Second Book of Verse Part 10

Telka loved me pa.s.sing well; How I loved her none can tell!

How I love her none may know,-- Oh that man love woman so!

When she was not at my side, Loud my heart in anguish cried, And my lips, till she replied.

Yet they think to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be!

Fool were I, and fools were they!

Still I wend my lonely way, "Telka," evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the weary years go by.

Telka, she was pa.s.sing fair; And the glory of her hair Was such glory as the sun With his blessing casts upon Yonder lonely mountain height, Lifting up to bid good-night To her sovereign in the west, Sinking wearily to rest, Drowsing in that golden sea Where the realms of Dreamland be.

So our love to fulness grew, Whilst beneath the solemn Yew Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, As it were some fancied sight Blanched it with a dread affright.

Telka, she was pa.s.sing fair; And our peace was perfect there Till, enchanted by her smile, Lurked the South Wind there awhile, Underneath that hillside tree Where with singing idled we, And I heard the South Wind say Flattering words to her that day Of a city far away.

But the Yew-tree crouched as though It were like to whisper No To the words the South Wind said As he smoothed my Telka's head.

And the Brook, all pleading, cried To the dear one at my side: "Linger always where I am; Stray not thence, O cosset lamb!

Wander not where shadows deep On the treacherous quicksands sleep, And the haunted waters leap; Be thou ware the waves that flow Toward the prison pool below, Where, beguiled from yonder sky, Captive moonbeams s.h.i.+vering lie, And at dawn of morrow die."

So the Brook to Telka cried, But my Telka naught replied; And, as in a strange affright, Paled the Rose a ghostlier white.

When anon the North Wind came,-- Rudely bl.u.s.tering Telka's name, And he kissed the leaves that grew Round about the trembling Yew,-- Kissed and romped till, blus.h.i.+ng red, All one day in terror fled, And the white Rose hung her head; Coming to our trysting spot, Long I called; she answered not.

"Telka!" pleadingly I cried Up and down the mountain-side Where we twain were wont to bide.

There were those who thought that I Could be silenced with a lie, And they told me Telka's name Should be spoken now with shame: "She is lost to us and thee,"-- That is what they said to me.

"Is my Telka lost?" quoth I.

"On this hilltop shall I cry, So that she may hear and then Find her way to me again.

The South Wind spoke a lie that day; All deceived, she lost her way Yonder where the shadows sleep 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap Over treacherous quicksands deep, And where captive moonbeams lie Doomed at morrow's dawn to die She is lost, and that is all; I will search for her, and call."

Summer comes and winter goes, Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; All the others are anear,-- Only Telka is not here!

Gone the peace and love I knew Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; And the Rose, that mocks me so, I had crushed it long ago But that Telka loved it then, And shall soothe its terror when She comes back to me again.

Call I, seek I everywhere For my Telka, pa.s.sing fair.

It is, oh, so many a year I have called! She does not hear, Yet nor feared nor worn am I; For I know that if I cry She shall sometime hear my call.

She is lost, and that is all,-- She is lost in some far spot; I have searched, and found it not.

Could she hear me calling, then Would she come to me again; For she loved me pa.s.sing well,-- How I love her none can tell!

That is why these years I've cried "Telka!" on this mountain-side.

"Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the lonely years go by.

On an evening dark and chill Came a shadow up the hill,-- Came a spectre, grim and white As a ghost that walks the night, Grim and bowed, and with the cry Of a wretch about to die,-- Came and fell and cried to me: "It is Telka come!" said she.

So she fell and so she cried On that lonely mountain-side Where was Telka wont to bide.

"Who hath bribed those lips to lie?

Telka's face was fair," quoth I; "Thine is furrowed with despair.

There is winter in thy hair; But upon her beauteous head Was there summer glory shed,-- Such a glory as the sun, When his daily course is run, Smiles upon this mountain height As he kisses it good-night.

There was music in her tone, Misery in thy voice alone.

They have bid thee lie to me.

Let me pa.s.s! Thou art not she!

Let my sorrow sacred be Underneath this trysting tree!"

So in wrath I went my way, And they came another day,-- Came another day, and said: "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, Yonder on the mountain-side She is buried where she died, Where you twain were wont to bide, Where she came and fell and cried Pardon that thy wrath denied; And above her bosom grows As in mockery the Rose: It was white; but now 'tis red, And in shame it bows its head Over sinful Telka dead."

So they thought to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be!

Fool were I, and fools were they!

Scornfully I went my way, And upon the mountain-side "Telka!" evermore I cried.

"Telka!" evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky: So the lonely years go by.

She is lost, and that is all; Sometime she shall hear my call, Hear my pleading call, and then Find her way to me again.

PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'c.o.o.n IN THE BERLIN ZOoLOGICAL GARDENS.

FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'c.o.o.ns in plenty grow.

I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that n.o.ble State; And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.

Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near, While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.

My pedigree is n.o.ble: they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,-- Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear.

Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole.

We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings, As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.

And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh, Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'c.o.o.n could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight.

We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know That ary 'c.o.o.n can best a dog, if the c.o.o.n gets half a show; But we'd nestle close and s.h.i.+ver when the mellow moon had ris'n, And the hungry n.i.g.g.e.r sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n.

Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days; I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways.

The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine.

The 'c.o.o.n that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheer Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!

No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, But send _me_ back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms!

They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons, And wonder what I am,--alas, there are no German 'c.o.o.ns!

For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree, The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free.

And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted liberty, these others _they_ have not; So, even caged, the democratic 'c.o.o.n more glory feels Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels.

Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill, To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to c.o.c.krill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest.

Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall; And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here By cinching all the alien cla.s.s that wants its Sunday beer.

ARMENIAN LULLABY.

IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, My mulberry one, my golden son, The rose shall sing thee lullabies, My pretty cosset lambkin!

And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- A silver boat in a golden sea,-- My velvet love, my nestling dove, My own pomegranate-blossom!

The stork shall guard thee pa.s.sing well All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, My gentle rain-of-springtime; And for thy slumber-play shall twine The diamond stars with an emerald vine, To trail in the waves of ruby wine, My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, My cooing little turtle!

And when the morn wakes up to see My apple-bright, my soul's delight, The partridge shall come calling thee, My jar of milk-and-honey!

Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, You wakeful one, you naughty son, You chirping little sparrow!