[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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DOLORES. |
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 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
236
DOLORES.
Her old boat loaded with oranges,
Her baby tied on her breast,
Minorcan Dolores bends to her oars,
Noting each reed on the slow-moving shores
But the way is long and the inlet wide—
Can two small hands overcome the tide
Sweeping up into the west?
Her baby tied on her breast,
Minorcan Dolores bends to her oars,
Noting each reed on the slow-moving shores
But the way is long and the inlet wide—
Can two small hands overcome the tide
Sweeping up into the west?
Four little walls of coquina-stone,
Rude thatch of palmetto-leaves;
There have they nestled, like birds in a tree,
From winter, and labour, and hunger free,
Taking from earth their small need, but no more;
No thought of the morrow, no laying in store,
No gathering patient sheaves.
Rude thatch of palmetto-leaves;
There have they nestled, like birds in a tree,
From winter, and labour, and hunger free,
Taking from earth their small need, but no more;
No thought of the morrow, no laying in store,
No gathering patient sheaves.
Alone in their Southern island-home,
Through the year of summer days,
The two love on; and the bountiful beach
Clusters its sea-food within his reach;
The two love on, and the tropical land
Drops its wild fruit in her indolent hand,
And life is a sunshiny haze.
Through the year of summer days,
The two love on; and the bountiful beach
Clusters its sea-food within his reach;
The two love on, and the tropical land
Drops its wild fruit in her indolent hand,
And life is a sunshiny haze.
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
With dreamy, passionate eyes—
Far in the past, lured by Saxon wiles,
A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,
Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon,
Their children live idly along the lagoon,
Under the Florida skies.
With dreamy, passionate eyes—
Far in the past, lured by Saxon wiles,
A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,
Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon,
Their children live idly along the lagoon,
Under the Florida skies.
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
Ah! their blossoming life of love! ...
But fever falls with its withering blight,
Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night,
In vain her poor herbs, in vain her poor prayers ...
Her Luiz is mounting the spirit-winged stairs
That lead to her heaven above.
Ah! their blossoming life of love! ...
But fever falls with its withering blight,
Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night,
In vain her poor herbs, in vain her poor prayers ...
Her Luiz is mounting the spirit-winged stairs
That lead to her heaven above.
So, her old boat loaded with oranges,
Her baby tied on her breast,
Dolores rows off to the ancient town,
Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down
From the far cold north; they are men who know ...
Thus Dolores thinks ... how to cure all woe;
Nay, their very touch is blest.
Her baby tied on her breast,
Dolores rows off to the ancient town,
Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down
From the far cold north; they are men who know ...
Thus Dolores thinks ... how to cure all woe;
Nay, their very touch is blest.
“Oranges! Oranges!” hear her cry,
Through the shaded plaza-path;
But the Northern soldiers come marching in,
Through the old Spanish city, with stir and din,
And the silent people stand sullen by,
To see the old flag mount again to the sky,
The flag they had trampled in wrath.
Through the shaded plaza-path;
But the Northern soldiers come marching in,
Through the old Spanish city, with stir and din,
And the silent people stand sullen by,
To see the old flag mount again to the sky,
The flag they had trampled in wrath.
237
Ah, brown Dolores! will no one hear,
And buy thy poor little store?
Now north, now south, on the old sea-walll ...
But her pitiful tears unheeded fall;
Now east, now west, through the angry town,
Patient she journeys up and down,
Nor misses one surly door.
And buy thy poor little store?
Now north, now south, on the old sea-walll ...
But her pitiful tears unheeded fall;
Now east, now west, through the angry town,
Patient she journeys up and down,
Nor misses one surly door.
Then, desperate, up to the dreaded ranks,
She carries her passionate suit;
“I have no money; for none would buy;
But come, for God's sake, or he will die!
Save him, my Luiz—he is so young!”
She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue
And proffers her store of fruit.
She carries her passionate suit;
“I have no money; for none would buy;
But come, for God's sake, or he will die!
Save him, my Luiz—he is so young!”
She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue
And proffers her store of fruit.
But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,
They hear not nor understand;
The last blue rank has passed down the street,
She sees but the dust of their marching feet;
They have crossed a whole country by night and by day,
And marked with their blood every step of the way,
To conquer this Southern land.
They hear not nor understand;
The last blue rank has passed down the street,
She sees but the dust of their marching feet;
They have crossed a whole country by night and by day,
And marked with their blood every step of the way,
To conquer this Southern land.
They are gone—O despair! She turns to the church,
Half-fainting, her fruit wet with tears;
“Perhaps the old saint who is always there,
May wake up and take them to pay for a prayer;
They are very sweet, as the saint will see,
If he would but wake up and listen to me.
But he sleeps, so he never hears.”
Half-fainting, her fruit wet with tears;
“Perhaps the old saint who is always there,
May wake up and take them to pay for a prayer;
They are very sweet, as the saint will see,
If he would but wake up and listen to me.
But he sleeps, so he never hears.”
She enters; the church is filled with men,
The pallid men of the North;
Each dingy old pew is a sick man's bed,
Each battered old bench holds a weary head,
The altar candles are swept away,
For vials and knives in shining array,
And a new saint is stepping forth?
The pallid men of the North;
Each dingy old pew is a sick man's bed,
Each battered old bench holds a weary head,
The altar candles are swept away,
For vials and knives in shining array,
And a new saint is stepping forth?
He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,
A saint of a Northern creed ...
Clad in a uniform—army blue,
But surely the saints may wear any hue,
Dolores thinks, as he takes her hands
And hears all her story, and understands
The cry of her desperate need.
A saint of a Northern creed ...
Clad in a uniform—army blue,
But surely the saints may wear any hue,
Dolores thinks, as he takes her hands
And hears all her story, and understands
The cry of her desperate need.
An orange he gives to each weary man,
To freshen the fevered mouth,
Then forth they go down the old sea-wall,
And they hear in the dusk the picket's call;
The row-boat is manned on the shadowy shore,
The Northern saint can manage an oar,
And the boat glides fast to the south.
To freshen the fevered mouth,
Then forth they go down the old sea-wall,
And they hear in the dusk the picket's call;
The row-boat is manned on the shadowy shore,
The Northern saint can manage an oar,
And the boat glides fast to the south.
238
A healing touch, and a holy drink,
A bright little heavenly knife,
And this strange Northern saint who prays no prayers,
Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,
And once more Minorcan Luiz's dark eyes,
In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,
Rest calm on the awe-stricken wife.
A bright little heavenly knife,
And this strange Northern saint who prays no prayers,
Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,
And once more Minorcan Luiz's dark eyes,
In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,
Rest calm on the awe-stricken wife.
“Oh, dear Northern saint, a shrine will I build,
Wild roses I'll bring from afar,
The jessamine, orange flower, wood tulip bright.
And there will I worship each morning and night.”
“Nay, nay, poor Dolores, I am but a man,
A surgeon, who binds up with what skill he can
The wounds of this heart-breaking war.
Wild roses I'll bring from afar,
The jessamine, orange flower, wood tulip bright.
And there will I worship each morning and night.”
“Nay, nay, poor Dolores, I am but a man,
A surgeon, who binds up with what skill he can
The wounds of this heart-breaking war.
“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,
And teach the brown baby to read.”
He is gone; and Dolores is left on the shore,
She watches the boat till she sees it no more;
She hears the quick musketry all through the night,
She holds fast the book in her pine-knot's red light,
The book of the Northerner's creed.
And teach the brown baby to read.”
He is gone; and Dolores is left on the shore,
She watches the boat till she sees it no more;
She hears the quick musketry all through the night,
She holds fast the book in her pine-knot's red light,
The book of the Northerner's creed.
[OMITTED]
The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,
The blue-coated soldiers depart;
The brown baby reads the small book, and the three
Live on in their isle in the Florida sea;
The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,
But all his new English words never can change
The faith of Dolores' fond heart.
The blue-coated soldiers depart;
The brown baby reads the small book, and the three
Live on in their isle in the Florida sea;
The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,
But all his new English words never can change
The faith of Dolores' fond heart.
A boat with a load of oranges
In a flower-decked shrine doth stand
Carved in coquina, and thither she goes
To pray to the only real saint she knows,
The Northern surgeon in army blue;
And there she was found in this morning's dew,
Dead, with the book in her hand.
In a flower-decked shrine doth stand
Carved in coquina, and thither she goes
To pray to the only real saint she knows,
The Northern surgeon in army blue;
And there she was found in this morning's dew,
Dead, with the book in her hand.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |