 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
48
Waifs
Argosies swirled,
Once precious to me,
Now cast on the world
Like waifs from the sea.
Once precious to me,
Now cast on the world
Like waifs from the sea.
51
ZANARA.
No! It was not well, Zanara,
While the fever held its riot—
When the doctors bid be quiet—
That you came to my bed-side
In the middle of the night,
With your two hands on your heart—
That you pressed on my bed-side
In the absence of my bride,
And so pressed upon your heart
That the blood all thick and blackened.
When your long white fingers slackened,
Oozed betwen them to the floor.
Oh! This mouldy, gory floor!
While the fever held its riot—
When the doctors bid be quiet—
That you came to my bed-side
In the middle of the night,
With your two hands on your heart—
That you pressed on my bed-side
In the absence of my bride,
And so pressed upon your heart
That the blood all thick and blackened.
When your long white fingers slackened,
Oozed betwen them to the floor.
Oh! This mouldy, gory floor!
Then your linen it was moulded,
And streaked yellow where it folded,
And your bosom it was bare,
Which you know was nothing fair
In the absence of my bride,
Then your heavy, slimy hair,
Creeping, clinging round your bosom—
Clammy bosom, blue and bare,
Which you did not try to hide.
And streaked yellow where it folded,
And your bosom it was bare,
Which you know was nothing fair
In the absence of my bride,
52
Creeping, clinging round your bosom—
Clammy bosom, blue and bare,
Which you did not try to hide.
Then your eyes had such a glare,
And the smell of death was there,
And the spirits that were with you
Whistled through the mossy door,
And they danced upon my bosom,
And they tangled up my hair,
And made crosses on the floor.
No! All this was nothing fair
While the fever held its riot—
When the doctors bid be quiet.
And the smell of death was there,
And the spirits that were with you
Whistled through the mossy door,
And they danced upon my bosom,
And they tangled up my hair,
And made crosses on the floor.
No! All this was nothing fair
While the fever held its riot—
When the doctors bid be quiet.
It was not my fault, remember,
All this life of black disasters—
All this life of dark December—
All this heart-sickness and sadness,
Though we both did have our masters,
Yours was Love and mine Ambition—
Mine is driving me to—madness,
Yours has drove you to perdition.
All this life of black disasters—
All this life of dark December—
All this heart-sickness and sadness,
Though we both did have our masters,
Yours was Love and mine Ambition—
Mine is driving me to—madness,
Yours has drove you to perdition.
53
But some time, if you so will it,
When this hot brain is less rabid—
When our masters both are sleeping—
When the storm the stars is keeping,
Leave the darkness where they laid you—
Leave the dampness you inhabit—
Leave that yellow, moulded linen—
That dull, sullen, frozen stare,
And the cold death in your hair;
Then I will no more upbraid you.
I will meet you just one minute
By the oak-tree, you remember,
With the grape-vine tangled in it—
Meet you, while my bride is sleeping—
While the storm the stars is keeping.
I will press your bosom gory—
I will tell you one sweet story,
With sweet balm and healing in it.
But remember, now remember,
I can stay there but one minute.
When this hot brain is less rabid—
When our masters both are sleeping—
When the storm the stars is keeping,
Leave the darkness where they laid you—
Leave the dampness you inhabit—
Leave that yellow, moulded linen—
That dull, sullen, frozen stare,
And the cold death in your hair;
Then I will no more upbraid you.
I will meet you just one minute
By the oak-tree, you remember,
With the grape-vine tangled in it—
Meet you, while my bride is sleeping—
While the storm the stars is keeping.
I will press your bosom gory—
I will tell you one sweet story,
With sweet balm and healing in it.
But remember, now remember,
I can stay there but one minute.
54
IN EXILE.
Alone on this desolate border—
On this ruggedest, rim'd frontier.
Where the hills huddle up in disorder
Like a fold in mortal fear—
Where the mountains are out at the elbow,
And their yellow coats seedy and sere—
Where the river runs sullen and yellow
This dismallest day of the year.
On this ruggedest, rim'd frontier.
Where the hills huddle up in disorder
Like a fold in mortal fear—
Where the mountains are out at the elbow,
And their yellow coats seedy and sere—
Where the river runs sullen and yellow
This dismallest day of the year.
I go up and go down on the granite,
Like an unholy ghost under bans.
Oh, Christ! for the eloquent quiet!
For the final folding of hands!
What am I? Where am I going?
I look at the lizard that glides
Over the mossy boulder
With green epaulets on his sides.
Like an unholy ghost under bans.
Oh, Christ! for the eloquent quiet!
For the final folding of hands!
What am I? Where am I going?
I look at the lizard that glides
Over the mossy boulder
With green epaulets on his sides.
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My feet are in dust to the ankles,
My heart, it is dustier still;
Will never the dust be levelled
Till the heart is laid under the hill?
Why this yearning and longing?
This dull desolation and void?
Pussy cat seeking a corner?
Alone! yet for ever annoyed?
My heart, it is dustier still;
Will never the dust be levelled
Till the heart is laid under the hill?
Why this yearning and longing?
This dull desolation and void?
Pussy cat seeking a corner?
Alone! yet for ever annoyed?
I look at the sun shining over,
A cloud is swinging on hinges
And is trying his glory to cover.
But see! his beams in the fringes
Are tangled and fastened in falling,
And a sailor above us is calling,
‘Untangle the ravels and fringes.’
A cloud is swinging on hinges
And is trying his glory to cover.
But see! his beams in the fringes
Are tangled and fastened in falling,
And a sailor above us is calling,
‘Untangle the ravels and fringes.’
In grim battle lines above us
Gray, oarless ships are wheeling—
A flash—a crash appalling—
A hurling of red-hot spears—
Hark to the thunder calling
In fierce infernal chorus.
Now silver sails are falling
Like silver sheens before us.
What Nelson to fame aspires
In the chartless bluer deep
Where navies and armies track?
Lo! I have seen their fires
At night as they bivouac;
And they battle, and bleed, and weep,
For this rain is warm as tears.
Gray, oarless ships are wheeling—
A flash—a crash appalling—
A hurling of red-hot spears—
Hark to the thunder calling
In fierce infernal chorus.
Now silver sails are falling
Like silver sheens before us.
56
In the chartless bluer deep
Where navies and armies track?
Lo! I have seen their fires
At night as they bivouac;
And they battle, and bleed, and weep,
For this rain is warm as tears.
Oh! why was I ever a dreamer?
Better a brute on the plain,
Or one who believes his redeemer
Is greed, and gold, and gain,
Or one who can riot and revel,
Than be pierced with intolerable pain
Of poesy darling, in travail,
That will not be born from the brain.
Better a brute on the plain,
Or one who believes his redeemer
Is greed, and gold, and gain,
Or one who can riot and revel,
Than be pierced with intolerable pain
Of poesy darling, in travail,
That will not be born from the brain.
O bride by the breathing ocean
With lustrous and brimming eye,
Pour out the Lethean potion
Till a lustrum rolleth by,
Lulling a soul's commotion,
Plashing against the sky—
Calming a living spectre
With its two hands tossed on high.
With lustrous and brimming eye,
Pour out the Lethean potion
Till a lustrum rolleth by,
Lulling a soul's commotion,
Plashing against the sky—
Calming a living spectre
With its two hands tossed on high.
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Are sea winds mild and mellow
Where my sun-browned babies are,
A-weaving silk and yellow
Seamed sunbeams in their hair?
Where my sun-browned babies are,
A-weaving silk and yellow
Seamed sunbeams in their hair?
Go on and on in disorder
O cloud with the silver rim,
While tangled up in your border
The glinting sunbeams swim.
O cloud with the silver rim,
While tangled up in your border
The glinting sunbeams swim.
58
TO THE BARDS OF S. F. BAY.
I am as one unlearned, uncouth,
From country come to join the youth
Of some sweet town in quest of truth;
A skilless northern Nazarene—
From whence no good can ever come.
I stand apart as one that's dumb.
I hope—I fear—I hasten home.
I plunge into my wilds again.
From country come to join the youth
Of some sweet town in quest of truth;
A skilless northern Nazarene—
From whence no good can ever come.
I stand apart as one that's dumb.
I hope—I fear—I hasten home.
I plunge into my wilds again.
I catch your dulcet symphonies,
I drink the low sweet melodies
That stream through these dark feathered trees
Like echoes from some far church-bell,
Or music on the water spilled
Beneath the still moon's holy spell,
And life is sweeter—all is well—
The soul is fed. The heart is filled.
I drink the low sweet melodies
That stream through these dark feathered trees
Like echoes from some far church-bell,
Or music on the water spilled
Beneath the still moon's holy spell,
And life is sweeter—all is well—
The soul is fed. The heart is filled.
I move among these frowning firs,
Black bats wheel by in rippled whirs,
While naught else living breathes or stirs.
I peep—I lift the boughs apart—
I tiptoe up—I try to rise—
I strive to gaze into the eyes
Of charmers charming thus so wise—
I coin your faces on my heart.
Black bats wheel by in rippled whirs,
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I peep—I lift the boughs apart—
I tiptoe up—I try to rise—
I strive to gaze into the eyes
Of charmers charming thus so wise—
I coin your faces on my heart.
I greet you on your brown bent hills
Discoursing with the beaded rills,
While over all the full moon spills
His flood in gorgeous plenilune.
White skilful hands sweep o'er the strings,
I heed as when a seraph sings,
I lean to catch the whisperings,
I list into the night's sweet noon.
Discoursing with the beaded rills,
While over all the full moon spills
His flood in gorgeous plenilune.
White skilful hands sweep o'er the strings,
I heed as when a seraph sings,
I lean to catch the whisperings,
I list into the night's sweet noon.
I see you by the streaming strand,
A singing sea-shell in each hand,
And silk locks tossing as you stand,
And tangled in the toying breeze.
And lo! the sea with salty tears,
While white hands toss, then disappear,
Doth plead that you for years and years
Will stay and sing unto the seas.
A singing sea-shell in each hand,
And silk locks tossing as you stand,
And tangled in the toying breeze.
And lo! the sea with salty tears,
While white hands toss, then disappear,
Doth plead that you for years and years
Will stay and sing unto the seas.
60
MERINDA.
And this then is all of the sweet life she promised!
And this then is all of the fair life I painted!
Dead, ashen fruit, of the dark Dead Sea border!
Ah yes, and worse by a thousand numbers,
Since that can be cast away at willing,
While desolate life with its dead hope buried
Clings on to the clay, though the soul despise it.
And this then is all of the fair life I painted!
Dead, ashen fruit, of the dark Dead Sea border!
Ah yes, and worse by a thousand numbers,
Since that can be cast away at willing,
While desolate life with its dead hope buried
Clings on to the clay, though the soul despise it.
Back, backward, to-night, is memory traversing,
Over the desert my weary feet travelled—
Thick with the wrecks of my dear heart-idols—
And toppling columns of my ambition—
Red with the best of my hot heart's purple.
Over the desert my weary feet travelled—
Thick with the wrecks of my dear heart-idols—
And toppling columns of my ambition—
Red with the best of my hot heart's purple.
Down under the hill and under the fir-tree,
By the spring, and looking far out in the valley,
She stands as she stood in the glorious Olden,
Swinging her hat in her right hand dimpled.
The other hand toys with a honey-suckle
That has tiptoed up and tried to kiss her.
Her dark hair is twining her neck and her temples
Like tendrils some beautiful Parian marble.
By the spring, and looking far out in the valley,
She stands as she stood in the glorious Olden,
Swinging her hat in her right hand dimpled.
The other hand toys with a honey-suckle
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Her dark hair is twining her neck and her temples
Like tendrils some beautiful Parian marble.
‘O eyes of lustre and love and passion!
O radiant face with the sea-shell tinted!
White cloud with the sunbeams tangled in it!’
I cried, as I stood in the dust beneath her,
And gazed on the God my boy-heart worshipped
With a love and a passion a part of madness.
‘Dreamer,’ she said, and a tinge of displeasure
Swept over her face that I should disturb her,
‘All of the fair world is spread out before you;
Go down and possess it, with love and devotion,
And heart ever tender and touching as woman's,
And life shall be sweet as the first kiss of morning.’
O radiant face with the sea-shell tinted!
White cloud with the sunbeams tangled in it!’
I cried, as I stood in the dust beneath her,
And gazed on the God my boy-heart worshipped
With a love and a passion a part of madness.
‘Dreamer,’ she said, and a tinge of displeasure
Swept over her face that I should disturb her,
‘All of the fair world is spread out before you;
Go down and possess it, with love and devotion,
And heart ever tender and touching as woman's,
And life shall be sweet as the first kiss of morning.’
I turned down the pathway, blinded no longer;
Another was coming, tall, manly, and bearded.
I built me a shrine in the innermost temple—
In the innermost rim of the red pulsing heart
And placed her therein, sole possessor and priestess,
And carved all her words on the walls of my heart.
Another was coming, tall, manly, and bearded.
I built me a shrine in the innermost temple—
In the innermost rim of the red pulsing heart
And placed her therein, sole possessor and priestess,
And carved all her words on the walls of my heart.
They say that he wooed her there under the fir-tree
And won her one eve, when the katydids mocked her.
Well, he may have a maiden and call her Merinda;
But mine is the one that stands there for ever
Leisurely swinging her hat by the ribbons.
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Well, he may have a maiden and call her Merinda;
But mine is the one that stands there for ever
Leisurely swinging her hat by the ribbons.
They say she is wedded. No, not my Merinda,
For mine stands for ever there under the fir-tree
Gazing and swinging her hat by the ribbons.
They tell me her children reach up to my shoulder.
'Tis false. I did see her down under the fir-tree
When the stars were all busy a-weaving thin laces
Out of their gold and the moon's yellow tresses,
Swinging her hat as in days of the Olden.
True, I didn't speak to or venture to touch her—
Touch her! I sooner would pluck the sweet Mary,
The mother of Jesus, from arms of the priesthood
As they kneel at the altar in holy devotion.
For mine stands for ever there under the fir-tree
Gazing and swinging her hat by the ribbons.
They tell me her children reach up to my shoulder.
'Tis false. I did see her down under the fir-tree
When the stars were all busy a-weaving thin laces
Out of their gold and the moon's yellow tresses,
Swinging her hat as in days of the Olden.
True, I didn't speak to or venture to touch her—
Touch her! I sooner would pluck the sweet Mary,
The mother of Jesus, from arms of the priesthood
As they kneel at the altar in holy devotion.
And was it for this that my heart was kept tender?
Fashioned from thine, O sacristan maiden!—
That coarse men could pierce my warm heart to the purple?
That vandals could enter and burn out its freshness?
That rude men could trample it into the ashes?
O was it for this that my heart was kept open?
I looked in a glass, not the heart of man-mortal.
Whose was the white soul I seen there reflecting?
But trample the grape that the wine may flow freely!
Fashioned from thine, O sacristan maiden!—
That coarse men could pierce my warm heart to the purple?
That vandals could enter and burn out its freshness?
That rude men could trample it into the ashes?
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I looked in a glass, not the heart of man-mortal.
Whose was the white soul I seen there reflecting?
But trample the grape that the wine may flow freely!
Beautiful priestess, mine, mine only, for ever!
You still are secure. They know not your temple.
They never can find it, or pierce it, or touch it,
Because in their hearts they know no such a temple.
I turn my back on them like Enos the Trojan.
Much indeed leaving in wild desolation,
But bearing one treasure alone that is dearer
Than all they possess or have fiercely torn from me;
A maiden that stands looking far down the valley
Swinging her hat by its long purple ribbons.
You still are secure. They know not your temple.
They never can find it, or pierce it, or touch it,
Because in their hearts they know no such a temple.
I turn my back on them like Enos the Trojan.
Much indeed leaving in wild desolation,
But bearing one treasure alone that is dearer
Than all they possess or have fiercely torn from me;
A maiden that stands looking far down the valley
Swinging her hat by its long purple ribbons.
64
NEPENTHE.
‘Our life is two-fold:—’
‘Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.’
‘Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.’
I have a world, a world which is all my own,
Which you, nor foe, nor friend, nor kith, nor kin,
Nor even my own fiery soul, when churlish grown,
Has entered, or shall ever pass therein;
But when all of care and strife aside are thrown
And I am free, then I am there, and am not alone.
Which you, nor foe, nor friend, nor kith, nor kin,
Nor even my own fiery soul, when churlish grown,
Has entered, or shall ever pass therein;
But when all of care and strife aside are thrown
And I am free, then I am there, and am not alone.
No, not alone, for standing there inviting me
On the threshold is God's image made of pearl,
And I relieve the elden time with that purity—
There with a queenly shrined and sainted girl,
I press the green beneath the ancient tree,
And vow the vows and redream the mystery.
On the threshold is God's image made of pearl,
And I relieve the elden time with that purity—
There with a queenly shrined and sainted girl,
I press the green beneath the ancient tree,
And vow the vows and redream the mystery.
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What though the real did happen years ago!
What though our lives are wide, and still diverge?
And both of us are wed? Admit it's so.
Then sitting here to-night, will you, sir, urge
We dare not live that past in all its glorious glow?
Well! you may be good, but there are things you do not know.
What though our lives are wide, and still diverge?
And both of us are wed? Admit it's so.
Then sitting here to-night, will you, sir, urge
We dare not live that past in all its glorious glow?
Well! you may be good, but there are things you do not know.
To-day I fight the manly pitted fight of life,
I give back deftly hard dealt blow for blow,
To-day is she the mother and the patient wife,
Taking life a fact from fates that made it so;
But lo! to-night I quit the struggling strife,
She is young again, heart-full, and lips are rife.
I give back deftly hard dealt blow for blow,
To-day is she the mother and the patient wife,
Taking life a fact from fates that made it so;
But lo! to-night I quit the struggling strife,
She is young again, heart-full, and lips are rife.
The long tilled turf is rich again and green—
The long felled oak extends its hugest bough,
And we are there as lang syne we have been,
Giving troth for troth, and plighting vow for vow—
Holy vows for aye upon that belted green,
Where no gray ghosts dare thrust themselves between.
The long felled oak extends its hugest bough,
And we are there as lang syne we have been,
Giving troth for troth, and plighting vow for vow—
Holy vows for aye upon that belted green,
Where no gray ghosts dare thrust themselves between.
Yet in the morn, amid the reckless rush of life,
First in the duties and foremost in the scene,
She, the fond mother and most loyal wife—
She the peerless of all that's goodly will be seen;
And girded, I shall marshal for the strife
Without a thought of the glorious ‘might have been.’
First in the duties and foremost in the scene,
She, the fond mother and most loyal wife—
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And girded, I shall marshal for the strife
Without a thought of the glorious ‘might have been.’
And you do star-ward point and bid me twine
The hopes and promise round the crumbling heart.
Well, I have tried, wept and watched to read the sign,
But heaven, my friend,—nay, now, do not start—
But heaven—my heaven at least, is in that sweet lang syne—
There in that world so solely and so completely mine.
The hopes and promise round the crumbling heart.
Well, I have tried, wept and watched to read the sign,
But heaven, my friend,—nay, now, do not start—
But heaven—my heaven at least, is in that sweet lang syne—
There in that world so solely and so completely mine.
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UNDER THE OAKS.
Oaks of the voiceless ages!
Precepts! Poems! Pages!
Lessons! Leaves and volumes!
Arches! Pillars! Columns
In the corridors of ages!
Grand patriarchal sages!
Precepts! Poems! Pages!
Lessons! Leaves and volumes!
Arches! Pillars! Columns
In the corridors of ages!
Grand patriarchal sages!
Their Druid beards are drifting
And shifting to and fro,
Down to their waists in zephyrs,
That bat-like come and go;
The while the moon is sifting
A sheen of shining snow
On all these blossoms lifting
Their blue eyes from below.
And shifting to and fro,
Down to their waists in zephyrs,
That bat-like come and go;
The while the moon is sifting
A sheen of shining snow
On all these blossoms lifting
Their blue eyes from below.
The night has cast his mantle
Down on the day's remains;
For he lies dead before us.
I seen his red blood stains
At twilight drifting o'er us,
And these oaks chant above him
In stately, solemn strains,
For ah! these Druids love him,
That knightly day that's slain,
And they will robe in sable
Till he shall rise again.
Down on the day's remains;
For he lies dead before us.
I seen his red blood stains
At twilight drifting o'er us,
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In stately, solemn strains,
For ah! these Druids love him,
That knightly day that's slain,
And they will robe in sable
Till he shall rise again.
I have no tears or sighing,
For he was not kind to me—
This dead day here before us,
O mossy Druid tree
With dark brow bending o'er us!
He was not kind to me,
I will not wail his dying.
For he was not kind to me—
This dead day here before us,
O mossy Druid tree
With dark brow bending o'er us!
He was not kind to me,
I will not wail his dying.
No. It is not green leaves rustling
That your hear lisping there,
But bearded, mossy Druids
Counting beads in prayer.
No. Not a night-bird singing,
Nor breeze a green bough swinging:
But that bough holds a censer
And swings it to and fro;
'Tis Sunday eve, remember,
That's why they chant so low.
That your hear lisping there,
But bearded, mossy Druids
Counting beads in prayer.
No. Not a night-bird singing,
Nor breeze a green bough swinging:
But that bough holds a censer
And swings it to and fro;
'Tis Sunday eve, remember,
That's why they chant so low.
69
DIRGE.
The silver cord loosed,
The golden bowl broken,
The sunbeam has fallen,
The Saviour has spoken.
The golden bowl broken,
The sunbeam has fallen,
The Saviour has spoken.
The yew and the cypress,
By Lethe's dark tide,
Are sweeping to-day—
A miner has died!
By Lethe's dark tide,
Are sweeping to-day—
A miner has died!
‘The white sands have crumbled
Away from his tread,’
By eternity's ocean—
A miner is dead!
Away from his tread,’
By eternity's ocean—
A miner is dead!
His lamp has gone out;
What else can be done
Than lay him to sleep
Till the light of the sun?
What else can be done
Than lay him to sleep
Till the light of the sun?
70
Pine slabs! what of it?
Marble is dust,
Cold and as silent—
And iron is rust.
Marble is dust,
Cold and as silent—
And iron is rust.
71
VALE.
To those who have known my mad life's troubles
I leave these lines—'tis all I have to leave
Save faults and follies; the dreams and bubbles
Of my young life; and O I grieve
In tears of blood I could not worthier weave.
I leave these lines—'tis all I have to leave
Save faults and follies; the dreams and bubbles
Of my young life; and O I grieve
In tears of blood I could not worthier weave.
True, 'tis a farewell piece but poorly spoken,
It is an adieu song but harshly sung;
For the heart beats dull and the harp is broken,
And the hand that o'er the keys is flung
Is nerveless now, and the chords unstrung.
It is an adieu song but harshly sung;
For the heart beats dull and the harp is broken,
And the hand that o'er the keys is flung
Is nerveless now, and the chords unstrung.
The round red sun is set for me for ever,
And nebulous darkness is rolling from afar;
And I stand adown by death's dark river
Calmly and alone, for the thoughts that war
Have died, or dimly burn, as yon sweet star.
And nebulous darkness is rolling from afar;
And I stand adown by death's dark river
Calmly and alone, for the thoughts that war
Have died, or dimly burn, as yon sweet star.
72
'Tis well I stand by the rushing river,
Up to my knees in the blackened tide;
The sounding waters will drown for ever
The critic's jeers and paynim pride,—
And reviews are not ferried to the other side.
Up to my knees in the blackened tide;
The sounding waters will drown for ever
The critic's jeers and paynim pride,—
And reviews are not ferried to the other side.
So life is but a day of weary fretting
As a sickly babe for its mother gone;
And I fold my hands, only this regretting:
That I have writ no thought, or thing, not one,
That lives, or earns a cross or cryptic stone.
As a sickly babe for its mother gone;
And I fold my hands, only this regretting:
That I have writ no thought, or thing, not one,
That lives, or earns a cross or cryptic stone.
| Joaquin, et al. | |