Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 22

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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 peac.o.c.ks cry to lily cloud, From the white gloss of bal.u.s.trade: 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--s.h.i.+mm'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 sh.e.l.ls: 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d.

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, n.o.bles, 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 G.o.d, calls _us_ to sleep.

"Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only I That n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bles 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 n.o.bles can atone!

Vogue la galere! here is my jest-- My white rose redden'd from her breast!