Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems

by Isabella Valancy Crawford

THE ROMAN ROSE-SELLER

Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see
My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries
Drop honey amber, and their petals throw
Rich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrine
Where snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow,
As crimson lips of Love may seek to warm
A sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn.
Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day;
Patricians, buy my royal roses; strew
His way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'd
A tide of musky roses from his bed to do
A wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thou
To-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses,
To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look,
I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems,
The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower;
Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia,
Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yet
It is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smells
Than those death hath not touched. To-day they bear
The shield of Claudius with his spear upon it,
Close upon Caesar's chariot—heap, heap it up
With roses such as these; 'tis true he's dead
And there's the canker! but, Romans, he
Died glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtues
Are these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow.
No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess!
Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and not
A white one, though thy chaste hands attend
On Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour—be it that
Which ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods;
Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth;
Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star upon
The solemn sky which bridges same sad life,
So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pure
As Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek,
And know no quality of love, thou art
A sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love!
I would my roses could but chorus Thee.
No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here—
I give thee this last blossom: A bee as red
As Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets;
A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'd
Its new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stole
The dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinks
A bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yet
It hath some beauty left! a little scarlet—for
The Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life,
Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I make
My roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beat
In god-like silver bursts of sound; I go
To see great Caesar leading Glory home,
From Campus Martius to the Capitol!

THE WOOING OF GHEEZIS.

The red chief Gheezis, chief of the golden wampum, lay
And watched the west-wind blow adrift the clouds,
With breath all flowery, that from his calumet
Curl'd like to smoke about the mountain tops.
Gheezis look'd from his wigwam, blue as little pools
Drained from the restless mother-wave, that lay
Dreaming in golden hollows of her sands;
And deck'd his yellow locks with feath'ry clouds,
And took his pointed arrows and so stoop'd
And leaning with his red hands on the hills,
Look'd with long glances all along the earth.
"Mudjekeewis, West-Wind, in amongst the forest,
"I see a maid, gold-hued as maize full ripe; her eyes
"Laugh under the dusk boughs like watercourses;
"Her moccasins are wrought with threads of light: her hands
"Are full of blue eggs of the robin, and of buds
"Of lilies, and green spears of rice: O Mudjekeewis,
"Who is the maid, gold-hued as maize full-ripen'd?"
"O sun, O Gheezis, that is Spring, is Segwun—woo her!"
"I cannot, for she hides behind the behmagut—
"The thick leav'd grape-vine, and there laughs upon me."
"O Gheezis," cried Segwun from behind the grape-vine.
"Thy arms are long but all too short to reach me,
"Thou art in heaven and I upon the earth!"
Gheezis, with long, golden fingers tore the grape-vine,
But Segwun laughed upon him from behind
A maple, shaking little leaves of gold fresh-budded.
"Gheezis, where are thy feet, O sun, O chief?"
"Follow," sigh'd Mudjekeewis, "Gheezis must wed
"With Spring, with Segwun, or all nature die."
The red chief Gheezis swift ran down the hills,
And as he ran the pools and watercourses
Snatch'd at his yellow hair; the thickets caught
Its tendrils on their brambles; and the buds
That Segwun dropp'd, opened as they touched.
His moccasins were flame, his wampum gold;
His plumes were clouds white as the snow, and red
As Sumach in the moon of falling leaves.
He slipp'd beside the maple, Segwun laugh'd.
"O Gheezis, I am hid amid the lily-pads,
"And thou hast no canoe to seek me there; farewell!"
"I see thine eyes, O Segwun, laugh behind the buds;
"The Manitou is love, and gives me love, and love
"Gives all of power." His moccasins wide laid
Red tracks upon the waves: When Segwun leap'd
Gold-red and laughing from the lily-pads,
To flit before him like a fire-fly, she found
The golden arms of Gheezis round her cast, the buds
Burst into flower in her hands, and all the earth
Laughing where Gheezis look'd; and Mudjekeewis,
Heart friend of Gheezis, laugh'd, "Now life is come
"Since Segwun and red Gheezis wed and reign!"

BABY'S DREAMS.

What doth the moon so lily white,
Busily weave this Summer night?
Silver ropes and diamond strands
For Baby's pink and dimpl'd hands;
Cords for her rosy palms to hold,
While she floats, she flies,
To Dream Land set with its shores of gold,
And its buds like stars shaken out of the skies;
Where the trees have tongues and the flowers have lips
To coax, to kiss,
The velvet cheek of the Babe who slips
Thro' the Dream gate up to a land like this.

What is the mild sea whisp'ring clear
In the rosy shell of Baby's ear?
See! she laughs in her dimpl'd sleep—
What does she hear from the shining deep?

* * * * *

"Thy father comes a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,
Safely comes a-sailing from islands fair and far.
O Baby, bid thy mother cease her tears and bitter wailing
The sailor's wife's his only port, his babe his beacon star!"

Softly the Wind doth blow,
What say its murmurs low?
What doth it bring
On the wide soft plume of its dewy wing?
"Only scented blisses
Of innocent, sweet kisses,
For such cheeks as this is
Of Baby in her nest.
From all the dreaming flowers,
A nodding in their bowers;
Or bright on leafy towers,
Where the fairy monarchs rest."
"But chiefly I bring,
On my fresh sweet mouth,
Her father's kiss,
As he sails out of the south.
He hitherward blew it at break of day,
I lay it, Babe, on thy tender lip;
I'll steal another and hie away,
And kiss it to him on his wave-rock'd ship."