Carolina Chansons Part 3

Send me a little garden breeze To gossip in magnolia trees; For I have heard, these fifty years, Confessions muttered at my ears, Till every mumble of the wind Is like tired voices that have sinned, And furtive skirling of the leaves Like feet about the priest-house eaves, And moans seem like the unforgiven That mutter at the gate of heaven, Ghosts from the sea that pa.s.sed unshriven.

And it was just this time of night There came a boy with lantern light And he was linen-pale with fright; It was not hard to guess my task, Although I raised the sash to ask-- 'Oh, Father,' cried the boy, 'Oh, come!

Quickly with the _viatic.u.m_!

The sailor-man is going to die!'

The thirsty silence drank his cry.

A starless stillness damped the air, While his shrill voice kept piping there, 'The sailor-man is going to die'-- The huge drops splattered from the sky.

I s.h.i.+vered at my midnight toil, But took the elements and oil, And hurried down into the street That barked and clamored at our feet-- And as we ran there came a hum Of round shot slithered on a drum, While like a lid of sound shut down The thunder-cloud upon the town; Jalousies banged and loose roofs slammed, Like hornbooks fluttered by the d.a.m.ned; And like a drover's whip the rain Cracked in the driving hurricane.

Only the lightning showed the door That like two cats we darted for; It almost gave a man a qualm To find the house inside so calm.

I sloshed all dripping up the stair, Up to an attic room a-glare With candle-s.h.i.+ne and lightning-flare-- With little draughts that moved its hair A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare, Rigid, huddling in a chair.

I thought at first the thing was dead Until the eyes slid in its head.

It seemed as if the Banshee storm Knocked screaming for his withered form; It shrieked and whistled like a parrot, Clucking and stuttering through the garret.

With-out, the mailed hands of hail Battered the cas.e.m.e.nts, and the gale About his low roof shuddered, sighing, As if it knew that he was dying.

It breathed like waiting beasts outside, While soft feet made the s.h.i.+ngles slide.

Then, like a blow upon the cheek, The mummy's voice began to speak:

_'Give me a priest! I'm going to die!'_ The Banshee wind took up the cry: 'Give him a priest, he's going to die!'

The old house seemed to rock with laughter, Shaking its sides and every rafter.

There was a terror in that room Like faint light streaming from a tomb.

I tried three times before I spoke, And then the bald words made me choke: 'Be quiet, man, for I am come To bring you the _viatic.u.m_!'-- I made the sign of holiness.

He rattled out a startled cry.

I whispered low, 'Confess, confess!'

His thin hands quivered with distress.

It is a bitter thing to die.

Just when a blast fell on the town, I felt his lean claws clutch me down.

It seemed as if the hands of death Were beating at my breast for breath; His arms were like a twisted rope Of rotten strands that tugged at hope.

_'Listen, my father, listen well!'_ The wind went tolling like a bell:

_'She's lying fifty fathoms deep,_ _Where fishes like white birds go by_ _Through water-air in ocean-land;_ _She has a prayer-book in her hand--_ _Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;_ _Her hair goes floating out and up,_ _Blown one way, with the water weeds,_ _Always one way, like amber smoke._

_She asks the gift she gave to me--_ _This ring--I cannot get it off!'_ His hand and hand fought like two claws-- _'I hear her calling from the sea!'_ His terror made my own heart pause.

His voice went moaning with the wind, And groaned and rattled, '_I have sinned_,'

And moaned and murmured at my ear Of bat-winged angels standing near.

_'The little schooner "Patriot"--_ _I can't forget the vessel's name;_ _We met her rounding Naggs Head Bank;_ _We made her people walk the plank,_ _Twelve men whose faces I forgot._

_But there was one sweet lady there,_ _With lovely eyes and lovely hair,_ _Whose face has stayed like pain and care._ _For every man she made a prayer;_ _And when the last had found the sea,_ _I cried to her to pray for me._

_She prayed--and took this ring, and said:_ _"Wear this for me when I am dead."_ _She bowed her head, then steadfastly_ _She walked into the hungry sea._ _But silent words were on her lips,_ _And there was comfort in her hand;_ _It was as if she walked a bridge_ _That led into a pleasant land._ _All that was long and long ago,_ _So long ago this ring has grown_ _To be a very part of me,_ _One with my finger and the bone:'_ His voice went trailing in a moan.

_'This is her ring--_ _This is her ring!_ _I dare not die and wear the thing!'_ His hand plucked at his finger thin As if to ease him of his sin.

I gave a sudden gasping shout-- The wind that blew the window in Had blown the candle out.

_'Quick, father, quick!_ _The ring ... her name....'_ There came a jagged spurt of flame; The window seemed a furnace door That gave upon a bed of ore; The thunder rumbled out the muttered Words that his failing tongue had uttered-- Another flash, a rending crack-- The old man crumpled like a sack; I felt his stringy arms go slack.

How could he sit so dead, so still!

While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?

White shone his glimmering face, and dull The sodden silence of the lull, For when he died the wind had dropt; And with his heart the storm had stopt, All but a far-off mouthing sound That seemed to sough from underground; While silence paused to plan some ill, Thwarted by thunder growling still.

All in the darkness of the place With lightning playing on its face, I fumbled with the corpse's ring To which the dead hands seemed to cling; The stiffening joints were loth to play-- After awhile it came away!

Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom, I tiptoed from the dead man's room; The door behind me like a hatch Banged--the white splash of my match Made shadow shapes dance on the wall As if the devil pulled the string.

The light ran melting round the ring; Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur: _'J.A. to Theodosia Burr'_ Confession is a sacred thing!

I'll keep his secret like the sea; The ring goes to the grave with me."

H.A.

[5] See the note at the back of the book.

PALMETTO TOWN

Sea-island winds sweep through Palmetto Town, Bringing with piney tang the old romance Of Pirates and of smuggling gentlemen; And tongues as languorous as southern France Flow down her streets like water-talk at fords; While through iron gates where pickaninnies sprawl, The sound floats back, in rippled banjo chords, From lush magnolia shade where mockers call.

Mornings, the flower-women hawk their wares-- Bronze caryatids of a genial race, Bearing the bloom-heaped baskets on their heads; Lithe, with their arms akimbo in wide grace, Their jasmine nods jestingly at cares-- Turbaned they are, deep-chested, straight and tall, Bandying old English words now seldom heard, But sweet as Provencal.

Dreams peer like prisoners through her harp-like gates, From molten gardens mottled with gray-gloom, Where lichened sundials shadow ancient dates, And deep piazzas loom.

Fringing her quays are frayed palmetto posts, Where clipper s.h.i.+ps once moored along the ways, And fanlight doorways, sunstruck with old ghosts, Sicken with loves of her lost yesterdays.

Often I halt upon some gabled walk, Thinking I see the ear-ringed _picaroons_, Slashed with a sash or Spanish _folderols_, Gambling for moidores or for gold doubloons.

But they have gone where night goes after day, And the old streets are gay with whistled tunes, Bright with the lilt of scarlet parasols, Carried by honey-voiced young octoroons.

H.A.

CAROLINA SPRING SONG

Against the swart magnolias' sheen p.r.o.nged maples, like a stag's new horn, Stand gouted red upon the green, In March when s.h.a.ggy buds are shorn.

Then all a mist-streaked, sunny day The long sea-islands lean to hear A water harp that shallows play To lull the beaches' fluted ear.

When this same music wakes the gift Of pregnant beauty in the sod, And makes the uneasy vultures s.h.i.+ft Like evil things afraid of G.o.d,

Then, then it is I love to drift Upon the flood-tide's lazy swirls, While from the level rice fields lift The spiritu'ls of darky girls.

I hear them singing in the fields Like voices from the long-ago; They speak to me of somber worlds And sorrows that the humble know;

Of sorrow--yet their tones release A harmony of larger hours From easy epochs long at peace Amid an irony of flowers.

So if they sometimes seem a choir That cast a chill of doubt on spring, They have still higher notes of fire Like cardinals upon the wing.