Stories in Verse Part 7

Within the breast of Coralline, Stanley Thane Possessed acknowledged empire; all her love Was poured out on him, and her heart Stood like an emptied vase. Then from the North Came rumors of his daring, and the war Gloomed like a night about her,--he its star.

VIII.

The golden spirit in each lily bloom, That, pollen-vestured, laughs at care all day Had closed the doors and shutters of its house.

Forth in the dewy garden, 'neath the stars, Walked Coralline and Ruth, sad and alone; For Ruth was owned again by Dalton Earl.

"I grieve," said Coralline, "that Stanley Thane Left me so rashly, and that he thinks My hasty words were said with earnest thought.

Would that a bird might fly to him and sing-- 'She loves you still, Stanley, she loves you still.'"

Ruth followed quickly, "Your wish is heard; For I will go to him who once was here, And say to him the words that you have said."

Then fell the other on the quadroon's neck, And kissed her through her tears, and promised her Her freedom, if she went to Stanley Thane.

She did not dream what impulse urged the slave, Nor that in sending her toward the North Bearing a message full of trust and love, She sent a message smeared with blood instead.

For Ruth hoped now for vengeance for her past.

Wronged by her father, she would wreak her hate Full on her sister, and destroy her peace, As hers had been destroyed in dark dead days.

IX.

That night she stole a knife, and sharpened it, And while she drew it up and down the stone, Sipped from the poison nectar of revenge.

She thought of Stanley Thane, and pitied him That he should be the victim of her hate; But wished that Coralline could see him then, After the violent knife had done its work, Laid out and ready for his last abode.

X.

So Ruth arose, and when the wine-lipped Dawn, Gathering his robes about him like a G.o.d, Went up to the great summits of the world From the black valleys of immeasurable s.p.a.ce, She pa.s.sed beyond the limit of the vale.

Those she loved best had all been torn away; The last, her child, was sold she knew not where; And Coralline too should taste a bitter cup, Feeling the fury of a deep revenge.

XI.

For many days Ruth journeyed to the North, And reached at last the camp. She pa.s.sed the guard, And in the night discovered Stanley's tent; Then gliding in, bent o'er him while he slept.

He dreamed of Coralline, and in his sleep Said--"Coralline, 'tis better to forgive."

And Ruth who heard, cried, "She forgives; She loves you still, Stanley--she loves you still!"

At this he woke, and saw the woman there, And saw the weapon raised above his breast, And a vague horror at the mockery of the words Left him all powerless, and sealed up his speech.

But one swift hand pa.s.sed in and grasped the arm, And s.n.a.t.c.hed the knife, and there before them stood Karagwe, with Ruth Earl face to face.

XII.

And after, at Fort Pillow, when the storm Had gone against us, and the traitors slew Five hundred men who had laid down their arms, Karagwe was shot, and with a prayer For his whole country, he fell back and died.

Some, seeking the highest type of n.o.ble men, Compare their heroes with the cavaliers, Boasting their ancestry through tangled lines; But I, who care not for patrician blood, Hold him the highest who constrains great ends, Or rounds a prudent life with n.o.ble deeds.

DEMETRIUS.

I.

THE SUCCESS OF THE BEGGAR.

In my life I have had two idols, one my country, one my wife, And I know I loved them faithfully, and both with one accord; But the day came, beaded falsely on my brittle leash of life, When perforce I chose between them, through the wisdom of the Lord.

High upon the rocky summit of a cliff in red Algiers, Raised against the sky of sunset, like a beaker filled with wine, While each dome is like a bubble that above the brim appears, Stands the city I was born in, my beloved Constantine.

n.o.bly rise the brick-roofed houses with their heavy gray stone walls, While here and there, above them all, the mosque and minaret; Like the voice of some enchanter sounds the bearded muezzin's calls, And the rustle of the cypress seems a murmur of regret.

Round the ancient Cintran city runs a dark wall broad and strong, Like the mailed belt of a warrior, and the gate the buckle seems; While a tower toward the sunset is a dagger hilted long; Whose blade is bid in foldings of a circling sash of streams.

Far away the Atlas mountains rear their heads of lasting snow, And seem like old men grouped around in high-backed chairs of s.p.a.ce; And they bathe their feet like children in the brooks that run below, Or smoke their pipes in silence till the clouds obscure each face.

I was poor: they say they found me lying naked in the street, And a beggar so befriended me and brought me to his door, And cared for me and tended me, until my growing feet Could patter through the market-place and there increase our store.

I never knew the tenderness of father or of mother; My tatters scarcely covered me; my hunger made me thin; I never knew of sympathy or kindness from another; I drank the cup of bitterness that comes to want and sin.

All my early youth was squandered, when there came across my thought A pa.s.sionate intolerance of the course my life had run; And I went out to the venders and some meagre fruitage bought, Till with selling and with buying, lo, a new life was begun.

Soon I found myself the owner of vast houses, wares, and sails, A very prince of traffic, with my slaves beyond the line, Where they sold my costly merchandise of cloth and cotton bales, Of many colored leathers, ostrich feathers, dates, and wine.

II.

THE MAIDEN OF THE GOLDEN KIOSK.

In the days when I, a beggar, wandered idly through the street, Past the palace, through the vineyards where the scented fountains play, Standing near the golden kiosk, it befell my lot to meet One for whom my heart grew larger, and I could not turn away.

Long my eyes upon the banquet of her beauty freely fed; How could I help but love her, whom the angels might adore!

But at last, tired of my staring, she turned away her head; Yet I saw the large pearls tremble that about her neck she wore.

Either cheek was sea-sh.e.l.l tinted, and around her dewy lips Played a smile that lingered lovingly, like star gleam on the sea; Thus emboldened, on my knees I fell, and kissed her finger tips, And begged of her, and prayed of her that I her slave might be.

I was dark and swarthy featured, comely still in form and face; My long black hair hung glossily about my neck and head; My large jet eyes were l.u.s.trous, and I had an easy grace That almost made a kingly robe my ragged garb of red.

I chained the maiden with my arm, I would not let her go; She said she was Eudocia, that Yorghi was her sire; I said I was Demetrius, a beggar vile and low, But 'neath my heart's one crucible love lit its fusing fire.

Her sensuous long dark lashes hung above her dreamy eyes, Like twin clouds of stormy portent balanced over limpid deeps; Like the wings of birds of pa.s.sage seen against the hazy skies; Like the petal o'er the pollen of the flow'ret when it sleeps.

All her vesture was embroidered with the finest lace of gold; A diamond in her turban with its eye-like glitter shone; The white dress more than half revealed a form of perfect mould, And her cincture, dagger-fastened, shaped the garment to her zone.

To my eyes she gave her dark eyes, down to gaze into and dream; And I seemed like one who leans above a bridge's slender rail, And thinks, and gazes wistfully deep down into the stream, While the twilight gathers round him, and the gleam-winged stars prevail.

After this I met her daily in the palace-garden ways, And she always came to meet me, and opened wide the gate, Often chiding, often smiling at my minute-long delays, And bringing dainty viands in a golden cup and plate.

I, her lover, was a beggar, but she loved me all the same; Had I been Haroun Alraschid she could not have loved me more; While she whispered, on my lips and on my eyes she kissed my name, And vined her arms about my neck; how could I but adore?

But all pleasure cloys or ceases; if the cup is stricken down, All its contents are like acid, burning deep a long regret; If it cloys, we calmly leave it, with perhaps a careless frown, Or may be a pleasant memory that is easy to forget.

Once when in the golden kiosk, with Eudocia's hand in mine, Came old Yorghi frowning darkly with the storm upon his face; Would she bring disgrace upon him? Would she break his n.o.ble line?

He stamped his fierce invective, and he drove me from the place.

Ere I went I turned upon him, and I boldly claimed her hand, And vowed that I would have her, though the city barred my way; But he scoffed at me, a beggar, and repeated his command, Never more to meet his daughter, for my life's sake, from that day.

III.