 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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THE HUNTER'S WIFE.
'T was all through the roses, so ripe and so red,
And all when the summer was shining her best,
That Lindsey, my lover, rode into the West,
The land of the prairie, a-hunting to go
For the fawn and the pheasant, the dove and the doe—
'T was all through the roses, and roses are dead.
And all when the summer was shining her best,
That Lindsey, my lover, rode into the West,
The land of the prairie, a-hunting to go
For the fawn and the pheasant, the dove and the doe—
'T was all through the roses, and roses are dead.
I look from the porch-side and dream, as I must,
Of the time when I pulled the green grape-leaves apart,
As Lindsey, my lover, my sweet, sweetest heart,
Rode into the shadow, and out of my sight—
Ah! never a day-dawn has broke on that night,
And all the green grape-leaves are dry as the dust.
Of the time when I pulled the green grape-leaves apart,
As Lindsey, my lover, my sweet, sweetest heart,
Rode into the shadow, and out of my sight—
Ah! never a day-dawn has broke on that night,
And all the green grape-leaves are dry as the dust.
He sat in his saddle, so bright and so brave—
The dint of his hoof-strokes along the wolf's track
I followed and followed—I could not stay back!
O Lindsey, my lover, my hunter, my friend,
I would I had followed thee on to the end—
Into wilderness places, ay, into the grave.
The dint of his hoof-strokes along the wolf's track
I followed and followed—I could not stay back!
O Lindsey, my lover, my hunter, my friend,
I would I had followed thee on to the end—
Into wilderness places, ay, into the grave.
In the way of his riding the rough rushes fell,
And the fox in his covert all timidly bayed,
And the eagle rose, flapping his broad wings afraid,
For the gun on his shoulder hung polished and bright,
And the knife at his girdle flashed out like a light,
And the bit at his bridle, it rung like a bell.
And the fox in his covert all timidly bayed,
And the eagle rose, flapping his broad wings afraid,
For the gun on his shoulder hung polished and bright,
And the knife at his girdle flashed out like a light,
And the bit at his bridle, it rung like a bell.
'T was all through the roses, and when the year stood
At the sunset, and shone in the gold-colored leaves,
And thin, like a sickle that hangs among sheaves,
The moon of the autumn looked out of the mist,
The brows of my babes for their father I kissed,
And kept up a truce with my heart, as I could.
At the sunset, and shone in the gold-colored leaves,
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The moon of the autumn looked out of the mist,
The brows of my babes for their father I kissed,
And kept up a truce with my heart, as I could.
'T was all through the roses, and when they were dead,
And the rain slanted slow from the clouds all the day,
And my dogs in the warmth of my chimney-logs lay;
And while of a-shiver, with horn upon horn,
My cattle crouched under the broad-bladed corn,
Thou still hast some roof-tree, O lost love! I said.
And the rain slanted slow from the clouds all the day,
And my dogs in the warmth of my chimney-logs lay;
And while of a-shiver, with horn upon horn,
My cattle crouched under the broad-bladed corn,
Thou still hast some roof-tree, O lost love! I said.
Hush, darlings, oh, hush! he will come back again
When only a day or a night has gone by!
And I rocked them asleep to the kingfisher's cry,
The starling's wild clatter, the call of the quail,
And the beat upon beat of the pioneer's flail;
But I promised and pacified, all, all in vain.
When only a day or a night has gone by!
And I rocked them asleep to the kingfisher's cry,
The starling's wild clatter, the call of the quail,
And the beat upon beat of the pioneer's flail;
But I promised and pacified, all, all in vain.
At last, when the lonesome lament of the loon
Began to be heard, while the frost, sharp and cold,
Was cutting his harvest of scarlet and gold,
And when in the prairie-grass, fallen and dead,
The wings of the starlings no longer shone red,
My lullaby fell to a mournfuller tune.
Began to be heard, while the frost, sharp and cold,
Was cutting his harvest of scarlet and gold,
And when in the prairie-grass, fallen and dead,
The wings of the starlings no longer shone red,
My lullaby fell to a mournfuller tune.
Then fear came upon me, and day after day
I lingered, in visions, his camp-grounds about—
The game-pots were steamless, the fires all were out;
The tent-poles a-tumble, and ready to fall,
That held the rough buffalo-hide for a wall,
And the black-snake lay under the fagots and hay.
I lingered, in visions, his camp-grounds about—
The game-pots were steamless, the fires all were out;
The tent-poles a-tumble, and ready to fall,
That held the rough buffalo-hide for a wall,
And the black-snake lay under the fagots and hay.
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Like dry sands my hearth-stones slid under my feet,
As I sat with just only my door-planks between
My babes and the panther so lithe and so lean,
And with only the blaze of the clearing to scare
The hungry and horrible eyes of the bear,—
And so came the winter in harness of sleet.
As I sat with just only my door-planks between
My babes and the panther so lithe and so lean,
And with only the blaze of the clearing to scare
The hungry and horrible eyes of the bear,—
And so came the winter in harness of sleet.
And now, as the wind ploughs the furrows so white
Across the long prairie, I cannot but cry—
My stables are littered with oat-straw and rye,
The breath of my cattle makes warmth in the cold,
My dogs are in kennel, my sheep are in fold,
But where lies my Lindsey, my lover, to-night?
Across the long prairie, I cannot but cry—
My stables are littered with oat-straw and rye,
The breath of my cattle makes warmth in the cold,
My dogs are in kennel, my sheep are in fold,
But where lies my Lindsey, my lover, to-night?
Again and again from my pillow I start,
And feel down the wolf-skin that covers the beds
Of my darlings, and drag to my bosom their heads,
As under my windows, now to and now fro,
I hear the wild catamount stealthily go—
The blood all a-curdle and cold in my heart.
And feel down the wolf-skin that covers the beds
Of my darlings, and drag to my bosom their heads,
As under my windows, now to and now fro,
I hear the wild catamount stealthily go—
The blood all a-curdle and cold in my heart.
Yet sometimes a sweet vision blesses my eyes:
I see a gay huntsman ride over the snow,
And I blush, for the gifts at his girdle I know:
The red combs of cocks, and the antlers as clear
And white as the ivory, are gifts for his dear,
And I call to my darlings, Awake, and arise!
I see a gay huntsman ride over the snow,
And I blush, for the gifts at his girdle I know:
The red combs of cocks, and the antlers as clear
And white as the ivory, are gifts for his dear,
And I call to my darlings, Awake, and arise!
I call at my peril—the dream groweth dim—
The combs red as roses, the white antlers pass;
And I see but the lift of the long prairie grass,
And hear but the whimper and moan of unrest
From the swollen and snag-slivered streams of the West,
But there cometh no news, and no tidings of him.
The combs red as roses, the white antlers pass;
And I see but the lift of the long prairie grass,
And hear but the whimper and moan of unrest
From the swollen and snag-slivered streams of the West,
But there cometh no news, and no tidings of him.
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O women who sit while the winter winds rave,
And mourn for the husbands and lovers so low
Beneath the wild drifts of the leaves and the snow,—
Remember, while grief in its fountain thus stirs,
Your burden is lighter to bear than is hers
Who mourns for her dead that had never a grave.
And mourn for the husbands and lovers so low
Beneath the wild drifts of the leaves and the snow,—
Remember, while grief in its fountain thus stirs,
Your burden is lighter to bear than is hers
Who mourns for her dead that had never a grave.
O women whose hands, when the winter has fled,
Shall pluck off the roses and strew them so deep
O'er the beds where your dearly-beloved ones sleep,
The while in your desolate darkness you pine,—
Remember your sorrow is lighter than mine
Who know not, nor can know, the place of my dead.
Shall pluck off the roses and strew them so deep
O'er the beds where your dearly-beloved ones sleep,
The while in your desolate darkness you pine,—
Remember your sorrow is lighter than mine
Who know not, nor can know, the place of my dead.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |