 | [Poems by Cary in] Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
SUSKA.
Tresses black as her own raven,
With a sheen like softest silk,
Has the Polish maiden Suska,
And her throat is white as milk.
Once of all the village beauties
Had she the merriest glance;
And her little foot was quickest
And lightest in the dance.
With a sheen like softest silk,
Has the Polish maiden Suska,
And her throat is white as milk.
Once of all the village beauties
Had she the merriest glance;
And her little foot was quickest
And lightest in the dance.
Now she sits without her cottage,
Very still and very meek,
With the tears from her dark lashes
Dropping slowly to her cheek.
Little birds are happy courting
In the pear-tree overhead;
And its fragrant, tender blossoms
Are all about her shed.
Very still and very meek,
With the tears from her dark lashes
Dropping slowly to her cheek.
Little birds are happy courting
In the pear-tree overhead;
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Are all about her shed.
Suska does not hear the linnets
That are courting in the pear;
Nor feel the drift of blossoms
Snowing down upon her hair.
And she heeds not Karl, the raven,
Turning on his perch so high,
Though he keep his eye upon her,
Like a cautious, cunning spy.
That are courting in the pear;
Nor feel the drift of blossoms
Snowing down upon her hair.
And she heeds not Karl, the raven,
Turning on his perch so high,
Though he keep his eye upon her,
Like a cautious, cunning spy.
“O my Pravo!” weeps the maiden,
“He will never come again.
And alas, 't was my unkindness
Drove him to the battle-plain!”
“Haughty Suska!” cries the raven,—
It was Pravo taught him so,
When his cruel little mistress
To his suit had answered, No.
“He will never come again.
And alas, 't was my unkindness
Drove him to the battle-plain!”
“Haughty Suska!” cries the raven,—
It was Pravo taught him so,
When his cruel little mistress
To his suit had answered, No.
“Hush! he will not die,” sobs Suska;
“He was born for victory;
But he'll find another sweetheart,
And he'll never think of me;
Some pale girl with golden tresses
Will snare him by her charms,
And I 'd rather mourn him buried
Than in a rival's arms!”
“He was born for victory;
But he'll find another sweetheart,
And he'll never think of me;
Some pale girl with golden tresses
Will snare him by her charms,
And I 'd rather mourn him buried
Than in a rival's arms!”
Close the raven looks, as counting
Every hot and bitter tear;
While his harsh cry, “naughty Suska!”
Falls upon the maiden's ear.
Blushing both for shame and anger,
Suska bows her poor head down,
And she sees not how the neighbors
All are hurrying towards the town.
Every hot and bitter tear;
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Falls upon the maiden's ear.
Blushing both for shame and anger,
Suska bows her poor head down,
And she sees not how the neighbors
All are hurrying towards the town.
She does not hear the bugle,
Blending with the drum's loud beat;
Nor the homeward tramp of soldiers,
Coming down the village street;
Nor see the close ranks broken,
And a manly form draw nigh:
But she hears the voice of Pravo,
And she answers with a cry.
Blending with the drum's loud beat;
Nor the homeward tramp of soldiers,
Coming down the village street;
Nor see the close ranks broken,
And a manly form draw nigh:
But she hears the voice of Pravo,
And she answers with a cry.
There he stands once more beside her,
Proud of mien, and proud of face,
All his bosom crossed with orders,
And his coat bedecked with lace.
“Glory is the only mistress
I have wooed,” he cries, “save you,
Is it yes or no, dear Suska?
Answer me, and answer true.”
Proud of mien, and proud of face,
All his bosom crossed with orders,
And his coat bedecked with lace.
“Glory is the only mistress
I have wooed,” he cries, “save you,
Is it yes or no, dear Suska?
Answer me, and answer true.”
Clear she lifts her eyes one moment,
Then she lets her bright head rest,
Sure the fairest decoration,
On the soldier's manly breast.
And again in mocking accents,
As if shocked by what he spies,
Haughty Suska! naughty Suska!”
Cunning Karl, the raven, cries.
Then she lets her bright head rest,
Sure the fairest decoration,
On the soldier's manly breast.
And again in mocking accents,
As if shocked by what he spies,
Haughty Suska! naughty Suska!”
Cunning Karl, the raven, cries.
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No more anger, shame, or blushing,
But in Suska's look and tone
Is the sweet serene contentment
Of a heart that knows its own.
And as Pravo bends above her,
All his face with joy is pale,
As the flowers that fall and hide them
In a soft white bridal veil.
But in Suska's look and tone
Is the sweet serene contentment
Of a heart that knows its own.
And as Pravo bends above her,
All his face with joy is pale,
As the flowers that fall and hide them
In a soft white bridal veil.
| [Poems by Cary in] Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |