The Courtship of our Cid.
What a pang of sweet emotion
Thrilled the Master of the Ring,
When he first beheld the lady
Through the stable portal spring!
Midway in his wild grimacing
Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown;
And the thunders of the audience
Nearly brought the gallery down.
Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
Saw ye ever such a maid,
With the feathers swaling o’er her,
And her spangled rich brocade?
In her fairy hand a horsewhip,
On her foot a buskin small,
So she stepped, the stately damsel,
Through the scarlet grooms and all.
And she beckoned for her courser,
And they brought a milk-white mare;
Proud, I ween, was that Arabian
Such a gentle freight to bear:
And the master moved to greet her,
With a proud and stately walk;
And, in reverential homage,
Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.
Round she flew, as Flora flying
Spans the circle of the year;
And the youth of London, sighing,
Half forgot the ginger-beer—
Quite forgot the maids beside them;
As they surely well might do,
When she raised two Roman candles,
Shooting fireballs red and blue!
Swifter than the Tartar’s arrow,
Lighter than the lark in flight,
On the left foot now she bounded,
Now she stood upon the right.
Like a beautiful Bacchante,
Here she soars, and there she kneels,
While amid her floating tresses
Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!
Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!
See, the gates are opened wide!
Room, there, room for Gomersalez,—
Gomersalez in his pride!
Rose the shouts of exultation,
Rose the cat’s triumphant call,
As he bounded, man and courser,
Over Master, Clown, and all!
Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
Why those blushes on thy cheek?
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,
He hath come thy love to seek!
Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee
He is rushing like a gale;
One foot on his coal-black’s shoulders,
And the other on his tail!
Onward, onward, panting maiden!
He is faint, and fails, for now
By the feet he hangs suspended
From his glistening saddle-bow.
Down are gone both cap and feather,
Lance and gonfalon are down!
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,
He has flung them to the Clown.
Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,
Fresh as when he first began;
All in coat of bright vermilion,
’Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;
Right and left his whizzing broadsword,
Like a sturdy flail, he throws;
Cutting out a path unto thee
Through imaginary foes.
Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!
He is hard upon thy track,—
Paralysed is Widdicombez,
Nor his whip can longer crack;
He has flung away his broadsword,
’Tis to clasp thee to his breast.
Onward!—see, he bares his bosom,
Tears away his scarlet vest;
Leaps from out his nether garments,
And his leathern stock unties—
As the flower of London’s dustmen,
Now in swift pursuit he flies.
Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,
O’er the buckle, heel and toe!
Flaps his hands in his side-pockets,
Winks to all the throng below!
Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Woolfordinez, peerless girl,
O’er the garters lightly bounding
From her steed with airy whirl!
Gomersalez, wild with passion,
Danger—all but her—forgets;
Wheresoe’er she flies, pursues her,
Casting clouds of somersets!
Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Bright is Gomersalez’ eye;
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,
For his triumph sure is nigh!
Now his courser’s flanks he lashes,
O’er his shoulder flings the rein,
And his feet aloft he tosses,
Holding stoutly by the mane!
Then, his feet once more regaining,
Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,
And in graceful folds around him
A bespangled tunic falls.
Pinions from his heels are bursting,
His bright locks have pinions o’er them;
And the public see with rapture
Maia’s nimble son before them.
Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!
For a panting god pursues;
And the chalk is very nearly
Rubbed from thy white satin shoes;
Every bosom throbs with terror,
You might hear a pin to drop;
All is hushed, save where a starting
Cork gives out a casual pop.
One smart lash across his courser,
One tremendous bound and stride,
And our noble Cid was standing
By his Woolfordinez’ side!
With a god’s embrace he clasps her,
Raised her in his manly arms;
And the stables’ closing barriers
Hid his valour, and her charms!
AMERICAN BALLADS
The Fight with the Snapping Turtle;
or,
The American St George.
FYTTE FIRST.
Have you heard of Philip Slingsby,
Slingsby of the manly chest;
How he slew the Snapping Turtle
In the regions of the West?
Every day the huge Cawana
Lifted up its monstrous jaws;
And it swallowed Langton Bennett,
And digested Rufus Dawes.
Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby,
Their untimely deaths to hear;
For one author owed him money,
And the other loved him dear.
“Listen now, sagacious Tyler,
Whom the loafers all obey;
What reward will Congress give me,
If I take this pest away?”
Then sagacious Tyler answered,
“You’re the ring-tailed squealer! Less
Than a hundred heavy dollars
Won’t be offered you, I guess!
“And a lot of wooden nutmegs
In the bargain, too, we’ll throw—
Only you just fix the critter.
Won’t you liquor ere you go?”
Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby
Into armour of Seville,
With a strong Arkansas toothpick
Screwed in every joint of steel.
“Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,
Come with me, as squire, I pray;
Be the Homer of the battle
Which I go to wage to-day.”
So they went along careering
With a loud and martial tramp,
Till they neared the Snapping Turtle
In the dreary Swindle Swamp.
But when Slingsby saw the water,
Somewhat pale, I ween, was he.
“If I come not back, dear Bryant,
Tell the tale to Melanie!
“Tell her that I died devoted,
Victim to a noble task!
Han’t you got a drop of brandy
In the bottom of your flask?”
As he spoke, an alligator
Swam across the sullen creek;
And the two Columbians started,
When they heard the monster shriek;
For a snout of huge dimensions
Rose above the waters high,
And took down the alligator,
As a trout takes down a fly.
“’Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!”
Thus the squire in terror cried;
But the noble Slingsby straightway
Drew the toothpick from his side.
“Fare thee well!” he cried, and dashing
Through the waters, strongly swam:
Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,
Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.
Sudden from the slimy bottom
Was the snout again upreared,
With a snap as loud as thunder,—
And the Slingsby disappeared.
Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,
Down the monstrous vision sank;
And the ripple, slowly rolling,
Plashed and played upon the bank.
Still and stiller grew the water,
Hushed the canes within the brake;
There was but a kind of coughing
At the bottom of the lake.
Bryant wept as loud and deeply
As a father for a son—
“He’s a finished ’coon, is Slingsby,
And the brandy’s nearly done!”
FYTTE SECOND.
In a trance of sickening anguish,
Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,
For two days did Bryant linger
By the dreary Swindle Swamp;
Always peering at the water,
Always waiting for the hour
When those monstrous jaws should open
As he saw them ope before.
Still in vain;—the alligators
Scrambled through the marshy brake,
And the vampire leeches gaily
Sucked the garfish in the lake.
But the Snapping Turtle never
Rose for food or rose for rest,
Since he lodged the steel deposit
In the bottom of his chest.
Only always from the bottom
Sounds of frequent coughing rolled,
Just as if the huge Cawana
Had a most confounded cold.
On the banks lay Cullen Bryant,
As the second moon arose,
Gouging on the sloping greensward
Some imaginary foes;
When the swamp began to tremble,
And the canes to rustle fast,
As though some stupendous body
Through their roots were crushing past.
And the waters boiled and bubbled,
And, in groups of twos and threes,
Several alligators bounded,
Smart as squirrels, up the trees.
Then a hideous head was lifted,
With such huge distended jaws,
That they might have held Goliath
Quite as well as Rufus Dawes.
Paws of elephantine thickness
Dragged its body from the bay,
And it glared at Cullen Bryant
In a most unpleasant way.
Then it writhed as if in torture,
And it staggered to and fro;
And its very shell was shaken
In the anguish of its throe:
And its cough grew loud and louder,
And its sob more husky thick!
For, indeed, it was apparent
That the beast was very sick.
Till, at last, a spasmy vomit
Shook its carcass through and through,
And as if from out a cannon,
All in armour Slingsby flew.
Bent and bloody was the bowie
Which he held within his grasp;
And he seemed so much exhausted
That he scarce had strength to gasp—
“Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him!
Gouge him while he’s on the shore!”
Bryant’s thumbs were straightway buried
Where no thumbs had pierced before.
Right from out their bony sockets
Did he scoop the monstrous balls;
And, with one convulsive shudder,
Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!
* * * * *
“Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!”
But the old experienced file,
Leering first at Clay and Webster,
Answered, with a quiet smile—
“Since you dragged the ’tarnal crittur
From the bottom of the ponds,
Here’s the hundred dollars due you,
All in Pennsylvanian Bonds!” [44]
The Lay of Mr Colt.
[The story of Mr Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, is this: A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor’s head to fragments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, and sprinkling it with salt, despatched it to a packet bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian’s mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch’s own counsel, a Mr Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was “entitled to the sympathy of a jury of his country,” as “a young man just entering into life, whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted.” Colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than a year from the date of conviction, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt’s story is told in our ballad.]