Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 26

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s "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 s.n.a.t.c.h thy pa.s.sing 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 gra.s.ses 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 gra.s.ses 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 peac.o.c.ks 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 G.o.d, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 pa.s.s'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 s.h.i.+eld 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, Pa.s.s'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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 ta.s.sel; 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 l.u.s.ty; 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 La.s.s 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, h.e.l.l 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 s.p.u.n.kie that flits through the fen Wad jealously lead me astray Frae my ain bonnie la.s.s 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!