Identity

    Climbing the heights of Berkeley
    Nightly I watch the West.
    There lies new San Francisco,
    Sea-maid in purple dressed,
    Wearing a dancer's girdle
    All to inflame desire:
    Scorning her days of sackcloth,
    Scorning her cleansing fire.

    See, like a burning city
    Sets now the red sun's dome.
    See, mystic firebrands sparkle
    There on each store and home.
    See how the golden gateway
    Burns with the day to be -
    Torch-bearing fiends of portent
    Loom o'er the earth and sea.

    Not by the earthquake daunted
    Nor by new fears made tame,
    Painting her face and laughing
    Plays she a new-found game.
    Here on her half-cool cinders
    'Frisco abides in mirth,
    Plannin...

Tune - "Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh."


I.

    As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin',
        The pipers and youngsters were making their game;
    Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover,
        Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again.
    Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him;
        I may be distress'd, but I winna complain;
    I flatter my fancy I may get anither,
        My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

II.

    I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin',
        The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain:
    Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken,
        For, oh! luve forsaken's a tormenting pain.

III.

    Although he has left me for greed o' the sille...

Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white
As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,
As if before young Violet's dreaming eyes
Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright
That swayed the random of that furious fight
Where Palamon and Arcite made assize
For Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,
That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite
More trial of the tongue; simple, like her,
Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,
- The queen's no finer; rich (though gossamer)
In help to him they came to, which may tell
How rich that him SHE'LL come to; thus men see,
Like Violet's self e'en Violet's wafers be.


Baltimore, 1881.

Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name
She is fairer than flowers of the fire she is brighter than brightness of flame.
As a song that strikes swift to the heart with the beat of the blood of the South,
And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth.
Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun,
But turn from the steps of Campaspe a Woman to look at and shun!

Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware
Of the trap in the droop in the raiment the snare in the folds of the hair!
She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet,
But fly from the face of the girl there is death in the fall of her feet!
Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at ...

Your picture smiles as first it smiled;
The ring you gave is still the same;
Your letter tells, O changing child!
No tidings since it came.

Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you,--
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not, pale and blue.

Alas! that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.

    Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook,
    A garden nook, not far from thy domain,
    That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book,
    I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain,
    Rehearse the songs of nature once again: -
    The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook
    To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain,
    And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook!
    I die to serve thee, and for this alone, -
    To be thy bard-elect, from day to day, -
    I would forego the right to fill a throne.
    I would consent to be the famine-prey
    Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown
    I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.

The day has been wild and stormy,
    And full of the wind's unrest,
And I sat down alone by the window,
    While the sunset dyed the West;
And the holy rush of twilight,
    As the day went over the hill,
Like the voice of a spirit seemed speaking
    And saying, 'Peace be still.'

Then I thought with sudden longing,
    That it might be so with my woes;
That the life so wild and restless,
    When it reached the eve's repose,
Might glow with a sudden glory,
    And be crowned with peace and rest;
And the holy calm of twilight
    Might come to my troubled breast.

All of the pain and passion
    That trouble my life's long day
As the winds go down at sunset,
    May suddenly pass away.
And the wild and turbulent billows,
 ...

I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way.

The wealth might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love

Depreciate the vision;
But, till the merchant buy,
Still fable, in the isles of spice,
The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 't is mutual risk, --
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life, -- each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon.

"Black is the sky, but the land is white -
    (O the wind, the snow and the storm!) -
Father, where is our boy to-night?
    Pray to God he is safe and warm."

"Mother, mother, why should you fear?
    Safe is he, and the Arctic moon
Over his cabin shines so clear -
    Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon."

"It's getting dark awful sudden. Say, this is mighty queer!
Where in the world have I got to? It's still and black as a tomb.
I reckoned the camp was yonder, I figured the trail was here -
Nothing! Just draw and valley packed with quiet and gloom;
Snow that comes down like feathers, thick and gobby and gray;
Night that looks spiteful ugly - seems that I've lost my way.

"The cold's got an edge like a jackknife - it must be forty belo...

O blackbird! sing me something well:
While all the neighbors shoot thee round,
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,
Where thou mayst warble, eat, and dwell.
The espaliers and the standards all
Are thine; the range of lawn and park;
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,
All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! ths silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry;
Plenty corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once when young;

And in the sultry garden-squares,
Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse
As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Tak...

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
    And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
    Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
    And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
    So like the reality.

I will paint yourself, rumseller,
    As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
    A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
    But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
    That he pauses to chat awhile.

I will paint you again, rumseller,
    I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
    Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him -
    Drink, pledge me just this one!

‘I’m off on the wallaby!’ cries Old Ben,
And his pipe is lit, and his swag is rolled;
‘There is nothing here for us old-time men,
But up north, I hear, they are on the gold.’
And he shuffles off with a feeble stride,
With his ragged swag and his billy black.
He is making tracks for the other side,
O’er the river deep, or the Great Divide;
But at night, dead beat, he travels back.

Then at morn next day he is off again,
With an eager light in his aged eyes,
Tramping away on his journey vain
For the land of promise beyond the rise.
Over the range there is work to do,
There is roaring life at the shanty bars.
He will tramp the plains whilst the skies are blue,
And will wander the great wide bushland through,
And be soothed to sleep by the blinking stars...

So far as I conceive the World’s rebuke
To him address’d who would recast her new,
Not from herself her fame of strength she took,
But from their weakness, who would work her rue.
‘Behold,’ she cries, ‘so many rages lull’d,
So many fiery spirits quite cool’d down:
Look how so many valours, long undull’d,
After short commerce with me, fear my frown.
Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue.’
The World speaks well: yet might her foe reply
‘Are wills so weak? then let not mine wait long.
Hast thou so rare a poison? let me be
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me.

It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about,
And zealous as could be.

It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney bus
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.

His name was Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon
This bus-directing Jew.

The Bishop said, said he,
"I'll see what I can do
To Christianize and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew."

So every blessed day
That bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:

"His name is Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon
This bus-directing Jew."

At first the busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun
He merely smiled...

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS.[54]

See the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish'd, like their dead!
Imperial wonders raised on nations spoil'd
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd:
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage,
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,
Some buried marble half-preserves a name;
That na...

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

SIR,
Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin
With much greater noise than a conjugal din.
A pox of her bawling, her tempora et mores!
What are times now to me; a'nt I one of the Tories?
You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers;
Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears?
You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus,
To give his assistance to make out my rebus:
Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future;
When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter.
I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can,
To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon;
For Helicon is water, and water is weak;
'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak.
This I know by her spirit and life; but I think
She's much in the wrong to...

        You will forget me. The years are so tender,
    They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
        This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
    Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;
        The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
    Will banish the last rosy colors away,
        And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover
    The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

        You will forget me. The one boon you covet
    Now above all things will soon seem no prize;
        And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it
    True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
        The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting
    To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
        But a val...