Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 27

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 s.h.i.+ver, 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 s.h.i.+ver; 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d-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 t.i.tan, 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.

s.h.i.+p-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 gra.s.ses, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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!