Ionica Part 14

Beneath the flowerless trees, where May, Proud of her orchards' fine array, Abates her claim and holds no sway, Past iron tombs, the useless s.h.i.+elds Of cousins slain in Elsa.s.s fields, The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.

Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd, Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe Above the breathless, and enwreathe, With pansies earned by spinster thrift, And lillybells, a wooer's gift, A stone which glimmers in the shade Of yonder silent colonnade, Over against the slates that hold Marie in lines of slender gold, A token wrought by fictive fingers, A garland, last year's offering, lingers, Hung out of reach, and facing north.

And lo! thereout a wren flies forth, And Gertrude, straining on toetips, Just touches with her prayerful lips The warm home which a bird unskilled In grief and hope knows how to build.

The maid can mourn, but not the wren.

Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.

1877.

MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY

J'aurai pa.s.se sur la terre, N'ayant rien aime que l'amour.

Mortal thing not wholly clay, Mellowing only to decay, Speak, for airs of spring unfold Wistful sorrows long untold.

Under a poplar turning green, Say for age that seems so bold, Oh, the saddest words to say, "This might have been."

Twenty, thirty years ago-- Woe, woe, the seasons flow-- Beatings of a zephyr's plume Might have broken down the doom.

Gossamer scruples fell between Thee and this that might have been; Now the clinging cobwebs grow; Ah! the saddest loss is this, A good maid's kiss.

Soon, full soon, they will be here, Twisting withies for the bier; Under a heathen yew-tree's shade Will a wasted heart be laid-- Heart that never dared be dear.

Leave it so, to lie unblest, Priest of love, just half confessed.

A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS

When apple buds began to swell, And Procne called for Philomel, Down there, where Seine caresseth sea Two la.s.sies deigned, or chanced, to be Playmates or votaries for me, Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.

Then dates of birth dropt out of mind, For one was brave as two were kind; In cheerful vigil one designed A maze of wit for two to wind; And that grey Muse who served the three Broke daylight into reverie.

Peace lit upon a fluttering vein, And, self forgetting, on the brain, On rifts, by pa.s.sion wrought, again Splashed from the sky of childhood rain; And rid of afterthought were we, And from foreboding sweetly free.

Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine, And moved by some autumnal sign, I, who in spring was glad, repine, And ache without my anodyne.

Oh things that were, oh things that are, Oh setting of my double star!

This day this way an Iris came, And brought a scroll, and showed a name.

Now surely they who thus reclaim Acquaintance should relight a flame.

So speed, gay steed, that I may see Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.

Behind this ivy screen are they Whose girlhood flowered on me last May.

The world is lord of all; I pray They be not courtly--who can say?

Well, well, remembrance held in fee Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.

L'OISEAU BLEU

Down with the oar, I toil no more.

Trust to the boat; we rest, we float.

Under the loosestrife and alder we roam To seek and search for the halcyon's home.

Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause To grudge me the sight of fishbones white.

Thine is the only nest now to find.

Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.

Wander all day in quest of prey, Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream; Then for the truth that the old folks sing, Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.

HOME, PUP!

Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope, The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon, Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope, And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.

The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep, Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep.

The mother is pickling a scornful word To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh; But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird, Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe.

He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head, And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.

Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess, Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way, Just quietly giving his dog the caress Which no one gave him for a year and a day.

And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise Our lumbering wits and our lack-l.u.s.tre eyes.

Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae, Where s.h.i.+nnel and Scar tumble down from the rock The wicked white ladies have been at their play, The wind has been pus.h.i.+ng the leewardly flock.

The white land should tell where the creatures are gone, But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.

Ah! down there in Urchinhope n.o.body knows How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel.

Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose, But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel.

She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up!

There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."

"Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye leave him?

Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet.

Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him; Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!"

"Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some wraps!

Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."

Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the west; A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill; Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed, And over his beating heart one that was still.

Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh, And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.

"Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun; Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong.

How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run.

Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long."