Poems by John Hay Part 6

But when the thickening sunbeams Had drunk the gleaming dew, A misty cloud of sorrow Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue.

She hung upon the Ritter's neck, S he wept with love and pain, She showered her sweet, warm kisses Like fragrant summer rain.

"I am no Christian soul," she sobbed, As in his arms she lay; "I'm half the day a woman, A serpent half the day.

"And when from yonder bell-tower Rings out the noonday chime, Farewell! farewell forever, Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!"

"Ah! not farewell forever!"

The Ritter wildly cried, "I will be saved or lost with thee, My lovely Wili-Bride!"

Loud from the lordly bell-tower Rang out the noon of day, And from the bower of roses A serpent slid away.

But when the mid-watch moonlight Was s.h.i.+mmering through the grove, He clasped his bride thrice dowered With beauty and with love.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim-- His true love was a serpent Only half the time!

My Castle in Spain

There was never a castle seen So fair as mine in Spain: It stands embowered in green, Crowning the gentle slope Of a hill by the Xenil's sh.o.r.e, And at eve its shade flaunts o'er The storied Vega plain, And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope; And I toil through years of pain Its glimmering gates to gain.

In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet: Sometimes in joy its s.h.i.+ning halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day Were blest with its ivied walls, Where the marble white and the granite gray Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, When the soft day dimly falls.

I know in its dusky rooms Are treasures rich and rare; The spoil of Eastern looms, And whatever of bright and fair Painters divine have caught and won From the vault of Italy's air: White G.o.ds in Phidian stone People the haunted glooms; And the song of immortal singers Like a fragrant memory lingers, I know, in the echoing rooms.

But nothing of these, my soul!

Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, Nor the waves of the river that roll With a cadence faint and sweet In peace by its marble feet-- Nothing of these is the goal For which my whole heart sighs.

'Tis the pearl gives worth to the sh.e.l.l-- The pearl I would die to gain; For there does my lady dwell, My love that I love so well-- The Queen whose gracious reign Makes glad my Castle in Spain.

Her face so pure and fair Sheds light in the shady places, And the spell of her girlish graces Holds charmed the happy air.

A breath of purity Forever before her flies, And ill things cease to be In the glance of her honest eyes.

Around her pathway flutter, Where her dear feet wander free In youth's pure majesty, The wings of the vague desires; But the thought that love would utter In reverence expires.

Not yet! not yet shall I see That face which s.h.i.+nes like a star O'er my storm-swept life afar, Transfigured with love for me.

Toiling, forgetting, and learning With labor and vigils and prayers, Pure heart and resolute will, At last I shall climb the hill And breathe the enchanted airs Where the light of my life is burning Most lovely and fair and free, Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty, Unconscious she waits for me.

Sister Saint Luke

She lived shut in by flowers and trees And shade of gentle bigotries.

On this side lay the trackless sea, On that the great world's mystery; But all unseen and all unguessed They could not break upon her rest.

The world's far splendors gleamed and flashed, Afar the wild seas foamed and dashed; But in her small, dull Paradise, Safe housed from rapture or surprise, Nor day nor night had power to fright The peace of G.o.d that filled her eyes.

New and Old.

Miles Keogh's Horse

On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, At the close of a woful day, Custer and his Three Hundred In death and silence lay.

Three Hundred to three Thousand!

They had bravely fought and bled; For such is the will of Congress When the White man meets the Red.

The White men are ten millions, The thriftiest under the sun; The Reds are fifty thousand, And warriors every one.

So Custer and all his fighting men Lay under the evening skies, Staring up at the tranquil heaven With wide, accusing eyes.

And of all that stood at noonday In that fiery scorpion ring, Miles Keogh's horse at evening Was the only living thing.

Alone from that field of slaughter, Where lay the three hundred slain, The horse Comanche wandered, With Keogh's blood on his mane.

And Sturgis issued this order, Which future times shall read, While the love and honor of comrades Are the soul of the soldier's creed.

He said-- _Let the horse Comanche Henceforth till he shall die, Be kindly cherished and cared for By the Seventh Cavalry

He shall do no labor; he never shall know The touch of spur or rein; Nor shall his back be ever crossed By living rider again

And at regimental formation Of the Seventh Cavalry_, _Comanche draped in mourning and led By a trooper of Company

Shall parade with the Regiment!_

Thus it was Commanded and thus done, By order of General Sturgis, signed By Adjutant Garlington.

Even as the sword of Custer, In his disastrous fall, Flashed out a blaze that charmed the world And glorified his pall,

This order, issued amid the gloom That shrouds our army's name, When all foul beasts are free to rend And tear its honest fame,

Shall prove to a callous people That the sense of a soldier's worth, That the love of comrades, the honor of arms, Have not yet perished from earth.

The Advance Guard

In the dream of the Northern poets, The brave who in battle die Fight on in shadowy phalanx In the field of the upper sky; And as we read the sounding rhyme, The reverent fancy hears The ghostly ring of the viewless swords And the clash of the spectral spears.

We think with imperious questionings Of the brothers whom we have lost, And we strive to track in death's mystery The flight of each valiant ghost.

The Northern myth comes back to us, And we feel, through our sorrow's night, That those young souls are striving still Somewhere for the truth and light.