[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 |
 | Voices out of the past. |
 |
 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
190
Voices out of the past.
LAKE ERIE IN SEPTEMBER.
Oh, gray and sullen sky! Oh, gray and sullen beaches!
Oh, gray and sullen billows, coming rolling, rolling in!
Oh, are ye not aweary of chill September dreary,
With days so gray the earth knows not when its gray nights begin?
Oh, gray and sullen billows, coming rolling, rolling in!
Oh, are ye not aweary of chill September dreary,
With days so gray the earth knows not when its gray nights begin?
All through the summer noons, all through the summer twilights,
Came the vessels, snowy winged, gayly sailing, sailing by;
Your waters then were dancing, your beaches gold were glancing,
While the south wind blew the sunbeams and moonbeams through the sky.
Came the vessels, snowy winged, gayly sailing, sailing by;
Your waters then were dancing, your beaches gold were glancing,
While the south wind blew the sunbeams and moonbeams through the sky.
At times the east wind came, the east wind off the ocean,
And vessels from Ontario went sweeping, sweeping past—
From prairies blew the west wind, of all the winds the best wind,
And Huron's fleet went scudding down the lake upon its blast.
And vessels from Ontario went sweeping, sweeping past—
From prairies blew the west wind, of all the winds the best wind,
And Huron's fleet went scudding down the lake upon its blast.
But now your winds are still, your sluggish waves are sullen,
The cheerless rain, nor fast nor slow, is dropping, dropping down;
The beach below is soggy, the air above is foggy,
And one dark ship, with ragged sail, is lying off the town.
The cheerless rain, nor fast nor slow, is dropping, dropping down;
The beach below is soggy, the air above is foggy,
And one dark ship, with ragged sail, is lying off the town.
Oh, gray and sullen sky! Oh, gray and sullen beaches!
Why lie ye here in lethargy, all glooming, glooming pale?
If not the summer's soft rest, then why not have the tempest?
If ye cannot have the zephyr, then why not have the gale?
Why lie ye here in lethargy, all glooming, glooming pale?
If not the summer's soft rest, then why not have the tempest?
If ye cannot have the zephyr, then why not have the gale?
And since the summer's gone, gray sky to winter darken,
And shadow all these sullen waves to inky, inky black—
Let these dull forests bristle, as loud the fierce winds whistle,
And sweep that one dark ship, a wreck, adown the foaming track.
And shadow all these sullen waves to inky, inky black—
Let these dull forests bristle, as loud the fierce winds whistle,
And sweep that one dark ship, a wreck, adown the foaming track.
Wake up, wake up, O Lake! and lash your sluggish waters
In fury, till your whole expanse is raging, raging mad—
Well may it be wrong-doing if it but be strong-doing!
Give us one thing or the other: strong! whether good or bad.
In fury, till your whole expanse is raging, raging mad—
Well may it be wrong-doing if it but be strong-doing!
Give us one thing or the other: strong! whether good or bad.
For the very heart is sad with this monotone of Nature,
The very soul is palsied with this half-drawn, half-drawn breath;
A gray sky is most dreary, a gray life the most weary,
If all our sunny life is gone, then forth! to fight with Death.
The very soul is palsied with this half-drawn, half-drawn breath;
A gray sky is most dreary, a gray life the most weary,
If all our sunny life is gone, then forth! to fight with Death.
198
OFF THUNDER BAY.
A Legend of Lake Huron 1772.
“We sail, we sail in our Mackinac boat;
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft, as we sail below;
Behind us the north wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft, as we sail below;
Behind us the north wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Her brown hands toy with the flowers in her lap—
Spicy juniper, balsam sweet;
Her black hair waves from her red-beaded cap
Down to her little moccasined feet,
“Alone with ourselves, alone with our love,
Wing-and-wing through the summer day,
We sail below, and the clouds sail above,
O'er the deep waters off Thunder Bay.”
Spicy juniper, balsam sweet;
Her black hair waves from her red-beaded cap
Down to her little moccasined feet,
“Alone with ourselves, alone with our love,
Wing-and-wing through the summer day,
We sail below, and the clouds sail above,
O'er the deep waters off Thunder Bay.”
Up on the Evergreen Isle in the north,
The Indian mother silent waits;
The old French father strides back and forth,
And hails the ship coming through the straits:
“Ho, brave voyageur, our child hast thou seen—
Petite Marie, Flower of the Snow?
We find but the fringe of her mantle green,
The print of her foot off Tuskenoe.”
“Ah, oui, Antoine,” cries the voyageur.
The Indian mother silent waits;
The old French father strides back and forth,
And hails the ship coming through the straits:
“Ho, brave voyageur, our child hast thou seen—
Petite Marie, Flower of the Snow?
We find but the fringe of her mantle green,
The print of her foot off Tuskenoe.”
“Ah, oui, Antoine,” cries the voyageur.
“Down on Huron her boat we met;
But a blue-eyed stranger was with La Fleur,
And all the canvas was southward set,
The wind was fair, the boat sailed at its best,
Wing-and-wing went dancing away;
They sailed south-east, we were tacking north-west,
We passed each other off Thunder Bay.”
O'er the island fort the English flag waves;
English soldiers pace to and fro;
Behind, the plateau with Indian graves,
A little French town on the beach below.
The old commander comes down from the height,
Hails the vessel with pompous mien:
“A young subaltern escaped last night—
A boat sailing southward have you seen?”
“Ah oui, Capitaine” cries the voyageur,
Bowing before the gold-laced form;
“We saw a young soldier with sweet La Fleur;
We caught the gleam of his uniform;
Two lovers behind, and two sails before;
Wing-and-wing they vanished away—
First a sail, then a speck, then nothing more,
Save the blue offing of Thunder Bay.”
But a blue-eyed stranger was with La Fleur,
And all the canvas was southward set,
The wind was fair, the boat sailed at its best,
Wing-and-wing went dancing away;
They sailed south-east, we were tacking north-west,
We passed each other off Thunder Bay.”
199
English soldiers pace to and fro;
Behind, the plateau with Indian graves,
A little French town on the beach below.
The old commander comes down from the height,
Hails the vessel with pompous mien:
“A young subaltern escaped last night—
A boat sailing southward have you seen?”
“Ah oui, Capitaine” cries the voyageur,
Bowing before the gold-laced form;
“We saw a young soldier with sweet La Fleur;
We caught the gleam of his uniform;
Two lovers behind, and two sails before;
Wing-and-wing they vanished away—
First a sail, then a speck, then nothing more,
Save the blue offing of Thunder Bay.”
The Indian mother soon passed away—
Passed away with her fading race:
But year after year, and day after day,
French Antoine watched with eager face—
Watched the long point of the green Bois-Blanc shore,
Watched for his child with longing pain,
Watched for the sail-boat that came back no more,
Watched out his lingering life in vain.
The cross of St. George came down from the height;
Stars and Stripes wave in Huron's breeze;
A hundred long years have rolled into night,
A navy dots the fresh-water seas;
But still the lake sailors see the white sails,
Wing-and-wing on a summer day;
As the boat glides past them the soldier hails,
And they hear his song off Thunder Bay.
Passed away with her fading race:
But year after year, and day after day,
French Antoine watched with eager face—
Watched the long point of the green Bois-Blanc shore,
Watched for his child with longing pain,
Watched for the sail-boat that came back no more,
Watched out his lingering life in vain.
The cross of St. George came down from the height;
Stars and Stripes wave in Huron's breeze;
A hundred long years have rolled into night,
A navy dots the fresh-water seas;
But still the lake sailors see the white sails,
Wing-and-wing on a summer day;
As the boat glides past them the soldier hails,
And they hear his song off Thunder Bay.
“We sail, we sail in our Mackinac boat;
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft as we sail below;
Behind us the north-wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake,
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft as we sail below;
Behind us the north-wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake,
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
230
PINE-BARRENS.
Abroad upon the Barrens, the Florida Pine-Barrens,
Where all the winds of heaven come to gambol wild and free,
With none to watch their races, save the flowers whose little faces
Look up with wonder as they rush across from sea to sea.
Where all the winds of heaven come to gambol wild and free,
With none to watch their races, save the flowers whose little faces
Look up with wonder as they rush across from sea to sea.
Abroad upon the Barrens, how wide the mighty heavens!
A thousand times more sky above than hangs o'er any town,
For nothing breaks its clearness in the farness or the nearness,
From zenith to horizon far rounding bluely down.
A thousand times more sky above than hangs o'er any town,
For nothing breaks its clearness in the farness or the nearness,
From zenith to horizon far rounding bluely down.
Abroad upon the Barrens the Southern pine-tree ripens
Its spicy cones in plumy green that swayeth soft on high:
Not closely set in vistas like its sober Northern sisters,
But each alone in feathery grace against the tropic sky.
Its spicy cones in plumy green that swayeth soft on high:
Not closely set in vistas like its sober Northern sisters,
But each alone in feathery grace against the tropic sky.
Abroad upon the Barrens the saw-palmetto reddens
The ground with arméd ranks that firm for centuries have stood;
They kneel and pray to Heaven that their sins may be forgiven,
Their long green knives in readiness, bold outlaws of the wood!
The ground with arméd ranks that firm for centuries have stood;
They kneel and pray to Heaven that their sins may be forgiven,
Their long green knives in readiness, bold outlaws of the wood!
Abroad upon the Barrens the care-worn soul awakens
From brooding on the long hard paths its weary feet have trod;
How little seem earth's sorrows, how far off the lost to-morrows,
How broad and free the Barrens lie, how very near to God!
From brooding on the long hard paths its weary feet have trod;
How little seem earth's sorrows, how far off the lost to-morrows,
How broad and free the Barrens lie, how very near to God!
232
THE FLORIDA BEACH.
Our driftwood fire burns drowsily,
The fog hangs low afar,
A thousand sea-birds wild and free
Hover above the bar;
Our boat is drawn far up the strand
Beyond the tide's long reach,
Like fringeing to the dark green land
Shines the silvery Florida beach.
The fog hangs low afar,
A thousand sea-birds wild and free
Hover above the bar;
Our boat is drawn far up the strand
Beyond the tide's long reach,
Like fringeing to the dark green land
Shines the silvery Florida beach.
Behind, the broad pine-barrens lie
Without a path or trail,
Before, the ocean meets the sky
Without a rock or sail;
We call across to Africa—
The waves from mile to mile
Bear on the hail from Florida,
And the answering cry of the Nile.
Without a path or trail,
Before, the ocean meets the sky
Without a rock or sail;
We call across to Africa—
The waves from mile to mile
Bear on the hail from Florida,
And the answering cry of the Nile.
Far to the South the beach shines on,
Thick-gemmed with giant shells,
Coral sprays from the white reef won,
Radiate spiny cells,
Glass-like creatures that ride the waves
With azure sail and oar,
Wide-mouthed things from the deep-sea caves
And the purple-hued drift of the shore.
Thick-gemmed with giant shells,
Coral sprays from the white reef won,
Radiate spiny cells,
Glass-like creatures that ride the waves
With azure sail and oar,
Wide-mouthed things from the deep-sea caves
And the purple-hued drift of the shore.
Wild ducks gaze as we pass along,
They have not learned to fear;
The mocking-bird keeps on his song
In the palmetto near;
The slow stream from the everglade
Shows the alligator's track.
The sea is rift in light and shade
By the heave of the dolphin's back.
They have not learned to fear;
The mocking-bird keeps on his song
In the palmetto near;
The slow stream from the everglade
Shows the alligator's track.
The sea is rift in light and shade
By the heave of the dolphin's back.
The Spanish light-house stands in haze,
The keeper trims his lights,
No sail he sees through long, long days,
No sail through still, still nights;
But ships that pass far out at sea
Along the warm Gulf Stream
From Yucatan and Carribee
Keep a watch for his far-away gleam.
The keeper trims his lights,
No sail he sees through long, long days,
No sail through still, still nights;
But ships that pass far out at sea
Along the warm Gulf Stream
From Yucatan and Carribee
Keep a watch for his far-away gleam.
Alone, alone, we wander through
The southern winter day,
The ocean spreads his mighty blue,
The world is far away;
The tide comes in,—the birds fly low,
As if to catch our speech—
Ah Fate! why must we ever go
From the beautiful Florida beach?
The southern winter day,
The ocean spreads his mighty blue,
The world is far away;
The tide comes in,—the birds fly low,
As if to catch our speech—
Ah Fate! why must we ever go
From the beautiful Florida beach?
233
“GENTLEMAN WAIFE.”
Only a poor little dog,
Why should you grieve?
He had not an atom of soul,
So we believe.
Instinct and animal life
Only were there—
Poor little Waife, he has gone
Why should you care?
Why should you grieve?
He had not an atom of soul,
So we believe.
Instinct and animal life
Only were there—
Poor little Waife, he has gone
Why should you care?
Only a dog, let him go
Under the sod.
Not a small foot-mark remains
Where he has trod.
Even his few human friends
Scarcely vouchsafe,
More than a thought to his death,
Poor little Waife!
Under the sod.
Not a small foot-mark remains
Where he has trod.
Even his few human friends
Scarcely vouchsafe,
More than a thought to his death,
Poor little Waife!
Joyous he followed your steps,
Joyous he went
After his master, and felt
Perfect content
Just to be near you. He kept
Trying to say
How much he loved you, poor dog.
In his dumb way.
Joyous he went
After his master, and felt
Perfect content
Just to be near you. He kept
Trying to say
How much he loved you, poor dog.
In his dumb way.
Gay little Waife, how he ran
Happily on,
Down the long Florida roads,
Ever anon,
Looking to see you were there,
Swift rushing back—
Little brown spot of live joy
On the white track.
Happily on,
Down the long Florida roads,
Ever anon,
Looking to see you were there,
Swift rushing back—
Little brown spot of live joy
On the white track.
Bounding and circling for glee;
Then far away
Over the palmetto wastes
On a foray,
All by himself, coming in,
Proudly, as though
Wonderful things he had learned
You did not know.
Then far away
Over the palmetto wastes
On a foray,
All by himself, coming in,
Proudly, as though
Wonderful things he had learned
You did not know.
Changed are the afternoon walks,
Something seems wrong,
Lifeless the pine-barren roads—
Lifeless and long;
Coming home over the bridge
In the red light
Thrown by the sunset that shines
Far into night.
Something seems wrong,
Lifeless the pine-barren roads—
Lifeless and long;
Coming home over the bridge
In the red light
Thrown by the sunset that shines
Far into night.
234
While the first emerald stars
Silvery show,
You will miss Waifey, I think—
More than you know,
More than the careless of heart
Could comprehend,
Only a poor little dog—
Yes; but a friend.
Silvery show,
You will miss Waifey, I think—
More than you know,
More than the careless of heart
Could comprehend,
Only a poor little dog—
Yes; but a friend.
His vague little life has run out;
Why did he live?
We know not; he knows least of all;
Yet I would give
Something if I could but think,
Fancy, that he
Had a small future somewhere,
Even as we.
Why did he live?
We know not; he knows least of all;
Yet I would give
Something if I could but think,
Fancy, that he
Had a small future somewhere,
Even as we.
Wrapped in his soft silken shroud,
Calm may he sleep,
Down in his dark little grave,
Hollowed out deep.
“Hic jacet Gentleman Waife,”
Write on the scroll;
He was, and he is not; poor dog,
That was the whole!
Calm may he sleep,
Down in his dark little grave,
Hollowed out deep.
“Hic jacet Gentleman Waife,”
Write on the scroll;
He was, and he is not; poor dog,
That was the whole!
235
YELLOW JESSAMINE.
In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars,
In floating, curling sprays,
The golden flower comes shining through the woods
These February days;
Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town,
To bring her gayly in,
This wild, sweet Princess of fair Florida—
The yellow jessamine.
In floating, curling sprays,
The golden flower comes shining through the woods
These February days;
Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town,
To bring her gayly in,
This wild, sweet Princess of fair Florida—
The yellow jessamine.
The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face
Peep from the thickets; shy,
She hides behind the leaves her golden buds
Till, bolder grown, on high
She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then springs
Herself aloft in glee,
And, bursting into thousand blossoms, swings
In wreaths from tree to tree.
Peep from the thickets; shy,
She hides behind the leaves her golden buds
Till, bolder grown, on high
She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then springs
Herself aloft in glee,
And, bursting into thousand blossoms, swings
In wreaths from tree to tree.
The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores
This Princess of the air;
The lone pine-barren stands afar and sighs,
“Ah! Come, lest I despair;”
The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns
Quiver and thrill within,
As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch
Of yellow jessamine.
This Princess of the air;
The lone pine-barren stands afar and sighs,
“Ah! Come, lest I despair;”
The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns
Quiver and thrill within,
As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch
Of yellow jessamine.
The garden roses wonder as they see
The wreaths of golden bloom
Brought in from the far woods with eager haste
To deck the poorest room,
The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands
Give sprays to all they meet,
Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,
And all the air is sweet.
The wreaths of golden bloom
Brought in from the far woods with eager haste
To deck the poorest room,
The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands
Give sprays to all they meet,
Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,
And all the air is sweet.
The Southern land, well weary of its green
Which may not fall nor fade,
Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
With leaves of fresher shade;
The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
Their fragrant work begin—
The spring has come—has come to Florida
With yellow jessamine.
Which may not fall nor fade,
Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
With leaves of fresher shade;
The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
Their fragrant work begin—
The spring has come—has come to Florida
With yellow jessamine.
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.
239
KENTUCKY BELLE.
(Told in an Ohio farm-house; 1868).
“Summer of sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay;
We lived in the log-house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;
Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay;
We lived in the log-house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;
Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.
Conrad he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle;
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell;
Came from the Blue-Grass country, my father gave her to me,
When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell;
Came from the Blue-Grass country, my father gave her to me,
When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.
Conrad lived in Ohio,—a German he is you know:
The house stood right in the cornfields, stretching on row after row—
The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be,
But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee!
The house stood right in the cornfields, stretching on row after row—
The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be,
But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee!
Oh! for a sight of water, the shady top of a hill,
The smell of the mountain balsams, a wind that never is still!
But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky,
Never a rise from north to south to rest the homesick eye;
The smell of the mountain balsams, a wind that never is still!
But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky,
Never a rise from north to south to rest the homesick eye;
From east to west no river to shine out under the moon,
Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon,
Only the steady sunshine as I looked out all forlorn,
Only the “rustle, rustle,” as I walked among the corn.
Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon,
Only the steady sunshine as I looked out all forlorn,
Only the “rustle, rustle,” as I walked among the corn.
When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more
We moved away from the cornfields out to this river-shore;
The Tuscarawas it's called, sir, off there's a hill you see—
And now I've got to like it next best to the Tennessee.
We moved away from the cornfields out to this river-shore;
The Tuscarawas it's called, sir, off there's a hill you see—
And now I've got to like it next best to the Tennessee.
I was at work that morning. Someone came riding like mad
Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad;
Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say:
‘Morgan's men are coming, Frau, they're galloping straight this way!
Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad;
Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say:
‘Morgan's men are coming, Frau, they're galloping straight this way!
‘I'm sent to warn the neighbours. He isn't a mile behind;
He sweeps up all the horses, every horse that he can find;
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,
With bowie-knives and pistols are galloping up the glen!’
He sweeps up all the horses, every horse that he can find;
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,
With bowie-knives and pistols are galloping up the glen!’
The lad rode down the valley; and I stood still at the door;
The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;
Kentuck was in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone;
And nearer and nearer Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!
The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;
Kentuck was in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone;
And nearer and nearer Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!
240
Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar,
‘Kentuck,’ I called, ‘Kentucky’; she knew me ever so far.
I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,
And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.
‘Kentuck,’ I called, ‘Kentucky’; she knew me ever so far.
I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,
And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.
As I ran back to the log-house, my ears they caught a sound,
The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, thundering over the ground;
Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman glen,
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men!
The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, thundering over the ground;
Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman glen,
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men!
I scarce could breathe, and nearly my heart it stopped in alarm,
As still I stood in the doorway, with baby on my arm;
They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they swept along,
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.
As still I stood in the doorway, with baby on my arm;
They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they swept along,
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.
Oh! fierce they looked and jaded, riding through night, and through day,
Pushing straight on for the river, many long miles away,
They must reach the edge of Virginia where it bends up toward the West.
They must reach the ford and cross it, before they could stop for rest.
Pushing straight on for the river, many long miles away,
They must reach the edge of Virginia where it bends up toward the West.
They must reach the ford and cross it, before they could stop for rest.
On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance,
Bright were his eyes like live coals as he gave me a hasty glance,
And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,
When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.
Bright were his eyes like live coals as he gave me a hasty glance,
And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,
When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.
Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,
As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced about the place,
I gave him a drink, and he smiled; his eyes were soft and blue—
'Twas only a boy; and his tired voice was the dear home-voice I knew!
As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced about the place,
I gave him a drink, and he smiled; his eyes were soft and blue—
'Twas only a boy; and his tired voice was the dear home-voice I knew!
Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son,
Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun;
The big drops stood on his temples, drawn was the boyish mouth,
And I thought me of that mother, waiting down in the South!
Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun;
The big drops stood on his temples, drawn was the boyish mouth,
And I thought me of that mother, waiting down in the South!
Oh, pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through,
Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do!
The boy was dying, sir, dying—as plain as plain could be,
Worn out by his ride with Morgan, up from the Tennessee.
Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do!
The boy was dying, sir, dying—as plain as plain could be,
Worn out by his ride with Morgan, up from the Tennessee.
But when I told the laddie that I, too, was from the South,
Water came to his dim eyes and quivers about his mouth;
‘Do you know the Blue-Grass Country?’ he wistful began to say,
Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted clean away.
Water came to his dim eyes and quivers about his mouth;
‘Do you know the Blue-Grass Country?’ he wistful began to say,
Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted clean away.
I had him into the log-house, and worked and brought him to:—
I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;
And when the faintness left him, and the noise in his head was gone,
Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.
I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;
And when the faintness left him, and the noise in his head was gone,
Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.
241
He tried to go—the laddie! ‘You've kept me half the day!
Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?’
But I heard a sound in the distance, and kept him back from the door,
The very same sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before!
Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?’
But I heard a sound in the distance, and kept him back from the door,
The very same sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before!
And on, on, came the soldiers, the Michigan Cavalry,
And hard they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,
They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night
But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders, they had never caught a sight.
And hard they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,
They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night
But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders, they had never caught a sight.
And rich Ohio sat frightened through all those troubled days,
For strange wild men were galloping over her broad highways,
Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,
Through river valleys, and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.
For strange wild men were galloping over her broad highways,
Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,
Through river valleys, and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.
A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last!
They had almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast,
But the boys in blue were upon them, or ever they crossed the ford,
And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.
They had almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast,
But the boys in blue were upon them, or ever they crossed the ford,
And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.
Well—I kept the lad till evening, kept him against his will,
But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still;
Then when his head was better, you'll wonder to hear me tell—
I stole down to that gully and brought up Kentucky Belle.
But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still;
Then when his head was better, you'll wonder to hear me tell—
I stole down to that gully and brought up Kentucky Belle.
I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty, gentle lass—
But I knew that she'd be happy, back in the old Blue-Grass;
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, and all the money I had,
And Kentuck, pretty Kentucky, I gave to the worn-out lad.
But I knew that she'd be happy, back in the old Blue-Grass;
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, and all the money I had,
And Kentuck, pretty Kentucky, I gave to the worn-out lad.
I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;
The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;
Then when the glow had faded, my heart began to swell,
As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!
The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;
Then when the glow had faded, my heart began to swell,
As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!
When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high,
Baby and I were both crying, I could'nt tell him why!
But a battered suit of rebel grey was hanging against the wall,
And a thin old horse with drooping head stood in Kentucky's stall.
Baby and I were both crying, I could'nt tell him why!
But a battered suit of rebel grey was hanging against the wall,
And a thin old horse with drooping head stood in Kentucky's stall.
Well—he was kind and never once said a harsh word to me—
For he knew I couldn't help it—'twas my love for Tennessee.
But after the war was over, just think what came to pass—
A letter, sir; and the two were safe, back in the old Blue-Grass!
For he knew I couldn't help it—'twas my love for Tennessee.
But after the war was over, just think what came to pass—
A letter, sir; and the two were safe, back in the old Blue-Grass!
The lad got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle,
And Kentuck, she was happy, and fat, and hearty, and well,
He kept her, and he petted her, nor touched her with whip nor spur—
Well—we've had many horses, but never a horse like her!
And Kentuck, she was happy, and fat, and hearty, and well,
He kept her, and he petted her, nor touched her with whip nor spur—
Well—we've had many horses, but never a horse like her!
284
LONGING.
I.
In the wide valley open to the sun,Where the slow river flows on toward the south
Between the grain-fields, whose low fences run
As far as eye can reach, ne'er ending, ne'er begun,
The longing people pause amid the burning drouth,
And, gazing over the hot fields with dreaming eyes,
They seem to see a distant rocky island rise
From out the furrows; and a cry bursts forth,—
A cry of weary longing for the North.
“Oh, for the cedars that grow on the northern island
Oh, for the larches that toss in the northern breeze,
Oh, for the path beneath the dark aisles of the spruces,
The dancing foam-crested waves of the fresh-water seas!
Oh, for a sight of the clambering mountain blue-bell,
The wash of the sounding surf on the pebbly shore,
The spicy smell of the blue-green juniper-berry,
The storm-beaten peaks of the gray cliffs towering o'er
Cool-shaded nooks, afar from this heat and glare—
Would I were there, would I were there!”
II.
On the far island at the great lake's headWhere the short summer scarcely warms the air,
Or turns the early cherry to its red,
Before quick-coming autumn nips the forest dead,
The silent people in their stony furrows bare,
Pause in their task, as though their weary, care-worn eyes,
Saw, from the waves, a distant sunny valley rise,
And, dreaming, gaze, until from hard-set mouth,
Bursts forth a cry of longing for the south:
“Oh, for the deep lush grass of the green mill-race meadow,
Oh, for the broad fields golden with fast growing grain,
Oh, for the pulse of the earth in ripening weather,
The glowing heat of the sun on the dead level plain!
Oh, for a sight of the full-bosomed water-lily
Basking at ease as the slow river onward flows,
The sound of the myriad-gilded summer insects,
The scent of the heliotrope and the sweet tube rose!
Oh, land of the South, fruitful, blossoming, fair—
Would I were there, would I were there!”
285
MACKINAC—REVISITED.
A Fragment.
The sunset gate in shadow lies
Before the morning radiance,
And shineth still down Michigan
The far-off flash of Waugoschance;
But nearer looms a cloudy shape
Up from the waves, its outlines draw
The tears;—thy every line I know
O purple-hued, beautiful Mackinac!
Before the morning radiance,
And shineth still down Michigan
The far-off flash of Waugoschance;
But nearer looms a cloudy shape
Up from the waves, its outlines draw
The tears;—thy every line I know
O purple-hued, beautiful Mackinac!
Isle of the north, thy shadowed tints
Again I see,—the aisles of pines
That sweep around like outer court,
The spicy cedars' sharpened lines
Of lighter hue, the blue-green spruce
In Gothic spires; and, thick between
The banners of the maple leaves
That brighten the pines with their summer green.
Again I see,—the aisles of pines
That sweep around like outer court,
The spicy cedars' sharpened lines
Of lighter hue, the blue-green spruce
In Gothic spires; and, thick between
The banners of the maple leaves
That brighten the pines with their summer green.
O when the time doth come for me
To yield obedience to the law
Of mortal life, I fain would rest
Under thy sod, O Mackinac!
I should lie quiet there, and know
Thy pine-crowned cliffs were e'er the same,
Thy foam-capped waves, St. Ignace point,
The western pass in the sunset flame—
And ships all gold-tinged sailing down
To some fair land beyond the gates.
The echo of the evening gun,
The twilight falling o'er the Straits,
The stars slow rising; my sealed eyes
Lying calm in Death's long trance
Would still dream on of Bois Blanc light
And the far-away flash of Waugoschance.
O purple isle, through long, long years
A wide, wide world I've wandered o'er,
From mountains of the western skies
To silver sands of southern shore,
And—ever sad!—no more I strive,
I come again where love doth draw
My lonely heart,—O take me back
And comfort me, beautiful Mackinac!
To yield obedience to the law
Of mortal life, I fain would rest
Under thy sod, O Mackinac!
I should lie quiet there, and know
Thy pine-crowned cliffs were e'er the same,
Thy foam-capped waves, St. Ignace point,
The western pass in the sunset flame—
And ships all gold-tinged sailing down
To some fair land beyond the gates.
The echo of the evening gun,
The twilight falling o'er the Straits,
The stars slow rising; my sealed eyes
Lying calm in Death's long trance
Would still dream on of Bois Blanc light
And the far-away flash of Waugoschance.
286
A wide, wide world I've wandered o'er,
From mountains of the western skies
To silver sands of southern shore,
And—ever sad!—no more I strive,
I come again where love doth draw
My lonely heart,—O take me back
And comfort me, beautiful Mackinac!
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |