(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)
Cape Jessamines
“Cape jessamines! Remove them from my sight!
I can not bear that odor, cloying sweet,
That hangs about them like a heavy sigh.
They bring back to my memory haunting days
Of deep regret, and open all my wounds again.
Fair, dream-like flower, that in this Southern town
Within the dark green copses of thy birth
Hangeth faint and heavy with thine own sweet breath,
To me ye are a mockery, and your odor foul.
Come, sit thee down, Rinaldo, I will tell thee all.
Knewest thou fair Rosamond, the Houston belle,
Who years ago, like some fair Lorelei of old
Upon the hearts of all our gallants set her feet?
I loved her madly and I swore to win
Her from the suing courtiers in her train.
Alas! Rinaldo—this sudden faintness—quick—some wine!
Ah! thanks, it gives me strength to tell the tale.
For years I have not been myself. Since one
Sad night that in my mem’ry burns white-hot
Like some sad bark that washes, derelict
Within the trough of sullen alien tides,
I’ve drifted down the mournful muttering seas;
But at the smell of jessamines, my brain
Quick strikes those aching chords of old,
And all the latest agony revives.
It grasps me now—more wine, Rinaldo—thanks;
I’m better now. ’Twas on one summer’s night
I stood with Rosamond to count the stars.
With downcast eyes and softly heaving breast,
She pledged a kiss for every star that fell.
My pretty, sweet, shy dove. Methinks they fell
Too seldom till, anon, some frolic boys
Sent up a sky rocket, and when it burst
Upon her lips I pressed full seventeen.
But—peace! I wander from my theme.
At last my love o’erpowered, and I spake
In thrilling tones, and wooed her there.
What clogs my heart? More wine, Rinaldo, quick!
Oh, then she fastened on me those dark orbs,
In them illimitable sadness, and such store
Of pity that her face angelic seemed.
More wine, Rinaldo—thanks. I’m better now.
The while the garden there was heavy with
The odor of cape jessamines, and pinned
Upon her breast a cluster of them lay.
And in her hair some snowy buds were twined;
Almost oppressive was the odor of the flower.
And that is why the smell of jessamines
Unto my heart such bitter thoughts recalls.
Rinaldo, quick! A glass of wine! My brain
Is reeling! Another glass! Is there no more?
Well, then, I’ll cease. I married Rosamond
And since then I can’t stand those blooming
Blarsted cape jessamine flowers. See?”
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)
The Cricket
When the moonlight falls from the star-strewn sky;
Comes the tune of the mockingbird;
When the morning dawns and the roses sigh,
Then the lark’s sweet voice is heard.
When all things smile
And the hours beguile,
Then the hearts of the singers are stirred.
When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink low;
And the death watch ticks in the wall,
And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe,
Comes the cricket’s merry call.
In the hour of fear,
With his note of cheer,
Rings his sprightly madrigal.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)
My Broncho
Yoho! Away o’er the mesquite sward,
With stirruped foot and a slackened rein;
With drumming hoofs, the hills toward.
And our track the boundless grassy plain;
Light in the saddle and ready hand;
Ride in the teeth of the wind and sand,
Wind, and sand, and rain.
Knees pressed tight on the saddle flap
Where the lasso dangles from its string
Over the rifle scabbard strap,
And the canteen and suaderos swing;
The wind sings hollow in my ear,
Nor sail nor wheel could follow near,
Sail, nor wheel, nor wing.