Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 11

And the twitched lip and tilted head!

Yet he did neither wince nor stir,-- Only--his hands clenched; and, instead Of words, he answered with a stare That stammered not in aught it said, As might his voice if trusted there.

And what--what spake his steady gaze?-- Was there a look that harshly fell To scoff her?--or a syllable Of anger?--or the bitter phrase That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, Or curdles blood as poison drips?

What made their b.r.e.a.s.t.s to heave and swell As billows under bows of s.h.i.+ps In broken seas on stormy days?

We may not know--nor _they_ indeed-- What mercy found them in their need.

A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; And round about them swept a breeze, With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; A bird was heard, through drone of bees,-- Then, far and clear and eerily, A child's voice from an orchard-tree-- Then laughter, sweet as the perfume Of lilacs, could the hearing see.

And he--O Love! he fed thy name On bruised kisses, while her dim Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, Like drowning gems were turned on him.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

I.

As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end.

Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile--so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight.

The hands that I had learned to love With strength of pa.s.sion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine.

The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like suns.h.i.+ne, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful.

II.

The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet:

The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony.

But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a s.p.a.ce,

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old!

THE HEREAFTER.

Hereafter! O we need not waste Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: No happiness but holds a taste Of something sweeter, after all;-- No depth of agony but feels Some fragment of abiding trust,-- Whatever death unlocks or seals, The mute beyond is just.

JOHN BROWN.

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed We trace the sacred service of a heart Answering the Divine command, in every part Bearing on human weal: His love did feed The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart Of other wounds than rankled at the dart In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.

He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone-- The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.-- For these doomed there it was he went to death.

G.o.d! how the merest man loves one like that!

A CUP OF TEA.

I have sipped, with drooping lashes, Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; I have flourished brandy-smashes In the wildest sort of way; I have joked with "Tom and Jerry"

Till wee hours ayont the twal'-- But I've found my tea the very Safest tipple of them all!

'Tis a mystical potation That exceeds in warmth of glow And divine exhilaration All the drugs of long ago-- All of old magicians' potions-- Of Medea's filtered spells-- Or of fabled isles and oceans Where the Lotos-eater dwells!

Though I've reveled o'er late lunches With _blase_ dramatic stars, And absorbed their wit and punches And the fumes of their cigars-- Drank in the latest story, With a c.o.c.k-tail either end,-- I have drained a deeper glory In a cup of tea, my friend.

Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa, Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey-- No odds the name it knows--ah!

Fill a cup of it for me!

And, as I clink my china Against your goblet's brim, My tea in steam shall twine a Fragrant laurel round its rim.

JUDITH.

O her eyes are amber-fine-- Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June.

If she sorrow--lo! her face It is like a flowery s.p.a.ce In bright meadows, overlaid With light clouds and lulled with shade If she laugh--it is the trill Of the wayward whippoorwill Over upland pastures, heard Echoed by the mocking-bird In dim thickets dense with bloom And blurred cloyings of perfume.

If she sigh--a zephyr swells Over odorous asphodels And wan lilies in lush plots Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.

Then, the soft touch of her hand-- Takes all breath to understand What to liken it thereto!-- Never roseleaf rinsed with dew Might slip soother-suave than slips Her slow palm, the while her lips Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss Sweet as heated honey is.

THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN.

Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too, Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:-- The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there; The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still; Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts, And at our door the gentle face Of H.

Y.

Potts!

His artless observations, and his drollery of style, Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile-- The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did.

O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name, Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same-- You tickled our affection in so many tender spots That even Recollection laughs At H.

Y.

Potts!

And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er-- The commerce of your s.h.i.+ps at sea, and s.h.i.+ps along the sh.o.r.e; Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, Your Opera House--our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!-- Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through-- Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too; Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves and gra.s.sy plots, But head the list of all of these With H.

Y.

Potts!

THE HOODOO.