Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 3

A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- Such luxury of indolence-- The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, With water-lilies watching her.

You waken, thrilling at the trill Of some wild bird that seems to spill The silence full of winey drips Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough The chipmunk stripes himself from view, You pause to lop a creamy spray Of elder-blossoms by the way.

Or where the morning dew is yet Gray on the topmost rail, you set A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

On lordly swards, of suave incline, Entessellate with shade and s.h.i.+ne, You shall mis...o...b.. your lowly birth, Clad on as one of princely worth:

The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- Your milk-white Arab side by side With one of raven-black.--You fain Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!

Sing us back home--from there to here; Grant your high grace and wit, but we Most honor your simplicity.--

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

Mellow hazes, lowly trailing Over wood and meadow, veiling Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing Sailor-like to foreign lands; And the north-wind overleaping Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping Wrecks of roses where the weeping Willows wring their helpless hands.

Flared, like t.i.tan torches flinging Flakes of flame and embers, springing From the vale the trees stand swinging In the moaning atmosphere; While in dead'ning-lands the lowing Of the cattle, sadder growing, Fills the sense to overflowing With the sorrow of the year.

Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter Sings the brook in rippled meter Under boughs that lithely teeter Lorn birds, answering from the sh.o.r.es Through the viny, shady-s.h.i.+ny Inters.p.a.ces, shot with tiny Flying motes that fleck the winy Wave-engraven sycamores.

Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled Over Harvest's battle-piain; And the sudden whir and whistle Of the quail that, like a missile, Whizzes over thorn and thistle, And, a missile, drops again.

m.u.f.fled voices, hid in thickets Where the redbird stops to stick its Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets Of the truant's rustic trap; And the sound of laughter ringing Where, within the wild-vine swinging, Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging Purple cl.u.s.ters in her lap.

Rich as wine, the sunset flashes Round the tilted world, and dashes Up the sloping west and splashes Red foam over sky and sea-- Till my dream of Autumn, paling In the splendor all-prevailing, Like a sallow leaf goes sailing Down the silence solemnly.

TOM VAN ARDEN.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellows.h.i.+p is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?

Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness"

To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summertime.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!"

Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the gla.s.ses while I bend To prod up the failing fire . . .

You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers'-b.a.l.l.s.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the fire-light leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end!

. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

JUST TO BE GOOD.

Just to be good-- This is enough--enough!

O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, Do we not feel how more than any gold Would be the blameless life we led of old While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss?

Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

It is enough-- Enough--just to be good!

To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in G.o.d's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.

Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

HOME AT NIGHT.

When chirping crickets fainter cry, And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom And blurred the b.u.t.terfly:

When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, And up the tiger-lily stalk The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls And glimmers down the garden-walls:

When buzzing things, with double wings Of crisp and raspish flutterings, Go whizzing by so very nigh One thinks of fangs and stings:--

O then, within, is stilled the din Of crib she rocks the baby in, And heart and gate and latch's weight Are lifted--and the lips of Kate.