Buy my roses, Citizens!
Here"s a vi"let--here"s a pink-- Deeper tint than Cupid"s cheek; Deeper than his lips, I think.
Flora"s nymphs on rosy feet Ne"er o"er brighter blossoms sprang!
Ne"er a songster sweeter blooms, In his sweetest rhyming sang!
Vogue la galere! Roses must die-- Roses will grow again--so, buy!
CURTIUS.
How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how?
Methought, while on the shadow"d terraces I walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came, Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry.
"O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said; And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord, Gen"ral to ev"ry soul." And then my heart (I being here alone) beat strangely loud; Responsive to the cry--and my still soul, Inform"d me thus: "Not such a harmony Could spring from aught within the souls of men, But that which is most common to all souls.
Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile, To tell thee as I listen"d to the cry, How on the silver flax which blew about The ivory distaff in my languid hand, I found large tears; such big and rounded drops As gather thro" dark nights on cypress boughs, And I was sudden anger"d, for I thought: "Why should a gen"ral wail come home to me With such vibration in my trembling heart, That such great tears should rise and overflow?"
Then shook them on the marble where I pac"d; Where instantly they vanished in the sun, As di"monds fade in flames, "twas foolish, Curtius!
And then methought how strange and lone it seem"d, For till thou cam"st I seem"d to be alone, On the vin"d terrace, prison"d in the gold Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps To take my alms and bless the G.o.ds and me; No orphans touched the fringes of my robe With innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the gold I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek.
Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets To catch first tidings from the Oracles.
The very peac.o.c.ks drows"d in distant shades, Nor sought my hand for honey"d cake; and high A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky, And kept my doves from cooing at my feet.
My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds, Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath"d Around it as I sang--but with that wail Dying across the vines and purple slopes, And breaking on its strings, I did not care To waken music, nor in truth could force My voice or fingers to it, so I stray"d Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall, And pleased myself by filling it with thee!
"Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome, Say all the armourers; all Rome and I Know _thee_, the lordliest bearer of a sword.
Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost From out the helmet, and a ruby gone From the short sword hilt--trifles both which can Be righted by to-morrow"s noon--"to-morrow"s noon!"
Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice When spake I those three words: "to-morrow"s noon?"
O, I am full of dreams--methought there was.
"Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine!
If lov"d I dismal thoughts I well could deem Thou saw"st not the blue of my fond eyes, But looked between the lips of that dread pit-- O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the air With chills of death--we"ll not speak of it, Curtius.
When I had dimm"d thy shield with kissing it, I went between the olives to the stalls; White Audax neigh"d out to me as I came, As I had been Hippona to his eyes; New dazzling from the one, small, mystic cloud That like a silver chariot floated low In the ripe blue of noon, and seem"d to pause, Stay"d by the hilly round of yon aged tree.
He stretch"d the ivory arch of his vast neck, Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth; Shook the long silver of his burnish"d mane, Until the sunbeams smote it into light, Such as a comet trails across the sky.
I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous fires Leap from his eyes. I do truly think That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees Against his sides--the bridle in his jaws In thy lov"d hand, to pleasure thee he"d spring Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast Of Death and Chaos--of Death and Chaos!-- What omens seem to strike my soul to-day?
What is there in this blossom hour should knit An omen in with ev"ry simple word?
Should make yon willows with their hanging locks Dusk sybils, mutt"ring sorrows to the air?
The roses clamb"ring round yon marble Pan, Wave like red banners floating o"er the dead?
The dead--there "tis again. My Curtius, come And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles And what sent hither that long cry of woe.
Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear.
While on thy charger"s throbbing neck I lean"d, Romeward there pa.s.s"d across the violet slopes, Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides, And horns as cusp"d and white as Dian"s bow, And lordly b.r.e.a.s.t.s which laid the honey"d thyme Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose, For the great temple they; and as they pa.s.s"d With quiet gait, I heard their drivers say: The bulls were for the Altars, when should come Word from the Oracles, as to the Pit, O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see How black and fearful is its glutton throat; I will not look!
O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men Wav"d their long goads, still juicy from the vine, And plum"d with bronzy leaves, and each to each, Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides, The mighty curving of the lordly b.r.e.a.s.t.s, The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads, And laugh"d and said, "The G.o.ds will have it thus, The choicest of the earth for sacrifice; Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!"
Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words, To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill"d, As Daphne"s leaves, thrill to a wind so soft, One might not feel it on the open palm; I cannot choose but laugh--for what have I To do with altars and with sacrifice?
THE FARMER"S DAUGHTER CHERRY.
The Farmer quit what he was at, The bee-hive he was smokin": He tilted back his old straw hat-- Says he, "Young man, you"re jokin"!
O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,) Ain"t ye a cheeky sinner?
Come, if I give my gal thar, Where would _you_ find her dinner?
"Now look at _me_; I settl"d down When I was one and twenty, Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown, And stony land a plenty.
Look up thar! ain"t that homestead fine, And look at them thar cattle: I tell ye since that early time I"ve fit a tidy battle.
"It kinder wrestles down a man To fight the stuns and mire: But I sort of clutch"d to thet thar plan Of David and Goliar.
Want was the mean old Philistine That strutted round the clearin", Of pebbles I"d a hansum line, And flung "em nothin" fearin".
"They hit him square, right whar they ought, Them times I _had_ an arm!
I lick"d the giant and I bought A hundred acre farm.
My gal was born about them days, I was mowin" in the medder; When some one comes along and says-- "The wife"s gone thro" the shadder!"
"Times thought it was G.o.d"s will she went-- Times thought she work"d too slavin"-- And for the young one that was sent, I took to steady savin".
Jest cast your eye on that thar hill The sugar bush just tetches, And round by Miller Jackson"s mill, All round the farm stretches.
""Ain"t got a mind to give that land To any snip-snap feller That don"t know loam from mud or sand, Or if corn"s blue or yaller.
I"ve got a mind to keep her yet-- Last Fall her cheese and b.u.t.ter Took prizes; sakes! I can"t forget Her pretty pride and flutter.
"Why, you be off! her little face For me"s the only summer; Her gone, "twould be a queer, old place, The Lord smile down upon her!
All goes with her, the house and lot-- You"d like to get "em, very!
I"ll give "em when this maple bears A bouncin" ripe-red cherry!"
The Farmer fixed his hat and specks And pursed his lips together, The maple wav"d above his head, Each gold and scarlet feather: The Teacher"s Honest heart sank down: How could his soul be merry?
He knew--though teaching in a town, No maple bears a cherry.
Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, Like Saul to David"s singing, Nodded its jewelled crown, as he Swayed to the harp-strings" ringing; A something rosy--not a leaf Stirs up amid the branches; A miracle _may_ send relief To lovers fond and anxious!
O rosy is the velvet cheek Of one "mid red leaves sitting!
The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek With the needles in her knitting.
"O Pa!" The Farmer p.r.i.c.k"d his ears, Whence came that voice so merry?
(The Teacher"s thoughtful visage clears) "The maple bears a cherry!"
The Farmer tilted back his hat: "Well, gal--as I"m a human, I"ll always hold as doctrine that Thar"s nothin" beats a woman!
When crown"d that maple is with snow, And Christmas bells are merry, I"ll let you have her, Jack--that"s so!
Be sure you"re good to Cherry!"
SOME OF FARMER STEBBIN"S OPINIONS.
No, Parson, "tain"t been in my style, (Nor none ov my relations) Tew dig about the gnarly roots Ov prophetic spekkleations, Tew see what Malachai meant; Or Solomon was hintin"; Or reound what jog o" Futur"s road Isaiah was a-squintin".
I"ve lost my rest a-keepin" out The hogs from our cowc.u.mbers; But never lost a wink, you bet, By wrastlin" over Numbers.
I never took no comfort when The year was bald with losses, A-spekkleatin" on them chaps That rode them varus hosses.
It never gave my soul a boost When grief an" it was matin", Tew figger out that that thar Pope Wus reely twins with Satan.
I took no stock in countin" up How menny hed ov cattle From Egypt"s ranches Moses drove; I never fit a battle On p"ints that frequently gave rise Tew pious spat an" grumble, An" makes the brethren clinch an" yell In spiritooal rough-an"-tumble.
I never bet on Paul agin The argyments ov Peter, I never made the good old Book A kind ov moral teeter; Tew pa.s.s a ch.o.r.eless hour away, An" get the evenin" over; I swallered it jest as it stood, From cover clar tew cover.
Hain"t had no time tew disputate, Except with axe an" arm, With stump an" rampike and with stuns, Upon my half clar"d farm.