Betrayal

Now cometh October - a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
Hath taken the king's highway!
On the world she smiles - but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
Or memories of the May.

Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by -
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
A belated butterfly.

The crickets sing no more to the stars -
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there - both at night and at morn -
A lonely robin still sings.

A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Or...

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere
    Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
    Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,
    The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear
Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;
    Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,
    Thy drench'd and heavy rose. - Yet pledg'd and dear
    Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year;
Suspends her anchor on the silver horn
    Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day,
    Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,
And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,
    Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours
    Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

When but a little toddlin thing,
I'th' heather sweet shoo'd play,
An like a fay on truant wing,
Shoo'd rammel far away;
An even butterflees wod come
Her lovely face to scan,
An th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song,
For bonny Mary Ann.

Shoo didn't fade as years flew by,
But added day bi day,
Some little touch ov witchery, -
Some little winnin way.
Her lovely limbs an angel face,
To paint noa mortal can;
Shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace,
Did bonny Mary Ann.

To win her wod be heaven indeed,
Soa off aw went to woo;
Mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed,
Altho' mi heart spake too.
Aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?"
Shoo sed, "aw want a man,"
Then laffin gay, shoo tript away, -
Mi bonny Mary Ann.

Thinks aw, w...

Dear Anna,—Between friend and friend
Prose answers every common end;
Serves, in a plain and homely way,
To express the occurrence of the day;
Our health, the weather, and the news;
What walks we take, what books we choose;
And all the floating thoughts we find
Upon the surface of the mind.
But when a poet takes the pen,
Far more alive than other men,
He feels a gentle tingling come
Down to his finger and his thumb,
Derived from nature’s noblest part,
The centre of a glowing heart:
And this is what the world, who knows
No flights above the pitch of prose,
His more sublime vagaries slighting,
Denominates an itch for writing.
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme
To catch the triflers of the time,
And tell them truths divine and clear,
Which, c...

The jungle where the meow goes in, is
a forest for hoodlums.
Trucking up, the empty warriors
breakfast on lost impatience,
apricot fields away.


Now see them speed away.
Their lollipop cars drizzling in the sun.
Their apathetic stares really cantaloupe harvests,
left too long in the sun.

"The mountain village was destroy'd;
But see how soon is fill'd the void!
Shingles and boards, as by magic arise,
The babe in his cradle and swaddling-clothes lies;
How blest to trust to God's protection!"

Behold a wooden new erection,
So that, if sparks and wind but choose,
God's self at such a game must lose!

Gray mist on the sea,
And the night coming down,
She stays with sorrow
In a far town.

He goes the sea-ways
By channel lights dim,
Her love, a true light,
Watches for him.

They would be wedded
On a fair yesterday,
But the quick regiment
Saw him away.

Gray mist in her eyes
And the night coming down:
He feels a prayer
From a far town.

He goes the sea-ways,
The land lights are dim;
She and an altar light
Keep watch for him.

Now how could I, with gold to spare,
Who know the harlot's arms, and wine,
Sit in this green field all alone,
If Nature was not truly mine?

That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn,
From heavy sleep that no rest brings:
This life of quiet joy wakes fresh,
And claps its wings at morn, and sings.

So here sit I, alone till noon,
In one long dream of quiet bliss;
I hear the lark and share his joy,
With no more winedrops than were his.

Such, Nature, is thy charm and power,
Since I have made the Muse my wife,
To keep me from the harlot's arms,
And save me from a drunkard's life.

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

On summer nights when moonbeams flow
And glisten o’er the high, white tips,
And winds make lamentation low,
As through the ribs of shattered ships,
And steal about the broken brace
Where pendant timbers swing and moan,
And flitting bats give aimless chase,
Who dares to seek the mine alone?

The shrinking bush with sable rims
A skeleton forlorn and bowed,
With pipe-clay white about its limbs
And at its feet a tattered shroud;
And ghostly figures lurk and groan,
Shrill whispers sound from ghostly lips,
And ghostly footsteps start the stone
That clatters sharply down the tips.

The engine-house is dark and still,
The life that raged within has fled;
Like open graves the boilers chill
That once with glowing fires were red;
Above the s...

("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.")

[Bk. XXXI.]


When the regiment of Halberdiers
Is proudly marching by,
The eagle of the mountain screams
From out his stormy sky;
Who speaketh to the precipice,
And to the chasm sheer;
Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings,
And bids the caitiffs fear.
King of the peak and glacier,
King of the cold, white scalps -
He lifts his head, at that close tread,
The eagle of the Alps.

O shame! those men that march below -
O ignominy dire!
Are the sons of my free mountains
Sold for imperial hire.
Ah! the vilest in the dungeon!
Ah! the slave upon the seas -
Is great, is pure, is glorious,
Is grand compared with these,
Who, born amid my holy rocks,
In solemn places hig...

I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wife
Of him whose name breathes bravery and life
And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.
I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he
Is land, and lake, and sky - and soul to me.

Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,
Him who had flung their warriors into graves,
Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,
Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel
To all - save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife
Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.

Ah! but they hated him, and councilled long
With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;
How to avenge their dead, and strike him where
His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.
Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:
They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came
With ashe...

All from the light of the sweet moon
Tired men lie now abed;
Actionless, full of visions, soon
Vanishing, soon sped.

The starry night aflock with beams
Of crystal light scarce stirs:
Only its birds - the cocks, the streams,
Call 'neath heaven's wanderers.

All silent; all hearts still;
Love, cunning, fire fallen low:
When faint morn straying on the hill
Sighs, and his soft airs flow.

A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn.
Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn.
I had not dreamed that I could turn away
From all that men with brush and pen had wrought;
But ever since that memorable day
When to my heart the truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought.

    St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John -
    Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand,
    Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare,
    And walked upon the water and the land,

    If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings
    For sober conclave, ere their battle great,
    Would they for one deep instant then discern
    Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate?

    If you should float above the battle's front,
    Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay,
    Bearing a fifth within your regal train,
    The Son of David in his strange array -

    If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven,
    Would they have hearts to see or understand?
    ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know,
    Thorn-...

Semichorus.
Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which Nature has imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

Chorus.
Love's purer flames the Gods approve;
The Gods and Brutus bent to love:
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wand'ring, self-consuming fire,
But Hymen's kinde...

1

Ha! help! - 'twas palpable!
A ghost that thronged
Up from the mind or hell
Of one I wronged!


2

'Tis past and - silence! - naught! -
A vision born
Of the scared mind o'erwrought
With dreams forlorn:


3

The bastard brood of Death
And Sleep that wakes
Grim fancies with its breath,
And reason shakes.


4

Would that the grave _could_ rot
Like flesh the soul,
Gnaw through with worms and not
Leave it thus whole,


5

More than it was in earth
Beyond the grave,
Much more in death than birth
To conscience slave!

La guancia che fu già piangendo stanca.

TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.


    Thy weary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,
My much loved lord, upon the one repose;
More careful of thyself against Love be,
Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;
And with the other close the left-hand path
Too easy entrance where his message hath;
In sun and storm thyself the same display,
Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.
And, with the third, drink of the precious herb
Which purges every thought that would disturb,
Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:
But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,
So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,
If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.

MACGREGOR.