Part 3 (1/2)

A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Written In Madison Caweln's ”Lyrics and Idyls.”

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- Such luxury of indolence-- The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, With water-lilies watching her.

You waken, thrilling at the trill Of some wild bird that seems to spill The silence full of winey drips Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough The chipmunk stripes himself from view, You pause to lop a creamy spray Of elder-blossoms by the way.

Or where the morning dew is yet Gray on the topmost rail, you set A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

On lordly swards, of suave incline, Entessellate with shade and s.h.i.+ne, You shall mis...o...b.. your lowly birth, Clad on as one of princely worth:

The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- Your milk-white Arab side by side With one of raven-black.--You fain Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!

Sing us back home--from there to here; Grant your high grace and wit, but we Most honor your simplicity.--

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

Mellow hazes, lowly trailing Over wood and meadow, veiling Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing Sailor-like to foreign lands; And the north-wind overleaping Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping Wrecks of roses where the weeping Willows wring their helpless hands.

Flared, like t.i.tan torches flinging Flakes of flame and embers, springing From the vale the trees stand swinging In the moaning atmosphere; While in dead'ning-lands the lowing Of the cattle, sadder growing, Fills the sense to overflowing With the sorrow of the year.

Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter Sings the brook in rippled meter Under boughs that lithely teeter Lorn birds, answering from the sh.o.r.es Through the viny, shady-s.h.i.+ny Inters.p.a.ces, shot with tiny Flying motes that fleck the winy Wave-engraven sycamores.

Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled Over Harvest's battle-piain; And the sudden whir and whistle Of the quail that, like a missile, Whizzes over thorn and thistle, And, a missile, drops again.

m.u.f.fled voices, hid in thickets Where the redbird stops to stick its Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets Of the truant's rustic trap; And the sound of laughter ringing Where, within the wild-vine swinging, Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging Purple cl.u.s.ters in her lap.

Rich as wine, the sunset flashes Round the tilted world, and dashes Up the sloping west and splashes Red foam over sky and sea-- Till my dream of Autumn, paling In the splendor all-prevailing, Like a sallow leaf goes sailing Down the silence solemnly.

TOM VAN ARDEN.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellows.h.i.+p is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we ”lucky dogs,” indeed?