Poems by John Hay Part 5

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,-- She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!

I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!

To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

On Pitz Languard

I stood on the top of Pitz Languard, And heard three voices whispering low, Where the Alpine birds in their circling ward Made swift dark shadows upon the snow.

_First voice_.

I loved a girl with truth and pain, She loved me not. When she said good by She gave me a kiss to sting and stain My broken life to a rosy dye.

_Second voice_.

I loved a woman with love well tried,-- And I swear I believe she loves me still.

But it was not I who stood by her side When she answered the priest and said "I will."

_Third voice._

I loved two girls, one fond, one shy, And I never divined which one loved me.

One married, and now, though I can't tell why.

Of the four in the story I count but three.

The three weird voices whispered low Where the eagles swept in their circling ward; But only one shadow scarred the snow As I clambered down from Pitz Languard.

Boudoir Prophecies

One day in the Tuileries, When a southwest Spanish breeze Brought scandalous news of the Queen, The fair proud Empress said, "My good friend loses her head; If matters go on this way, I shall see her shopping, some day, In the Boulevard des Capucines."

The saying swiftly went To the Place of the Orient, And the stout Queen sneered, "Ah, well!

You are proud and prude, ma belle!

But I think I will hazard a guess I shall see you one day playing chess With the Cure of Carabanchel."

Both ladies, though not over-wise, Were lucky in prophecies.

For the Boulevard shopmen well Know the form of stout Isabel As she buys her modes de Paris; And after Sedan in despair The Empress prude and fair Went to visit Madame sa Mere In her villa at Carabanchel-- But the Queen was not there to see.

A Triumph of Order

A Squad of regular infantry In the Commune's closing days, Had captured a crowd of rebels By the wall of Pere-la-Chaise.

There were desperate men, wild women, And dark-eyed Amazon girls, And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek And yellow cl.u.s.tering curls.

The captain seized the little waif, And said, "What dost thou here?"

"Sapristi, Citizen captain!

I'm a Communist, my dear!"

"Very well! Then you die with the others!"

--"Very well! That's my affair; But first let me take to my mother, Who lives by the wine-shop there,

"My father's watch. You see it; A gay old thing, is it not?

It would please the old lady to have it, Then I'll come back here, and be shot.

"That is the last we shall see of him,"

The grizzled captain grinned, As the little man skimmed down the hill, Like a swallow down the wind.

For the joy of killing had lost its zest In the glut of those awful days, And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, From the Arch to Pere-la-Chaise.

But before the last platoon had fired, The child's shrill voice was heard; "Houp-la! the old girl made such a row I feared I should break my word."

Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest, A b.u.t.ton was lost from his ragged blouse, Which showed his soft white breast.

"Now blaze away, my children!

With your little one-two-three!"

The Cha.s.sepots tore the stout young heart, And saved Society.

Ernst of Edelsheim

I'll tell the story, kissing This white hand for my pains: No sweeter heart, nor falser E'er filled such fine, blue veins.

I'll sing a song of true love, My Lilith dear! to you; _Contraria contrariis_-- The rule is old and true.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim; And why he was the happiest, I'll tell you in my rhyme.

One summer night he wandered Within a lonely glade, And, couched in moss and moonlight, He found a sleeping maid.

The stars of midnight sifted Above her sands of gold; She seemed a slumbering statue, So fair and white and cold.

Fair and white and cold she lay Beneath the starry skies; Rosy was her waking Beneath the Ritter's eyes.

He won her drowsy fancy, He bore her to his towers, And swift with love and laughter Flew morning's purpled hours.