THE SWORD.

THE FORGING OF THE SWORD.

At the forging of the Sword— The mountain roots were stirr'd, Like the heart-beats of a bird; Like flax the tall trees wav'd, So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— So loud the hammers fell, The thrice seal'd gates of Hell, Burst wide their glowing jaws; Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— Kind mother Earth was rent, Like an Arab's dusky tent, And monster-like she fed— On her children; at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— So loud the blows they gave, Up sprang the panting wave; And blind and furious slew, Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— The startled air swift whirl'd The red flames round the world, From the Anvil where was smitten, The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— The Maid and Matron fled, And hid them with the dead; Fierce prophets sang their doom, More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword— Swift leap'd the quiet hearts, In the meadows and the marts; The tides of men were drawn, By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!

* * * * *

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword; On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; In such red flames thy metal fused! From such deep hells that metal brought; O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Less than the Gods by some small span, Slim sword, how great thy lieges be! Glint but in one wild camp-fire's light, Thy God-like vassals rush to thee. O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Sharp, God, how vast thy altars be! Green vallies, sacrificial cups, Flow with the purple lees of blood; Its smoke is round the mountain tops. O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

O amorous God, fierce lover thou! Bright sultan of a million brides, Thou know'st no rival to thy kiss, Thy loves are thine whate're betides, O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord.

Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more, Thy steel no more shall sting and shine, Pass thro' the fusing fires again; And learn to prune the laughing vine. Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord, The plough and hook we'll own as lord!



ROSES IN MADRID.

Roses, Senors, roses! Love is subtly hid In the fragrant roses, Blown in gay Madrid. Roses, Senors, roses! Look, look, look, and see Love hanging in the roses, Like a golden bee! Ha! ha! shake the roses— Hold a palm below; Shake him from the roses, Catch the vagrant so!

High I toss the roses From my brown palm up; Like the wine that bubbles From a golden cup. Catch the roses, Senors, Light on finger tips; He who buys red roses, Dreams of crimson lips! Tinkle! my fresh roses, With the rare dews wet; Clink! my crisp, red roses, Like a castanet!

Roses, Senors, roses, Come, Hidalgo, buy! Proudly wait my roses For thy rose's eye Be thy rose as stately As a pacing deer; Worthy are my roses To burn behind her ear. Ha I ha! I can see thee, Where the fountains foam, Twining my red roses In her golden comb!

Roses, Donnas, roses, None so fresh as mine, Pluck'd at rose of morning By our Lady's shrine. Those that first I gather'd Laid I at her feet, That is why my roses Still are fresh and sweet. Roses, Donnas, roses! Roses waxen fair! Acolytes my roses, Censing ladies' pray'r!

Roses, roses, roses! Hear the tawny bull Thund'ring in the circus— Buy your arms full. Roses by the dozen! Roses by the score! Pelt the victor with them— Bull or Toreador!



BETWEEN THE WIND AND RAIN.

"The storm is in the air," she said, and held Her soft palm to the breeze; and looking up, Swift sunbeams brush'd the crystal of her eyes, As swallows leave the skies to skim the brown, Bright woodland lakes. "The rain is in the air. "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the rose, "That suddenly she loosens her red heart, "And sends long, perfum'd sighs about the place? "O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the Swift, "That from the airy eave, she, shadow-grey, "Smites the blue pond, and speeds her glancing wing "Close to the daffodils? What hast thou told small bells, "And tender buds, that—all unlike the rose— "They draw green leaves close, close about their breasts "And shrink to sudden slumber? The sycamores "In ev'ry leaf are eloquent with thee; "The poplars busy all their silver tongues "With answ'ring thee, and the round chestnut stirs "Vastly but softly, at thy prophecies. "The vines grow dusky with a deeper green— "And with their tendrils snatch thy passing harp, "And keep it by brief seconds in their leaves. "O Prophet Wind, thou tellest of the rain, "While, jacinth blue, the broad sky folds calm palms, "Unwitting of all storm, high o'er the land! "The little grasses and the ruddy heath "Know of the coming rain; but towards the sun "The eagle lifts his eyes, and with his wings "Beats on a sunlight that is never marr'd "By cloud or mist, shrieks his fierce joy to air "Ne'er stir'd by stormy pulse." "The eagle mine," I said: "O I would ride "His wings like Ganymede, nor ever care "To drop upon the stormy earth again,— "But circle star-ward, narrowing my gyres, "To some great planet of eternal peace.". "Nay," said my wise, young love, "the eagle falls "Back to his cliff, swift as a thunder-bolt; "For there his mate and naked eaglets dwell, "And there he rends the dove, and joys in all "The fierce delights of his tempestuous home. "And tho' the stormy Earth throbs thro' her poles— "With tempests rocks upon her circling path— "And bleak, black clouds snatch at her purple hills— "While mate and eaglets shriek upon the rock— "The eagle leaves the hylas to its calm, "Beats the wild storm apart that rings the earth, "And seeks his eyrie on the wind-dash'd cliff. "O Prophet Wind! close, close the storm and rain!"

Long sway'd the grasses like a rolling wave Above an undertow—the mastiff cried; Low swept the poplars, groaning in their hearts; And iron-footed stood the gnarl'd oaks, And brac'd their woody thews against the storm. Lash'd from the pond, the iv'ry cygnets sought The carven steps that plung'd into the pool; The peacocks scream'd and dragg'd forgotten plumes. On the sheer turf—all shadows subtly died, In one large shadow sweeping o'er the land; Bright windows in the ivy blush'd no more; The ripe, red walls grew pale—the tall vane dim; Like a swift off'ring to an angry God, O'erweighted vines shook plum and apricot, From trembling trellis, and the rose trees pour'd A red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves, On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote set A stream of silver wings and violet breasts, The hawk-like storm swooping on their track. "Go," said my love, "the storm would whirl me off "As thistle-down. I'll shelter here—but you— "You love no storms!" "Where thou art," I said, "Is all the calm I know—wert thou enthron'd "On the pivot of the winds—or in the maelstrom, "Thou holdest in thy hand my palm of peace; "And, like the eagle, I would break the belts "Of shouting tempests to return to thee, "Were I above the storm on broad wings. "Yet no she-eagle thou! a small, white, lily girl "I clasp and lift and carry from the rain, "Across the windy lawn." With this I wove Her floating lace about her floating hair, And crush'd her snowy raiment to my breast, And while she thought of frowns, but smil'd instead, And wrote her heart in crimson on her cheeks, I bounded with her up the breezy slopes, The storm about us with such airy din, As of a thousand bugles, that my heart Took courage in the clamor, and I laid My lips upon the flow'r of her pink ear, And said: "I love thee; give me love again!" And here she pal'd, love has its dread, and then She clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light, Till all the daffodils I trod were pale Beside the small flow'r red upon my breast. And ere the dial on the slope was pass'd, Between the last loud bugle of the Wind And the first silver coinage of the Rain, Upon my flying hair, there came her kiss, Gentle and pure upon my face—and thus Were we betroth'd between the Wind and Rain.



JOY'S CITY.

Joy's City hath high battlements of gold; Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs; She hath her palaces high reared and bold, And tender shades of perfumed lily bowers; But ever day by day, and ever night by night, An Angel measures still our City of Delight.

He hath a rule of gold, and never stays, But ceaseless round the burnish'd ramparts glides; He measures minutes of her joyous days, Her walls, her trees, the music of her tides; The roundness of her buds—Joy's own fair city lies, Known to its heart-core by his stern and thoughtful eyes.

Above the sounds of timbrel and of song, Of greeting friends, of lovers 'mid the flowers, The Angel's voice arises clear and strong: "O City, by so many leagues thy bow'rs Stretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blue So many cubits rise thy tow'rs beyond the view."

Why dost thou, Angel, measure Joy's fair walls? Unceasing gliding by their burnish'd stones; Go, rather measure Sorrow's gloomy halls; Her cypress bow'rs, her charnel-house of bones; Her groans, her tears, the rue in her jet chalices; But leave unmeasured more, Joy's fairy palaces.

The Angel spake: "Joy hath her limits set, But Sorrow hath no bounds—Joy is a guest Perchance may enter; but no heart puls'd yet, Where Sorrow did not lay her down to rest; She hath no city by so many leagues confin'd, I cannot measure bounds where there are none to find."



THE CANOE.

My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread With furry skins, and laughing said, "Now she shall lay her polish'd sides, As queens do rest, or dainty brides, Our slender lady of the tides!"

My masters twain their camp-soul lit, Streamed incense from the hissing cones, Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, Half way about each grim bole knit, Like a shy child that would bedeck With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck; Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, The awful plumes shake on his crest, And fearful drops his timid face, Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.

Into the hollow hearts of brakes, Yet warm from sides of does and stags, Pass'd to the crisp dark river flags; Sinuous, red as copper snakes, Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, Glided and hid themselves in night.

My masters twain, the slaughtered deer Hung on fork'd boughs—with thongs of leather. Bound were his stiff, slim feet together— His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; The wand'ring firelight drew near And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, On the sharp splendor of his branches; On the white foam grown hard and sere On flank and shoulder. Death—hard as breast of granite boulder, And under his lashes Peer'd thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes.

My masters twain sang songs that wove (As they burnish'd hunting blade and rifle) A golden thread with a cobweb trifle— Loud of the chase, and low of love.

"O Love, art thou a silver fish? Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, Casting at thee the light-wing'd wish, And at the last shall we bring thee up From the crystal darkness under the cup Of lily folden, On broad leaves golden?

"O Love! art thou a silver deer, Swift thy starr'd feet as wing of swallow, While we with rushing arrows follow; And at the last shall we draw near, And over thy velvet neck cast thongs— Woven of roses, of stars, of songs? New chains all moulden Of rare gems olden!"

They hung the slaughter'd fish like swords On saplings slender—like scimitars Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, Blaz'd in the light—the scaly hordes.

They piled up boughs beneath the trees, Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, The camp fire blush'd to the tender breeze.

The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty— Dream'd of the dead stag stout and lusty; A bat by the red flames wove its round.

The darkness built its wigwam walls Close round the camp, and at its curtain Press'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain, As white locks of tall waterfalls.



"MY AIN BONNIE LASS O' THE GLEN."

Ae blink o' the bonnie new mune, Ay tinted as sune as she's seen, Wad licht me to Meg frae the toun, Tho' mony the brae-side between: Ae fuff o' the saftest o' win's, As wilyart it kisses the thorn, Wad blaw me o'er knaggies an' linns— To Meg by the side o' the burn!

My daddie's a laird wi' a ha'; My mither had kin at the court; I maunna gang wooin' ava'— Or any sic frolicsome sport. Gin I'd wed—there's a winnock kept bye; Wi' bodies an' gear i' her loof— Gin ony tak her an' her kye, Hell glunsh at himsel' for a coof!

My daddie's na doylt, tho' he's auld, The winnock is pawkie an' gleg; When the lammies are pit i' the fauld, They're fear'd that I'm aff to my Meg. My mither sits spinnin'—ae blink O' a smile in her kind, bonnie 'ee; She's minded o' mony a link She, stowlins, took o'er the lea

To meet wi' my daddie himsel' Tentie jinkin' by lea an' by shaw; She fu's up his pipe then hersel', So I may steal cannie awa'. O leeze me o' gowany swaird, An' the blink o' the bonnie new mune! An' the cowt stown out o' the yaird That trots like a burnie in June!

My Meg she is waitin' abeigh— Ilk spunkie that flits through the fen Wad jealously lead me astray Frae my ain bonnie lass o' the glen! My forbears may groan i' the mools, My daddie look dour an' din; Wee Love is the callant wha rules, An' my Meg is the wifie I'll win!



THE WHITE BULL.

Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid, Flash'd blue 'neath its lid; As the cry and the clamour ran round, "The king has been crown'd! And the brow of his bride has been bound With the crown of a queen!" And between Te Deum and salvo, the roar Of the crowd in the square, Shook tower and bastion and door, And the marble of altar and floor; And high in the air, The wreaths of the incense were driven To and fro, as are riven The leaves of a lily, and cast By the jubilant shout of the blast To and fro, to and fro, And they fell in the chancel and nave, As the lily falls back on the wave, And trembl'd and faded and died, As the white petals tremble and shiver, And fade in the tide Of the jewel dark breast of the river.

"Ho, gossips, the wonderful news! I have worn two holes in my shoes, With the race I have run; And, like an old grape in the sun, I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran Like an antelope rather than man. Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed, And he loves to see the bold bull bleed; And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit, In half of the Spanish throne to sit; Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair, Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair; For free and full— She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull; And tap on the jewels of her fan, While horse and man, Reel on in a ruby rain of gore; And pout her lip at the Toreador; And fling a jest If he leave the fight with unsullied vest, No crack on his skin, Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in. Caramba, gossips, I would not be king, And rule and reign Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain, If under my wing— I had not a mate who could joy to the full, In the gallant death of a man or a bull!"

"What is the news That has worn two holes in my Saints'-day shoes, And parch'd me so with heat and speed, That a skin of wine down my throat must bleed? Why this, there's a handsome Hidalgo at Court, And half in sport, He scour'd the country far and wide, For a gift to pleasure the royal bride; And on the broad plains of the Guadalquiver He gave a pull— To the jewell'd bridle and silken rein, That made his stout horse rear and shiver; For in the dusk reeds of the silver river— Like the angry stars that redly fly From the dark blue peaks of the midnight sky, And smouldering lie, Blood-red till they die In the blistering ground—the eyes he saw Of a bull without blemish, or speck, or flaw, And a hide as white as a dead saint's soul— With many a clinking of red pistole; And draughts of sour wine from the herdsman's bowl, He paid the full Price in bright gold of the brave white bull.

"Comrades we all From the pulpit tall Have heard the fat friars say God has decreed That the peasant shall sweat and the soldier shall bleed, And Hidalgo and King May righteously wring Sweat and blood from us all, weak, strong, young and old, And turn the tax into Treasury gold. Well, the friar knows best, Or why wear a cowl? And a cord round his breast? So why should we scowl? The friar is learned and knows the mind, From core to rind, Of God, and the Virgin, and ev'ry saint That a tongue can name or a brush can paint; And I've heard him declare— With a shout that shook all the birds in the air, That two kinds of clay Are used in God's Pottery every day. The finest and best he puts in a mould Of purest gold, Stamped with the mark of His signet ring, And He turns them out, (While the angels shout) The Pope and the priest, the Hidalgo and King! And He gives them dominion full and just O'er the creatures He kneads from the common dust, And the clay, stamped with His proper sign, Has right divine To the sweat, and the blood and the bended knee Of such, my gossips, as ye and me. Who cares? Not I Only let King and Hidalgo buy, With the red pistoles They wring from our sweltering bodies and souls, Treasures as full Of the worth of gold as the bold white bull!

"The Hidalgo rode back to the Court: And to finish the sport, When the King had been crowned, And the flaxen hair of the bride had been bound, With the crown of the Queen; He took a huge necklace of plates of gold, With rubies between; And wound it threefold Round the brute's broad neck, and with ruby ring In its fire-puffed nostrils had it led To the feet of the Queen as she sat by the King, With the red crown set on her lily head; And she said— 'Let the bull be led To the floor Of the arena: Proclaim, In my name, That the valliant and bold Toreador, Who slays him shall pull The rubies and gold from the gore Of the bold white bull!'

"That is the news which I bear; I heard it below in the square— And to and fro, I heard the voice blow Of Pedro, the brawny young Toreador, As he swore By the tremulous light of the golden star That quivers beneath the soft lid Of Pilar, Who sells tall lilies through fair Madrid; He would wind six-fold Round her neck, long, slender, round and full, The rubies and gold That three times rolled Round the mighty breast of the bold white bull. And loudly he sang, While the wine cups rang, 'If I'm the bravest Toreador In gallant, gay Madrid, If thou hast got the brightest eye That dances 'neath a lid; If e'er of Andalusian wine I drank a bottle full, The gold, the rubies shall be thine That deck the bold white bull.'

"Already a chorus rings out in the city, A jubilant ditty, And every guitar Vibrates to the names of Pedro and Pilar; And the strings and voices are soulless and dull That sound not the name of the bold white bull!"



MARCH.

Shall Thor with his hammer Beat on the mountain, As on an anvil, A shackle and fetter?

Shall the lame Vulcan Shout as he swingeth God-like his hammer, And forge thee a fetter?

Shall Jove, the Thunderer, Twine his swift lightnings With his loud thunders, And forge thee a shackle?

"No," shouts the Titan, The young lion-throated; "Thor, Vulcan, nor Jove Cannot shackle and bind me."

Tell what will bind thee, Thou young world-shaker, Up vault our oceans, Down fall our forests.

Ship-masts and pillars Stagger and tremble, Like reeds by the margins Of swift running waters.

Men's hearts at thy roaring Quiver like harebells Smitten by hailstones, Smitten and shaken.

"O sages and wise men! O bird-hearted tremblers! Come, I will show ye A shackle to bind me.

I, the lion-throated, The shaker of mountains! I, the invincible, Lasher of oceans!

"Past the horizon, Its ring of pale azure Past the horizon, Where scurry the white clouds,

There are buds and small flowers— Flowers like snow-flakes, Blossoms like rain-drops, So small and tremulous.

Therein a fetter Shall shackle and bind me, Shall weigh down my shouting With their delicate perfume!"

But who this frail fetter Shall forge on an anvil, With hammer of feather And anvil of velvet?

Past the horizon, In the palm of a valley, Her feet in the grasses, There is a maiden.

She smiles on the flowers, They widen and redden, She weeps on the flowers, They grow up and kiss her.

She breathes in their bosoms, They breathe back in odours; Inarticulate homage, Dumb adoration.

She shall wreathe them in shackles, Shall weave them in fetters; In chains shall she braid them, And me shall she fetter.

I, the invincible; March, the earth-shaker; March, the sea-lifter; March, the sky-render;

March, the lion-throated. April the weaver Of delicate blossoms, And moulder of red buds—

Shall, at the horizon, Its ring of pale azure, Its scurry of white clouds, Meet in the sunlight.



"THE EARTH WAXETH OLD."

When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd I dream'd green woods among; Where tall trees wav'd from side to side, And in their green breasts deep and wide, I saw the building blue jay hide, O, then the earth was young!

The winds were fresh and brave and bold, The red sun round and strong; No prophet voice chill, loud and cold, Across my woodland dreamings roll'd, "The green earth waxeth sere and old, That once was fair and young!"

I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole, The fresh'ning of the sap; When timid spring gave first small dole, Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole, I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll, From summer's high pil'd lap.

And where an ancient oak tree lay The forest stream across, I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray, I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play, I saw the shadows dance and sway On ripple and on moss.

I pull'd the chestnut branches low, As o'er the stream they hung, To see their bursting buds of snow— I heard the sweet spring waters flow— My heart and I we did not know But that the earth was young!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The winds were fresh, the days as clear As crystals set in gold. No shape, with prophet-mantle drear, Thro' those old woods came drifting near, To whisper in my wond'ring ear, "The green earth waxeth old."



"THE WISHING STAR."

Day floated down the sky; a perfect day, Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold Along the west, that when her lover, Night, Fled with his starry lances in pursuit, Across the sky, the way she went might shew. From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave, Which as she climb'd the sky still held Her golden tresses to its swelling breast, Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay, (Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red, As flowers that look forever towards the Sun), A terrace with a fountain and an oak Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph, Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew Before some hoary king, while high above, He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze— And sigh'd deep sighs of "All is vanity!" Behind, a wall of Norman William's time Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there Torn wide apart to let a casement peer Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant (A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose) And look'd above me into two such eyes As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page That new old cry that hearts so often write In their own ashes, "All is vanity!" "Know'st thou—" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd, On the wide arch that domes our little earth, "That when a star hurls on with shining wings, "On some swift message from his throne of light, "The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit— "Fulfilment—drop into the eager palm?" "Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I. "Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale." But some swift feeling smote upon her brow A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky— Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on, Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd The night's device upon his ripe-red shield. And suddenly down towards the moon there ran— From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue, A little star, a point of trembling gold, Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I, "Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star? "Its brightness died not, it but disappeared, "To whirl undim'd thro' space. I wish'd our love "Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life, "Burning brightly as that star and winging on "Thro' unseen space of veil'd Eternity, "Brightened by Immortality—not lost." "Awful and sweet the wish!" she said, and so— We rested in the silence of content.



HOW DEACON FRY BOUGHT A "DUCHESS."

It sorter skeer'd the neighbours round, For of all the 'tarnal set thet clutches Their dollars firm, he wus the boss; An' yet he went and byed a "Duchess." I never will forget the day He druv her from the city market; I guess thar warn't more'n two Thet stayed to hum thet day in Clarket.

And one of them wus Gran'pa Finch, Who's bed-rid up to Spense's attic: The other Aunt Mehitabel, Whose jints and temper is rheumatic. She said she "guessed that Deacon Fry Would some day see he'd done more fitter To send his dollars savin' souls Than waste 'em on a horn'd critter!"

We all turn'd out at Pewse's store, The last one jest inside the village; The Jedge he even chanc'd along, And so did good old Elder Millage. We sot around on kegs and planks, And on the fence we loung'd precarious; The Elder felt to speak a word, And sed his thoughts wus very various.

He sed the Deacon call'd to mind The blessed patriarchs and their cattle; "To whose herds cum a great increase When they in furrin parts did settle." We nodded all our skulls at this, But Argue Bill he rapped his crutches; Sed he, "I guess they never paid Five hundred dollars for a 'Duchess.'"

Bill and the Elder allers froze To subjects sorter disputatious, So on the 'lasses keg they sot, And had an argue fair and spacious. Good land! when Solon cum in sight, By lawyer Smithett's row o' beeches; His black span seemed to crawl along Ez slow ez Dr. Jones's leeches.

Sez Sister Fry, who was along, "I sorter think my specs is muggy; "But Solon started out from hum "This mornin' in the new top buggy. "Jeddiah rid old chestnut Jim, "An' Sammy rid the roan filly; "I told 'em when they started off "It looked redikless, soft and silly,

"To see three able-bodied men "An' four stout horses drive one critter; "O land o' song! will some one look? "From hed to foot I'm in a twitter." Wal, up we swarm'd on Pewse's fence, And Bill he histed on his crutches; We all was curus to behold The Deac's five hundred dollar "Duchess."

I've heerd filosofurs declar, This life be's kind o' snarly jinted; And every human standin' thar Felt sorter gin'ral disappointed. What sort o' crazy animile Hed got the Deacon in its clutches? They cum along in spankin' style— Old Solon and his sons and "Duchess."

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

Sez he, excited like, "I'll 'low, To swaller both these here old crutches- Ef thet ain't Farmer Slyby's cow, Old Bossie turn'd inter a "Duchess!" Wal,'twus k'rect! The Deacon swore Some hefty swars and sot the clutches Of law to work; but seed no more The chap thet sold him thet thar "Duchess."



MY IRISH LOVE.

Beside the saffron of a curtain, lit With broidered flowers, below a golden fringe That on her silver shoulder made a glow, Like the sun kissing lilies in the dawn; She sat—my Irish love—slim, light and tall. Between his mighty paws her stag-hound held, (Love-jealous he) the foam of her pale robes, Rare laces of her land, and his red eyes, Half lov'd me, grown familiar at her side, Half pierc'd me, doubting my soul's right to stand His lady's wooer in the courts of Love. Above her, knitted silver, fell a web Of light from waxen tapers slipping down, First to the wide-winged star of em'ralds set On the black crown with its blue burnish'd points Of raven light; thence, fonder, to the cheek O'er which flew drifts of rose-leaves wild and rich, With lilied pauses in the wine-red flight; For when I whispered, like a wind in June, My whisper toss'd the roses to and fro In her dear face, and when I paus'd they lay Still in her heart. Then lower fell the light. A silver chisel cutting the round arm Clear from the gloom; and dropped like dew On the crisp lily, di'mond clasp'd, that lay In happy kinship on her pure, proud breast, And thence it sprang like Cupid, nimble-wing'd, To the quaint love-ring on her finger bound And set it blazing like a watch-fire, lit To guard a treasure. Then up sprang the flame Mad for her eyes, but those grey worlds were deep In seas of native light: and when I spoke They wander'd shining to the shining moon That gaz'd at us between the parted folds Of yellow, rich with gold and daffodils, Dropping her silver cloak on Innisfail. O worlds, those eyes! there Laughter lightly toss'd His gleaming cymbals; Large and most divine Pity stood in their crystal doors with hands All generous outspread; in their pure depths Mov'd Modesty, chaste goddess, snow-white of brow, And shining, vestal limbs; rose-fronted stood Blushing, yet strong; young Courage, knightly in His virgin arms, and simple, russet Truth Play'd like a child amongst her tender thoughts— Thoughts white as daisies snow'd upon the lawn.

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

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

But I would have her smile ripe for me then, Swift treasure of a moment—so I laid Between her palms a little simple thing, A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone, And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich, Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said, "Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!" "A golden prophet of eternal truth," I said, and kissed the roses of her palms, And then the shy, bright roses of her lips, And all the jealous jewels shone forgot In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck. My fair, pure soul! My noble Irish love!



A HUNGRY DAY.

I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap, Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod, He hired me wanst to help his harvest in; The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be God! He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself, Just landed in the emigration shed, Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes, Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead.

It's not meself can say of what she died; But t'was the year the praties felt the rain, And rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw The breath of life was one long hungry pain. If we were haythens in a furrin' land, Not in a country grand in Christian pride, Faith, then a man might have the face to say 'Twas of stharvation my poor Shylie died.

But whin the parish docthor come at last, Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes, (They looked straight into heaven) an her ears Wor deaf to the poor childer's hungry cries; He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw; "She's gone!" he says, and drew a solemn frown; "I fear, my man, she's dead." "Of what?" says I. He coughed, and says, "She's let her system down!"

"An' that's God's truth!" says I, an' felt about To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark, An' in my hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart, I felt the kindlin' of a burning spark. "O, by me sowl, that is the holy truth! There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still, An' Mickie's eyes are bright—the craythur there Died that the weeny ones might eat there fill."

An' whin they spread the daisies thick and white, Above her head that wanst lay on my breast, I had no tears, but took the childhers' hands, An' says, "We'll lave the mother to her rest," An' och! the sod was green that summers day; An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair; But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched, An' sent their cruel poison through the air.

An' all was quiet—on the sunny sides Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay, An' thim as lack'd the rint from empty walls Of little cabins, wapin' turned away. God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod, An' whin upon her increase His right hand Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.

No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky, No mines yawn'd on the hills so full an' rich; A man whose praties failed had nought to do, But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch! A flame rose up widin me feeble heart, Whin passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure, I saw the mark of Shylie's coffin in The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.

I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands; Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' Mick an' me, Must lave the green ould sod, an' look for food In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.' An' so it chanced, when landed on the streets, Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay, Came there to hire a roan to save his whate, An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.

"An' bring the girleen, Pat," he says, an' looked At Rosie lanin' up agin me knee; "The wife will be right plaised to see the child, The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea. We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised! As nice a farm as ever brogan trod, A hundred acres—us as never owned Land big enough to make a lark a sod!"

"Bedad," sez I, "I heerd them over there Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet, An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet!" "Begorra, Pat," says Dolan, "may ould Nick Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues, An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure, Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!"

"Och, thin," says I, "meself agrees to that!" Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey; Says he. "Kape up yer heart—I never knew Since I come out a single hungry day!"

"But thin I left the crowded city sthreets, There men galore to toil in thim an' die, Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.

"I did that same: an' God be prais'd this day! Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure: An' in them years I never wanst have seen A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure!"

I listened to ould Dolan's honest words, That's twenty years ago this very spring, An' Mick is married—an' me Rosie wears A swateheart's little, shinin' goulden ring.

'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look At the green fields upon me own big farm; An' God be prais'd! all men may have the same That owns an axe! an' has a strong right arm!

THE END