217. A Ballad of Trees and the Master

INTO the woods my Master went,

Clean forspent, forspent.

Into the woods my Master came,

Forspent with love and shame.

But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him

When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.

Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.

When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:

'Twas on a tree they slew Him— last When out of the woods He came.

218.

Evening Song

LOOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,
And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.
Ah, longer, longer, we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,
Love, lay thine hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;
Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.
O night! divorce our sun and sky apart
Never our lips, our hands.

219.

The Stirrup-Cup

DEATH, thou'rt a cordial old and rare:
Look how compounded, with what care!

Time got his wrinkles reaping thee

Sweet herbs from all antiquity.

David to thy distillage went,
Keats, and Gotama excellent,
Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright,
And Shakspere for a king-delight.

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt:
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt;
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;
I'll drink it down right smilingly.

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

1843-1909

220. The Royal Mummy to Bohemia

'HEREFORE these revels that my dull eyes greet?

WHERE

These dancers, dancing at my fleshless feet;

The harpers, harping vainly at my ears

Deaf to the world, lo, thrice a thousand years!

Time was when even I was blithe: I knew
The murmur of the flowing wave, where grew
The lean, lithe rushes; I have heard the moan
Of Nilus in prophetic undertone.

My sire was monarch of a mighty race:
Daughter of Pharaoh, I! before my face
Myriads of groveling creatures crawled, to thrust
Their fearful foreheads in the desert dust.

Above me gleamed and glowed my palace walls:
There bloomed my bowers; and there, my waterfalls
Lulled me in languors; slaves with feather flails
Fretted the tranquil air to gentle gales.

O, my proud palms! my royal palms that stood
In stately groups, a queenly sisterhood!
And O, my sphinxes, gazing eye in eye,
Down the dim vistas of eternity!

Where be ye now? And where am I at last?
With gay Bohemia is my portion cast:
Born of the oldest East, I seek my rest
In the fair city of the youngest West.

Farewell, O Egypt! Naught can thee avail:
What tarries now to tell thy sorry tale?
A sunken temple that the sands have hid
The tapering shadow of a pyramid!

And now, my children, harbor me not ill:
I was a princess, am a woman still.

Gibe me no gibes, but greet me at your best,
As I was wont to greet the stranger guest.

Feast well, drink well, make merry while ye may,
For e'en the best of you must pass my way.
The elder as the youngster, fair to see,
Must gird his marble loins and follow me.

221.

The Cocoa-Tree

AST on the water by a careless hand,

CAST

Day after day the winds persuaded me:

Onward I drifted till a coral tree

Stayed me among its branches, where the sand
Gathered about me, and I slowly grew,

Fed by the constant sun and the inconstant dew.

The sea-birds build their nests against my root,
And eye my slender body's horny case.
Widowed within this solitary place
Into the thankless sea I cast my fruit;

Joyless I thrive, for no man may partake

Of all the store I bear and harvest for his sake.

No more I heed the kisses of the morn;

The harsh winds rob me of the life they gave;
I watch my tattered shadow in the wave,

And hourly droop and nod my crest forlorn,
While all my fibres stiffen and grow numb
Beckoning the tardy ships, the ships that never come!

222.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY

A White Rose

'HE red rose whispers of passion,

THE

1844-1890

And the white rose breathes of love;

Oh, the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

IXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age,

DIXON,

Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl;

Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage, And watch him stride in freedom from the hall.

"Return on Friday, to be shot to death!

it was Monday night.

The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath; Then all night long the gambling-dens were bright.

The days sped slowly; but the Friday came,

And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground;

They chose six riflemen of deadly aim,

And with low voices sat and lounged around.