 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
BALLAD.
FROM THE SCLAVIC.
All in the early morning
The Sclavic maid so fair
Arose at her mother's calling,
And combed her yellow hair;
The Sclavic maid so fair
Arose at her mother's calling,
And combed her yellow hair;
And laced with silken ribbons
Her bodice of leaf-green,
And tript adown the mountain path
The frosty reeds between.
Her bodice of leaf-green,
And tript adown the mountain path
The frosty reeds between.
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And while the rough winds kissed her,
She knelt at the fountain's brink,
But the ice was frozen all across,
And her pitcher would not sink.
She knelt at the fountain's brink,
But the ice was frozen all across,
And her pitcher would not sink.
Ah! then she fell a-weeping,
And her red mouth trembled white,
For she feared her mother's cruel eyes,
As well indeed she might.
And her red mouth trembled white,
For she feared her mother's cruel eyes,
As well indeed she might.
“Come, sun!” she cried through her sobbing,
“Come out of the clouds so brown,
And lick the ice with your golden tongue,
And let my pitcher down!
“Come out of the clouds so brown,
And lick the ice with your golden tongue,
And let my pitcher down!
“O eagle, strong-winged eagle,
Come out of the skies so blue,
And split the ice with your horny beak,
And let my pitcher through!”
Come out of the skies so blue,
And split the ice with your horny beak,
And let my pitcher through!”
But the sun, for all her sobbing,
Came not through the clouds so brown,
To lick the ice with his golden tongue,
And let her pitcher down.
Came not through the clouds so brown,
To lick the ice with his golden tongue,
And let her pitcher down.
And the eagle, proudly soaring,
Came not from his home so blue,
To make a wedge of his horny beak,
And split the ice in two.
Came not from his home so blue,
To make a wedge of his horny beak,
And split the ice in two.
Ah! then in the early morning
A piteous sight was seen—
Her tears all frozen into pearls,
Along her bodice green.
A piteous sight was seen—
Her tears all frozen into pearls,
Along her bodice green.
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For, lo! betwixt the stiff black reeds,
Adown the mountain path,
She heard her mother calling
In her foolish woman's wrath:
Adown the mountain path,
She heard her mother calling
In her foolish woman's wrath:
“Oh, wilful, stubborn daughter,
Since thou idlest all the day,
I would the winds might beat thee,
And take thy breath away!
Since thou idlest all the day,
I would the winds might beat thee,
And take thy breath away!
“Yea, beat and break and crush thee,
Since thou art so high and proud,
And I would the needles of the frost
Might sew thee in a shroud!”
Since thou art so high and proud,
And I would the needles of the frost
Might sew thee in a shroud!”
Alas for the wicked woman,
Little dreamed she in that hour
That a word may be, for good or ill,
Omnipotent in power.
Little dreamed she in that hour
That a word may be, for good or ill,
Omnipotent in power.
And alas for the Sclavic maiden,
She turned her east and south,
And her heart it fluttered into her throat,
And fluttered out of her mouth.
She turned her east and south,
And her heart it fluttered into her throat,
And fluttered out of her mouth.
The winds they fell to beating her,
And she knew not where to flee,
And, to 'scape from her mother's cruel eyes,
She hid in a maple-tree.
And she knew not where to flee,
And, to 'scape from her mother's cruel eyes,
She hid in a maple-tree.
And in its time of blooming,
That tree grew strangely fair—
Its leaves like the maiden's bodice green,
And its blossoms like her hair.
That tree grew strangely fair—
Its leaves like the maiden's bodice green,
And its blossoms like her hair.
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But still, as the sunshine gilded
Its head, so brave and high,
There shivered through its branches old
A dull and dolorous cry.
Its head, so brave and high,
There shivered through its branches old
A dull and dolorous cry.
One day, as it chanced, there rested
Two lads in its pleasant shade,
And they were the minstrel brothers
Of the little Sclavic maid.
Two lads in its pleasant shade,
And they were the minstrel brothers
Of the little Sclavic maid.
And, lo! as they played a merry tune
They each grew heavy at heart,
And the wood of their viols all at once
It brake and snapt apart.
They each grew heavy at heart,
And the wood of their viols all at once
It brake and snapt apart.
Then cried they both: “This maple
Is the best that e'er we saw.
Oh, wouldn't it make us fiddle-sticks
Right silver-sweet to draw!”
Is the best that e'er we saw.
Oh, wouldn't it make us fiddle-sticks
Right silver-sweet to draw!”
And straight they fetched an axe and set
Its sharp edge in the wood,
And all in a spout the sap came out,
And ran as red as blood;
Its sharp edge in the wood,
And all in a spout the sap came out,
And ran as red as blood;
While all the body of the tree
It trembled low and high,
And all the tender branches made
A dull and dolorous cry.
It trembled low and high,
And all the tender branches made
A dull and dolorous cry.
And when it fell beneath their strokes,
And lay along the land,
The touch of every leaf was like
Some gentle little hand.
And lay along the land,
The touch of every leaf was like
Some gentle little hand.
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But, ah! the saddest part of all
My tale is yet to tell:
For when from out the viol strings
At last the music fell,
My tale is yet to tell:
For when from out the viol strings
At last the music fell,
The mother's cold and cruel heart
Grew wild with pain and fear—
She knew it was her daughter's voice
That sounded in her ear.
Grew wild with pain and fear—
She knew it was her daughter's voice
That sounded in her ear.
And, as the maple-tree had done,
She fell to rise no more,
But prostrate lay, and so became
The door-stone of her door.
She fell to rise no more,
But prostrate lay, and so became
The door-stone of her door.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |