The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 39

Into the wide world the maid and her lover Wandered by pathways that sundered them far; From pine-groves to palm-groves, he flitted a rover, She tended his roses, and watched for his star.

Oft he said softly, while melting eyes glistened, "Sweet is my life, love, with you ever near:"

Morning and evening she waited and listened For a voice and a foot-step that never came near.

Fainting at last, on her threshold she found him: "Life is but ashes, and bitter," he sighed.

She, with her tender arms folded around him, Whispered--"But love is still sweet;" and so died.

O WILD NOVEMBER WIND.

O wild November wind, blow back to me The withered leaves, that drift adown the past; Waft me some murmur of the summer sea, On which youth's fairy fleet of dreams was cast; Return to me the beautiful No More-- O wild November wind, restore, restore!

November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave, Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring?

No more their dances dimple o'er the wave, Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring: Those gales are dead--that dimpling sea is dark; And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.

O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs That kissed the roses of the long-ago?

Taking them captive--swooned in blissful snares-- To let them perish. Now no roses blow In the waste gardens thou art laying bare: Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?

Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale?

No gentle whisper from the past to me!

No s.n.a.t.c.hes of sweet song--no tender tale-- No happy ripple of that summer sea; Are all my dreams wrecked on the nevermore?

O wild November wind, restore, restore!

BY THE SEA.

Blue is the mist on the mountains, White is the fog on the sea; Ruby and gold is the sunset,-- And Bertha is waiting for me.

Down on the loathsome sand-beach, Her eyes as blue as the mist; Her brows as white as the sea-fog,-- Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.

Bertha, whose lips are like rubies, Whose hair is like coiled gold; Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer Than any legend of old.

One morn, one noon, one sunset, Must pa.s.s before we meet; O wind and sail bear steady on, And bring me to her feet.

The morn rose pale and sullen, The noon was still and dun; Across the storm at sunset, Came the boom of a signal-gun.

Who treads the loathsome sand-beach, With wet, disordered hair; With garments tangled with sea-weed, And cheeks more pale than fair?

O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden, He will keep love's tryst no more; His s.h.i.+p sailed safely into port-- But on the heavenward sh.o.r.e.

POLK COUNTY HILLS.

November came that day, And all the air was gray With delicate mists, blown down From hill-tops by the south wind's balmy breath; And all the oaks were brown As Egypt's kings in death; The maple's crown of gold Laid tarnished on the wold; The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow, Wore tattered suits of yellow.

The soft October rains Had left some scarlet stains Of color on the landscape's neutral ground; Those fine ephemeral things, The winged motes of sound, That sing the "Harvest Home"

Of ripe Autumn in the gloam Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river, Sang that day their best endeavor.

I said: "In what sweet place Shall we meet face to face, Her loveliest self to see-- Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites, And learn the mystery Of her unnamed delights?"

Then you said: "Let us go Where the late violets blow In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;-- We'll find she's there abiding."

Do we recall that day?

Has its grace pa.s.sed away?

Its tenderest, dream-like tone, Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air-- Has its fine perfume flown And left the memory bare?

Not so; its charm is still Over wood, vale and hill-- The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus, The spirit that before us

Enticed us with delights To the blue, breezy hights.

O, beautiful hills that stand Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace Of both to make you grand,-- Your loveliness leaves place For nothing fairer; fair And complete beyond compare.

O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November, Be sure that I remember!

WAITING.

I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting, Though the steps watched for never come anear; The wearying want clings to it unabating-- The fruitless wish for presences once dear.

No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision; No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow; No scene more truly could be called Elysian, Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.

And yet I pine;--this beautiful completeness Is incomplete, to my desiring heart; 'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness-- The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.

There is no longer pleasure in emotion.

I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill; Who--"painted s.h.i.+ps upon a painted ocean,"-- Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.

Where are they fled?--they whose delightful voices, Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall: No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices: Change, death, and distance part me now from all.

And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming, Pierces my soul with every sharp regret; The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming, Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.

Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent, 'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine, Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent, In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:

Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses, And gathered violets to deck my breast, Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses-- I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.

Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom; While the young moon, and one bright star returning Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.

Gone is the glimmer of the silent river; Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day; Alone through silence falls the crystal s.h.i.+ver Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.

And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token-- A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past; Alas, I listen for a word unspoken, And wail for arms that have embraced their last.

I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling To grow immortal in my happy breast; Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing-- The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.

As the conviction sinks into my spirit That my quick heart is doomed to death in life; Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, I am abandoned to despairing strife.

To the lost life, alas! no more returning-- In this to come no semblance of the past-- Only to wait!--hoping this ceaseless yearning May, 'ere long, end--and rest may come at last.

PALMA.

What tellest thou to heaven, Thou royal tropic tree?

At morn or noon or even, Proud dweller by the sea, What is thy song to heaven?