Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 17

"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 s.h.i.+rk!

"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, gos.h.!.+ 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 s.h.i.+ns!

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 clas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p 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 h.e.l.l, Yet all the word it saith Is 'Death.'"

"Come with me," sang the Wind, "Why art thou, love, unkind?

Thou are too fair, O s.h.i.+p, To kiss the slimy lip Of the cold and dismal sh.o.r.e; and, prithee, mark, How chill and dark Shew the vast and rusty linkings of the chain, Hoa.r.s.e 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p! 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 l.u.s.ty 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 s.p.a.ces 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d's wards.h.i.+p-- 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-s.h.i.+elds strong on our phantom b.r.e.a.s.t.s; And its tide Took lip and tongue and cried.