Andromeda and Other Poems Part 17

Eversley, 1870.

THE MANGO-TREE

He wiled me through the furzy croft; He wiled me down the sandy lane.

He told his boy's love, soft and oft, Until I told him mine again.

We married, and we sailed the main; A soldier, and a soldier's wife.

We marched through many a burning plain; We sighed for many a gallant life.

But his--G.o.d kept it safe from harm.

He toiled, and dared, and earned command; And those three stripes upon his arm Were more to me than gold or land.

Sure he would win some great renown: Our lives were strong, our hearts were high.

One night the fever struck him down.

I sat, and stared, and saw him die.

I had his children--one, two, three.

One week I had them, blithe and sound.

The next--beneath this mango-tree, By him in barrack burying-ground.

I sit beneath the mango-shade; I live my five years' life all o'er-- Round yonder stems his children played; He mounted guard at yonder door.

'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead.

They live; they know; they feel; they see.

Their spirits light the golden shade Beneath the giant mango-tree.

All things, save I, are full of life: The minas, pluming velvet b.r.e.a.s.t.s; The monkeys, in their foolish strife; The swooping hawks, the swinging nests;

The lizards basking on the soil, The b.u.t.terflies who sun their wings; The bees about their household toil, They live, they love, the blissful things.

Each tender purple mango-shoot, That folds and droops so bashful down; It lives; it sucks some hidden root; It rears at last a broad green crown.

It blossoms; and the children cry-- 'Watch when the mango-apples fall.'

It lives: but rootless, fruitless, I-- I breathe and dream;--and that is all.

Thus am I dead: yet cannot die: But still within my foolish brain There hangs a pale blue evening sky; A furzy croft; a sandy lane.

1870.

THE PRIEST'S HEART

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest, He strode up off the strand; But seven fisher maidens he left behind All dancing hand in hand.

He came unto the wise wife's house: 'Now, Mother, to prove your art; To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes Out of a young man's heart.'

'My son, you went for a holy man, Whose heart was set on high; Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books; Man's love fleets lightly by.'

'I had liever to talk with May Carleton, Than with all the saints in Heaven; I had liever to sit by May Carleton Than climb the spheres seven.

'I have watched and fasted, early and late, I have prayed to all above; But I find no cure save churchyard mould For the pain which men call love.'

'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse: Enough that ill be ill.

I know of a spell to draw May Carleton, And bend her to your will.'

'If thou didst that which thou canst not do, Wise woman though thou be, I would run and run till I buried myself In the surge of yonder sea.

'Scathless for me are maid and wife, And scathless shall they bide.

Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart That aches in my left side.'

She charmed him with the white witchcraft, She charmed him with the black, But he turned his fair young face to the wall, Till she heard his heart-strings crack.

1870

'QU'EST QU'IL DIT' {330}

Espion aile de la jeune amante De l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri?

Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre-- Pourquoi, pourquoi demander 'Qu'est qu'il dit?'

'Qu'est qu'il dit?' Ce que tu dis toi-meme Chaque mois de ce printemps eternel; Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent, Ce que dit tout bel jeun etre a toute belle.

Importun! Attende quelques l.u.s.tres: Quand les souvenirs 1'emmeneront ici-- Mere, grand'mere, pale, la.s.se, et fidele, Demande mais doucement--'Et le vieillard, Qu'est qu'il dit?'

Trinidad, January 10, 1870

THE LEGEND OF LA BREA {331a}

Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, In the stately Morichal, {331b} Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, Peering through the columns tall.

Watching vainly for the flas.h.i.+ng Of the jewelled colibris; {331c} Listening vainly for their humming Round the honey-blossomed trees.

'Few,' he sighed, 'they come, and fewer, To the cocorite {331d} bowers; Murdered, madly, through the forests Which of yore were theirs--and ours

By there came a negro hunter, Lithe and l.u.s.ty, sleek and strong, Rolling round his sparkling eyeb.a.l.l.s, As he loped and lounged along.