Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 25

Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown-- Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce!

Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night?

Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right.

I's done all dat I kin do-- Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; Reckon I'd a' bettah wo'

My ol' ragged calico.

Aftah all de pains I's took, Cain't you tell me how I look?

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott.

Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White?

Miss Lize say I allus wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she'll git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too.

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

I could ma'y in a week, If de man I wants 'ud speak.

Tildy's presents 'll be fine, But dey wouldn't ekal mine.

Him whut gits me fu' a wife 'll be proud, you bet yo' life.

I's had offers, some ain't quit; But I hasn't ma'ied yit!

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Ike, I loves you--yes, I does; You's my choice, and allus was.

Laffin' at you ain't no harm-- Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm?

Hug me closer--dah, da's right!

Wasn't you a awful sight, Havin' me to baig you so?

Now ax whut you want to know-- Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

_Paul Laurence Dunbar._

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

_Thomas Moore._

Aux Italiens

At Paris it was, at the opera there;-- And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, _Non ti scordar di me?_[A]

The emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye, You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was!

Who died the richest and roundest of men.

The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pa.s.s; I wish him well, for the jointure given To my Lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather:

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest; And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold; Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage, and drest In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:-- From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the pa.s.sage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.