin' on them chaps That rode them varus hosses.

It never gave my soul a boost When grief an' it was matin', Tew figger out that that thar Pope Wus reely twins with Satan. I took no stock in countin' up How menny hed ov cattle From Egypt's ranches Moses drove; I never fit a battle On p'ints that frequently gave rise Tew pious spat an' grumble, An' makes the brethren clinch an' yell In spiritooal rough-an'-tumble.

I never bet on Paul agin The argyments ov Peter, I never made the good old Book A kind ov moral teeter; Tew pass a choreless hour away, An' get the evenin' over; I swallered it jest as it stood, From cover clar tew cover.

Hain't had no time tew disputate, Except with axe an' arm, With stump an' rampike and with stuns, Upon my half clar'd farm. An' when sech argyments as them— Fill six days out ov seven; A man on Sabbath wants tew crawl By quiet ways tew heaven.

Again he gets the waggon out, An' hitches up the sorrels, An' rides ten miles tew meetin', he Ain't braced for pious quarrels: No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rolls From corduroy to puddle, An' that thar farmer gets his brains Inter an easy muddle.

His back is stiff from six days' toil— So God takes hold an' preaches, In boughs ov rustlin' maple an' In whisperin' leaves ov beeches: Sez He tew that thar farmin' chap (Likewise tew the old woman), "I guess I'm built tew comprehend That you an' her be's human!"

"So jest take hold on this har day, Recowperate yer muscle; Let up a mite this day on toil, 'Taint made for holy bustle. Let them old sorrels jog along, With mighty slack-like traces; Half dreamin', es my sunbeams fleck Their venerable faces.

"I guess they did their share, ov work, Since Monday's dew was hoary; Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trot Upon the road tew Glory! Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thick My lily-buds air blowin': An' whar My trees cast shadders on My silver creeklet flowin'.

"An' while their red, rough tongues push back The stems ov reed an' lily, Jest let 'em dream ov them thar days When they was colt an' filly, An' spekkleate, es fetlock deep They eye my cool creek flowin', On whar I loosed it from My hand, Where be its crisp waves goin'. An' how in snow-white lily cup I built them yaller fires, An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle up Agin the waggon tires.

"An' throw a forrard eye along Where that bush roadway passes, A-spekkleating on the chance— Ov nibbling road-side grasses. Jest let them lines rest on thar necks— Restrain yer moral twitters— An' paste this note inside yer hat— I talk tew all My critters!

"Be they on four legs or on two, In broadcloth, scales or feathers, No matter what may be the length Ov all their mental tethers: In ways mayn't suit the minds ov them That thinks themselves thar betters. I talk tew them in simple style, In words ov just three letters,— Spell'd out in lily-blow an' reed, In soft winds on them blowin', In juicy grass by wayside streams, In coolin' waters flowin'.

"An' so jest let them sorrels laze My ripplin' silver creek in; They're listenin' in thar own dumb way, An' I—Myself—am speakin'; Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soul In no sort ov dejection; You'll get tew meetin' quick enough, In time for the—collection."



THE DEACON AND HIS DAUGHTER.

He saved his soul and saved his pork, With old time preservation; He did not hold with creosote, Or new plans of salvation; He said that "Works would show the man," "The smoke-house tell upon the ham!"

He didn't, when he sunk a well, Inspect the stuns and gravel; To prove that Moses was a dunce, Unfit for furrin travel; He marvell'd at them works of God— An' broke 'em up to mend the road!

And when the Circus come around, He hitch'd his sleek old horses; And in his rattling wagon took His dimpl'd household forces— The boys to wonder at the Clown, And think his fate Life's highest crown.

He wondered at the zebras wild, Nor knew 'em painted donkeys; An' when he gave the boys a dime For cakes to feed the monkeys, He never thought, in any shape, He had descended from an ape!

And when he saw some shallow-pate, With smallest brain possession, He uttered no filosofy On Nature's retrogression. To ancient types, by Darwin's rule, He simply said, "Wal, darn a fool."

He never had an enemy, But once a year to meetin', When he and Deacon Maybee fought On questions of free seatin'; Or which should be the one t' rebuke Pastor for kissin' sister Luke.

His farm was well enough, but stones Kind of stern, ruthless facts is; An' he jest made out to save a mite, An' pay his righteous taxes, An' mebbe tote some flour an' pork To poor old critters past their work.

But on the neatest thing he hed Around the place or dwellin', I guess he never paid a red Of taxes. No mush melon Was rounder, sweeter, pinker than The old Man's daughter, Minta Ann.

I've been at Philadelfy's show An' other similar fusses, An' seen a mighty sight of stone, Minarveys and Venusses; An' Sikeys clad in flowers an' wings, But not much show of factory things.

I've seen the hull entire crowd Of Jove's female relations, An' I feel to make a solemn swear On them thar "Lamentations," That as a sort of general plan I'd rather spark with Minta Ann!

You'd ought to see her dimpled chin, With one red freckle on it, Her brown eyes glancing underneath Her tilted shaker bonnet. I vow, I often did desire, They'd set the plaguey thing a-fire!

You'd ought to hear that gal sing On Sabbath, up to meetin', You'd kind of feel high lifted up, Your soul for Heaven fleetin'. And then—came supper, down she'd tie You to this earth with pumpkin pie!

I tell you, stranger, 'twas a sight For poetry and speeches, To see her sittin' on the stoop, A-peelin' scarlet peaches, Inter the kettle at her feet,— I tell you, 'twas a show complete!

Drip, droppin' thro' the rustlin' vine, The sunbeams came a flittin'; An' sort of danced upon the floor, Chas'd by the tabby kitten; Losh! to see the critter's big surprise, When them beams slipped into Minta's eyes!

An' down her brow her pretty hair Cum curlin', crinklin', creepin', In leetle, yaller mites of rings, Inter them bright eyes, peepin', Es run the tendrils of the vine, To whar the merry sunbeams shine.

But losh! her smile was dreadful shy, An' kept her white lids under; Jest as when darkens up the sky An' growls away the thunder; Them skeery speckled trout will hide Beneath them white pond lilies' pride!

An' then her heart, 'twas made clar through Of Californy metal, Chock full of things es sugar sweet Es a presarvin' kettle. The beaux went crazed fur menny a mile When I got thet kettle on the bile.

The good old deacon's gone to whar Thar ain't no wild contentions On Buildin' Funds' Committees and No taxes nor exemptions. Yet still I sort of feel he preaches, And Minta Ann preserves my peaches.



SAID THE SKYLARK.

"O soft, small cloud, the dim, sweet dawn adorning, Swan-like a-sailing on its tender grey; Why dost thou, dost thou float, So high, the wing'd, wild note Of silver lamentation from my dark and pulsing throat May never reach thee, Tho' every note beseech thee To bend thy white wings downward thro' the smiling of the morning, And by the black wires of my prison lightly stray?

"O dear, small cloud, when all blue morn is ringing With sweet notes piped from other throats than mine; If those glad singers please The tall and nodding trees— If to them dance the pennants of the swaying columbine, If to their songs are set The dance of daffodil and trembling violet— Will they pursue thee With tireless wings as free and bold as thine? Will they woo thee With love throbs in the music of their singing? Ah, nay! fair Cloud, ah, nay! Their hearts and wings will stay With yellow bud of primrose and soft blush of the May; Their songs will thrill and die, Tranc'd in the perfume of the rose's breast. While I must see thee fly With white, broad, lonely pinions down the sky.

"O fair, small cloud, unheeding o'er me straying, Jewell'd with topaz light of fading stars; Thy downy edges red As the great eagle of the Dawn sails high And sets his fire-bright head And wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast; And thou canst blush while I Must pierce myself with song and die On the bald sod behind my prison bars; Nor feel upon my crest Thy soft, sunn'd touches delicately playing!

"O fair, small cloud, grown small as lily flow'r! Even while I smite the bars to see thee fade; The wind shall bring thee The strain I sing thee— I, in wired prison stay'd, Worse than the breathless primrose glade. That in my morn, I shrilly sang to scorn; I'll burst my heart up to thee in this hour!

"O fair, small cloud, float nearer yet and hear me! A prison'd lark once lov'd a snowy cloud, Nor did the Day With sapphire lips, and kiss Of summery bliss, Draw all her soul away; Vainly the fervent East Deck'd her with roses for their bridal feast; She would not rest In his red arms, but slipp'd adown the air And wan and fair, Her light foot touch'd a purple mountain crest, And touching, turn'd Into swift rain, that like to jewels burn'd; In the great, wondering azure of the sky; And while a rainbow spread Its mighty arms above, she, singing, fled To the lone-feather'd slave, In his sad weird grave, Whose heart upon his silver song had sped To her in days of old, In dawns of gold, And murmuring to him, said: "O love, I come! O love, I come to cheer thee— Love, to be near thee!""



WAR.

Shake, shake the earth with giant tread, Thou red-maned Titian bold; For every step a man lies dead, A cottage hearth is cold. Take up the babes with mailed hands, Transfix them with thy spears, Spare not the chaste young virgin-bands, Tho' blood may be their tears.

Beat down the corn, tear up the vine, The waters turn to blood; And if the wretch for bread doth whine, Give him his kin for food. Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth, They make so rich a mould, Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth— They'll turn to yellow gold.

On with thy thunders, shot and shell, Send screaming, featly hurl'd; Science has made them in her cell, To civilize the world. Not, not alone where Christian men Pant in the well-arm'd strife; But seek the jungle-throttled glen— The savage has a life.

He has a soul—so priests will say— Go! save it with thy sword; Thro' his rank forests force thy way, Thy war cry, "For the Lord!" Rip up his mines, and from his strands Wash out the gold with blood— Religion raises blessing hands, "War's evil worketh good!"

When striding o'er the conquer'd land, Silence thy rolling drum, And led by white-robed choiring bands With loud "Te Deum" come. Seek the grim chancel, on its wall Thy blood-stiff banner hang; They lie who say thy blood is gall. Thy tooth the serpent's fang.

See! the white Christ is lifted high, Thy conqu'ring sword to bless; Smiles the pure monarch of the sky— Thy king can do no less. Drink deep with him the festal wine, Drink with him drop for drop; If, like the sun, his throne doth shine, Thou art that throne's prop.

If spectres wait upon the bowl, Thou needs not be afraid, Grin hell-hounds for thy bold black soul, His purple be thy shade. Go! feast with Commerce, be her spouse; She loves thee, thou art hers— For thee she decks her board and house. Then how may others curse

If she, mild-seeming matron, leans Upon thine iron neck, And leaves with thee her household scenes To follow at thy beck— Bastard in brotherhood of kings, Their blood runs in thy veins, For them the crowns, the sword that swings, For thee to hew their chains.

For thee the rending of the prey— They, jackals to the lion, Tread after in the gory way Trod by the mightier scion. O slave! that slayest other slaves, O'er vassals crowned, a king! War, build high thy throne with graves, High as the vulture's wing!