Class ro352>5 Book .EbnVs GopyiightN^JR. COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. VERSES FROM THE SOUTHWEST BY THEODORE CLARKSON MERRILL '1 CAMBRIDGE PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS 1910 c.^^ ^^yx\ COPYRIGHT, igiO, BY THEODORE C. MERRILL ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ^CI.A278771 ^ CONTENTS ; Terrace and Pleasaunce ' Dedication 3 The New Year 4 A Winter Morning 5 Easter Lilies 7 Christmas Eve 8 Sonnet 10 At the Window 11 Mephistopheles 12 Around the Corner 13 Diana 14 Rouge et Noir 15 Song 16 Rhymes and Roses 17 Parure Diamant 21 RuBis 22 Emeraude . . . . - . . . . 23 I vi J Camee ••...... 24 Perle 25 Saphir 26 ToPAZE . 27 Mirage The Prairie Spirit 31 Brothers 33 The Lark 34 Prairie Fog 35 The Centipede 36 A Dry Spell 37 The Mesquite . . . . . . . 39 The Farmer 41 The Old Gentleman 43 To A Fragment of Malachite . . . .45 Three Sonnets to Delilah .... 47 Ludlow Street Jail ...... 50 My Violin 52 Gretchen 53 A Dry Rose 54 Envoy 57 TERRACE AND PLEASAUNCE DEDICATION I WOULD my words might clothe my thought In dignity, that when displayed For those to read who will, a sense Of worthiness and grace be taught. That noble English suffer naught When cupbearer to greeting made. I speak a word that breathes immense Significance, when here I say, "Stand forth, my thought, that my dear friend May read here loveliness to-day," — For who will read unto the end Should find a word that speaks alone Straight to the heart that loves the giver; So find here, friend, what thou hast known Dearest and deepest in love's river. THE NEW YEAR Minarets Faintly appear, Castanets I hear, Tinkling softly, far away, Where the fairy fountains play. Muffled drums And the tread That comes With the dead Sound in distance solemnly. And a bell tolls mournfully. Landscapes bright Then unroll, Or if Night Dye thy scroll, New Year, I will smile or weep, 'Gainst the time I fall asleep. A WINTER MORNING Cold, so it is, but your cheek is red — A spatter of some warm wine of France Might glow like that, and you toss your head Hoping, I swear, another chance To dare the wind and the frost, and stride Miles by sedges where rivulets glide Unseen under the ice and snow — Shoulder then forth if you must, and go. You came just now like a forest bloom Caught from a hollow where snowflakes fell. You brought to the depths of a firelit room A draught of freshness from winter's well Strong as grape-juice thick and black. Pressed that Vikings' lips should smack. Come then again, purveyor-wise. And bring the blood I love the best. Liquor to lighten a Jotun's eyes. Bubbles from Burgundy's bonny breast. [6 ] Fire and honey and mead and ale, Good strong drink in a bitter gale, Good strong drink when a man would ask Wine of life in a noble flask. EASTER LILIES Molten globules of mellow light Twinkle along the window-sill, Fallen somehow in a violet night, Out of a chalice a trembling sprite Might pour, to spill. Standing silent and looking in. Pure in a dawn surcharged with dew. Lilies are waiting for day to begin, Dropping tears for the buried sin Of a pardoned Jew. Throw me ever the window wide, Let the night-wind scatter for me Tears that are shaken from flowers outside, Easter thoughts of sorrowful-eyed Gethsemane. CHRISTMAS EVE Lord, from the number of sweet thoughts Thou hast bestowed for me to use And thus give back to thee, I seek For thee right worthily to choose. I ken a gift that long ago Was given, but reaches still the heart, The earnest of a greater gift. Of which Earth hath no counterpart. It was. Lord, not thy Son Himself, However dear to us and Thee, That dowers the night of Bethlehem With sweetest immortality. 'T is written, no more lofty love Than dying that a friend might live. But, Lord, 't were not so hard to die As to take life thyself didst give. [9 ] We thank Thee, Father, then to-day For thine own life thus subtly given, Rejoicing too that Heaven lives Still to possess what came from Heaven. So, gentlemen, assembling, sing A cheerful round of merry song, God rest ye then, God save the King, God save the right, and thwart the wrong. Hark! is not that the Christmas chime That comes upon the midnight clear.? The wise men, friends, are at the door, And say the Son of God is here. SONNET Thou seekst relief from sorrow's sharpness? Then Know well a neighbor — one who makes no cry, In whom the fount of tears is ever dry. Chosen of Fortune, favorite of men. And when his secrets come within thy ken, When all his scars concealed no longer lie In a bright shell, but open to the sky. Comfort the pain that sleeps to wake again. Look to thyself when thou hast lulled to rest Grief of another, and if there remain Aught of the old distress that cursed thy breast, There is the caravan upon the plain, Wanderers are many, each hath his own sore. Minister, friend! and suffer nevermore. AT THE WINDOW NiVER SO light in the dance is the thrip o' yez, Ne'er at yer shmile am I eatchin' me breath, But me laugh back at the swate currvin' lip o' yez Rings in me ear wit' a promise o' death. Ain't I the skiliton death's-head an' jester just? But oh, me Annie, ye 're too swate ter shtay. Lord! how yer changin' cheek gives me the bitter thrust, All o' the Donoghues wint the same way. Man! don't shtand gapin' to make thim aware av it, Lave me alone in the light o' the shtar — Mary, dear! can ye hear aught o' the prayer av it? Whisht, Terence lad, is't a baby ye ar-re? MEPHISTOPHELES Sir — are you real — perhaps as real as I? For as you bow from out the well-worn page I see you better there than on the stage, Waking in me a spark I would let lie Dull, unaroused, that stirs to testify To you in me of many an evil rage Smoothed but to smoulder, witness of the gage Plain, sir, to your far-calculating eye. Often I chuckle, knowing that my debt To your collector can with ease be paid. Therein the reason why I do not fret, Walk in your company but decline your aid. Shutting awhile my book, with Margaret Charmed by your brilliant jewels, yet afraid. AROUND THE CORNER Where do you say the little church is ? I have played and played now many a day, And I would hide for an hour away From the cracking smiles we mummers wear I want a darkened corner, where I can hear the organ softly play Anthems and penitential psalms, Myself a beggar, asking alms, Seeking crumbs at the Table of God, Mendicant not all a sham. But the beggar that I am, Turbanless and strongly shod — And you say there is a place Where with lost love I have known I can be awhile alone. Where real tears can streak my face, Where a man like me can pray? Is that what I hear you say? Where do you say the little church is? DIANA The pool is limpid liquid — the elusive Lines and soft swimming shadows waver, swaying Like faint and far-off shells or coral foliage Seen through an interposing veil of seaweed. Faint in the riffled surface floats an image Ivory, whitest marble, alabaster. Formed from a cloud, of fleeces warmed at sunset. Wild in a joy that neighbors grief undying. Eyes in the near-by forest blink, beholding In the dark pool a radiant wraith of heaven. And traveling upward over curve and color Flame on the secrets that are gently whispered Into the stillness of the wooing water. Poor burning priest who wrote the allegory! For if the stag were all, who knew the story? ROUGE ET NOIR Versez-moi le vin des yeux Pour nous jete par les dieux, Flamme rouge qui devient noire Pour les ames qui prennent a boire. Bois, cependant qu'il est vrai Nuit se change en jour pare, C'est le sort, et si Ton bouge Flamme se chauffe de noir en rouge. SONG RosELEN, fling me from your moss Perfume, love, and laughter, — Day will come with pang of loss, Flora's bridge were sweet to cross Back from the hereafter. Roselen, roselen, fade you must, Flame leaves only ember, Petal crumbles in a dust. Heart of steel will yield to rust, June become December. Roselen, give you gramercy. Flora, serve a vagrant Altar for a votary Who would swear his fealty. Goddess! you are fragrant! RHYMES AND ROSES I SAVE the roses kind gods send me, And to their death commend my singing Awhile unfinished, praying the blooms befriend me And leave about the song their odor clinging. The simple myrtle, but a shadow. Casts still her spell across the river That murmurs singing by a golden meadow Of flowers that died but seem to live forever. Leave rhymes and roses nine years yonder, Horace? nine hundred leave them lying For printers' props to help them widely wander If thus they catch the trick of never dying! PARURE DIAMANT De tes rayons Je prends de la lumiere Brillante pour la louche legere De mes crayons. On bien volt Qu'une parole pent etre charmante Jetee tout dtincelante De ton doigt ! RUBIS Tu es une goutte du vin Qu'auparavant ma belle Prenait un jour enfin A la Sainte Table, elle. A sa belle main tombe, Comme de ses yeux une larme. Regardant, j'ai trouve Du ciel le propre charme! EMERAUDE Le gazon du printemps scintillant Jette des eclairs par les gouttes de rosde — Je me souviens d'un bonheur en marchant, Ecrasant une belle fieur qui meurt oublide. Son parfum se mele a la douceur Du vent de la mer oil flotte ma mie, Le paysage chante en son couleur L'amertume de I'amour qu'on nomme la jalousie. CAMEE Je taille mes grands d^fauts Esperant faire paraitre Des traits qui seront beaux Pour plaire a Dieu peut-etre, Mais j'hesite d'apporter Au grand Dieu mon pierre Laid, pauvre, et souille Des taches de la terre, — Va ! ton beaute s'en peut servir Y contraste pour mieux saillir. PERLE C'est une larme pour une jeune maride La reine d'Egypte toujours aimde En connaissait le couleur changeant Comme une heure d'amant. Elle roule sur le sein de la dame Ecoutant son secret de Tame Si joli, reflechi du peau Au merveilleux joyau! On vient — il faut remplacer vite Toi, perle, dans ta boite — Marguerite, Cette perle des filles, parle en toi Haut a moi. SAPHIR Je tourne mon anneau, — Ne verras-tu, ma chere, Dans cette goutte gelee d'eau Un monde de lumiere ? Eh bien! dis, ma chere, Si je puis regarder Sous ta blanche paupiere Un bleu monde tou jours vrai ? TOPAZE Parfois le brouillard Se leve a couvrir le paysage D'un voile tenu donnant Timage D'un plein soleil, morne et blafard. Mais la tristesse ne dure longtemps, L'heure de midi vient toujours gaie, Levant la douce couverture De retincelante dorure, — Qu'une ame reste la, enchantee Du tableau dmaille des champs. Quoi ! tu paries d'une heure amere ? Souris done, ma chere! MIRAGE THE PRAIRIE SPIRIT A WIDE champaign lay dull and dusty In the last red glow of a fading sky, Mars sent a ray from a rapier rusty, Piercing a cloud that was sailing high. Solitude's incubus weight Paralyzed every endeavor. Cheerless forever Lay in the lee of a black ridge of slate Casting deep gloom on the trail that led by. Deep overhead the sky grew clearer As dust-clouds fell in a desert dew. Stars now breathed in an air austerer The same sereneness Nazareth knew. Stirrings began to arise Vaguely among the dry grasses, Shadowy masses Seemed in the twilight cast down from the skies, Masses of amethyst, purple, and blue. I 32 ] Into my ear low words were spoken, And I felt the press of a kindly hand, Speech no more than a murmur broken Sufficed to make me understand. A calming Presence there stood Suddenly on the great meadow, And a strange shadow For a brief moment submerged me in flood Like a great golden wave spilled on the sand. At night in earth's unpeopled spaces I would seek the ghost that is gone to-day. Ghost! come again from the unknown places To fire my sky when it is gray. Spirit I knew but to love, Can it not be that you hear me ? If you are near me. Stretch out your hand in a touch that will prove Memory not the last friend who will stay. BROTHERS Majestic distance, soothe me with the still Yet forceful touch you have, commanding rest When weariness is heavy — let me fill My cup from soundless depths the hills invest With the deep purple of the evening lights And sweet solemnity of summer nights. Majestic silence, rhythmless monotone. Your great deep voice that yet speaks not at all Tells of the vanished moments I have known And pricks a ready memory to recall Smiles well-beloved, tears that I used to share, Voices now lost in your unuttered prayer. Distance and Silence fellow spirits are. Regnant in joy or pain with equal hand. Sending strange messages from the evening star. Busy with wounds that heal or bleed unscanned, Breathing with Mystery her untrammeled breath. Holding with Fate the keys of life and death. THE LARK Here ! through this thicket — Thorns, do you say ? That is his way — Bayonets add to the worth of a picket. See ! On that tall spike There — don't you see ? Yellow! That's he, Swinging and singing the song that we all like. Just the one theme, sir. Roundelay — true — You do not seem, sir, Roundels to rue ! Lark, for the singing Thank you — but say. Lark, if not quite too drunk to hear us pray, Why in our eyes do you set the tears springing ? PRAIRIE FOG A FLOOD of heavy mist Swirled in the clefts of the lower places, Drifting halfway up the bluffs, to twist Billowing about their bases. While from fog rose drippingly Heads of rocklike isles at sea. The almost flat sun-rays Turned the white surfaces rose and golden, Tinting the upper layers of haze With milkiness of an opal holden Itself in milkiest of fingers Carmine-stained where the blood lingers. The bold and merry sun Confident, laughing, pushed back the curtain, Foggy spirals began to run Skeining, to make the looker certain Of tree and earth and hill and stone Stripped of silk when the fog was gone. THE CENTIPEDE I DO not think I '11 take you seriously, my friend, For all your fierceness — no, Maugre the joints I have not special time to spend In counting, even though Claws pile the gooseflesh up deliciously. Jaws wiggle wide and vibrate viciously. If you come visiting unasked, you are prepared To take pot-luck, and gladly, — Aha! you're smashed, and just as I was getting scared The pot was aimed not badly. Ann, hurry, please, collect from the floor a fund Fantastic — legs and joints that are moribund. A DRY SPELL The sky is brass to-day, my dear. The earth is cracked and baked and brown, The spirit that dwells oftenest here Is off across the down. The downs, the dunes, stretch far away, All hot and gray, Burnt rock and thirst and shimmering glaze visit us to-day. The hetds grow small to-day, my dear, The cattle seek the scanty shade. The sun when zenith dallying near Makes men and beasts afraid. The downs, the dunes, are sand and clay. No grass have they. Likely there is a carcass at the water-hole to-day. I thought I saw to-day, my dear, A welcome inland lake or sea, Tall trees were waving in the air About, but presently [38] The downs, the dunes, before me lay, In dry dismay. Waterless watercourses, dear, — not even pools to-day. The evening star is lit, my dear, And mournfully, as the soft light Dies slowly in the west, I hear The plaintive dove's good-night. The downs, the dunes, fade far away, How can I stay When troubling echoes of the past are calling me to-day ? THE MESQUITE The tough mesquite is an odd little tree, of the prairie's special culture. It brings forth beans and gum and thorns and leaves. And when its root is disinterred, a forest in sepulture Rewards the man who digs and chops and grieves. On a blazing day, when sestival heat is parching all the valleys. And starch removes from shirts unduly pleated. Weariness in search of shade under arbored alleys Uttereth words that cannot be repeated. The leaves are very slim and long, possessing knife-like edges. Perfect pulmonics, yet unburnt of rays, A yellow tasseled bloom abounds in unsuspected pledges Percentage-hunting bees with skill appraise. The tree is useful largely from the fact there is no other. It shows what vegetation does in straits. And like the so-called dogy, the calf without a mother. It only lives because it hopes and waits. [ 40 ] Absurdity of the desert, choking lofty words, or tender. The fight was age-long that has left you there Dwarfed, mirth-provoking, yet without the knowledge of surrender, And with my smile I proffer you a tear. THE FARMER He looks with eyes that slowly dim To see the changes come In the rude ways that harass him As he carves out his home. Not in a year do tough sods yield Soft seas of golden earth To fill a coffer from a field That knows a laborer's worth. When Comfort, striding down the land Obeys the farmer's call And takes his host's hard calloused hand His jocund features fall. He sees a stranger, not a friend. And bides for days unknown — Age never bids the farmer spend The coins for others sown. [42] The wrinkling man still beats the sward Where Fancy's dews still gleam, A narrow mound, a narrow board The Comfort of his dream. THE OLD GENTLEMAN A QUIET old gentleman walks down the street, Precisely attired, no young blood more neat Than he in his broadcloth and polished top hat, A-kicking up twinkles from each dainty spat. He skirts the moist places and bows very low To friends, who address him with smiles, for they know His answering smile seems to brighten the day, And somebody greets him each step of his way. Sometimes when my temper is ugly and grim, I go to the corner and wait there for him, And furtively glancing the way he must come, I feel myself growing less gloomy and glum. But he does n't know how he smooths out the frown. And he does n't guess why the folks in the town Turn out so it happens the same every day. And somebody greets him each step of his way. This morning the people were hanging around The post-office, where he is sure to be found [ 44 ] On time to the minute, but he was not there. And soon the crowd melted away into air, With whispers, and whispers, now there and now here, And once, poorly hidden, the glint of a tear. The quiet old gentleman left us to-day, But some one will greet him each step of his way. TO A FRAGMENT OF MALACHITE There came a curious storm one day And lasted for ten thousand years Before thick steam-clouds cleared away From metal-vapored atmospheres. The rain was gold and silver then, And rocks condensed from stannic skies In dews that fell and fell again Where Kohinoors dropped from their dies. Gases and crystals were about, Jesus and Csesar, side by side, Brushed now Tecumseh's deerskin clout. Now Lammermoor's lamented bride. An autumn gale winged Pompey west, Francesca was alone that night, Chihuahua saw Lucrece's breast Mirrored in molten malachite. Fragment that tells of ancient friends Whose storied stars enchanted me, [ 46 ] My verse can be but poor amends For loss of that great company. Kismet has mocked, yet would atone Faintly in rhyme for buried days With lines appointed for your own When Charlemagne was chrysoprase. THREE SONNETS TO DELILAH I Red-lipped, alert, keen-witted, never cold, Wildly awake in love if roused at all. What in the scream they said was country's call Stirred in thee flame when womanhood was sold ? Woman, say truly — when thou didst unfold iVll the dear arts of sex, the virginal Modest allurements, that a man might fall, Did the day's dreg no taint of torture hold ? Seeming to live, and living but to seem. Where in the twilight hast thou lost Regret ? Night in the grave may sate thee with a dream, Mayhap thy sleep is one long gladness, yet Cannot the lies Remembrance points redeem Tears love may gladly dry, but not forget ? II Silver they offered, and why shouldst thou pay More for the silver than the silver's worth [48] Reckoned by women versed in goods of earth — Was it to press of debt thou wert a prey, Hadst thou a Philistine paramour hid away For whom thy body's tricks were ghastly mirth. Lightly to ransom an ill-gotten birth. Shot with the tiger's grace sweetly to slay ? Come ! thou well knowest Samson clung to thee Finding in thee some worth to match his own — Too large of hand to grasp a miser's glee. Prattle not price, tell us of things unknown, Fury or secret stress thy better plea For parting with thy body in a loan. Ill As a ripe field of corn in autumn haze Glimmering, shows a half-hid wealth, not clear. Not glaring, not too brazen bold, but sere Or melancholy, as the west wind plays Wavering over it, so appear the days Warmed by thy presence sometime with us here, For in the mists of many a harvest year Looms thy dim Shape who sadly went her ways. Grave we esteem thee, with a measured tread [ 49 ] Walking in scenes that never smothered pain, Lifting indifferently a noble head, Leaving a secret buried in the plain. Leaving unsatisfied the curious dead Questioners, and the living who remain. LUDLOW STREET JAIL It is true they say it ought to go, but the heap of rubbish is so small, Forgetting it were easier than stooping with a brush, Yet steadily the ugly insects on their petty errands crawl. Hating light that insects know means the men who crush. Pity, Ludlow Street, the debtors, Thou as well art dreg of days. Apotheosis of fetters. Witness of the law's delays. It is true a voice, now here, now there, has told how leeches suck the blood From impotent poor human flesh where blood still feebly runs. Right good and valiant men there are in whom the heap of moral mud Has stirred the force that lightly sleeps in Mercy's seeing sons. Pity, Ludlow Street, the debtors. Call an apathetic press, Set the type in heavy letters Legislators to obsess. [ 51 ] It is true that men are ready to come to the help of prisoners caged to sate A private spite, the angry mood of vengeance seeking prey. But how shall groping debtors know the Society outside the gate? The body execution, says the Judge, means jail or pay. Pity, Ludlow Street, the debtors, Bid Manhattan a good-night, Leave your province to your betters, Cleanly justice, cheerful light. MY VIOLIN You are not all for self — for hours long You speak responsive to the secret mood I share alone with your kind resonant wood That joins the slender strings to give me song. With you I live amid a motley throng, Sweet dames of eld, pageants that stir the blood, Elves, knights, and angels beautiful and good, And love's deep sadness making weak the strong. Ah ! you are my own spirit, echoing The passion, gloom, despair, I live through, when My daemon lays the bow upon the string, — Your plaintive tone cajoles the past again, Lifting to heaven in a sending swing Whose ebb bears sweets stolen for mortal men. GRETCHEN Pleasure of love is but a dream, Sorrow of love is lifelong woe, Canst still see the weeds i' the stream Under the bridge and far below. Though no longer sighing For the feeble crying That pierced thy heart i' the long ago ? Dank was the gaol and the air was foul, Thy lover spoke to thee no more, The evil elves grinned cheek by jowl Watching thee from the cold stone floor, Singing thee of thy gladness In the night of madness That fell from heaven lower and lower. Love calls thee saint and sister dear. And makes perchance thine old wound bleed When words that stray from Mary's ear Recall the maid who knelt to plead, "Ah, thou of sorrows, hear me ! Bow thy mercy near me Most graciously unto my need !" A DRY ROSE They say I cannot live, mamma. To see another day, So help me now as I shall need When time is passed away. Mamma, my basket bring me, please, — Thank you — look under those Blue chiffons and beneath them all There is a withered rose. It does look silly, mother dear, In a confirmed old maid. And if you knew about the flower You'd grieve you, I'm afraid. But mother — you recall a morn Love seized you from the sky. Through flowering time and fruitage time To lead till you should die ? [55 ] Dear mother, once there fell on me The Once that is the All, And mother, as I love the Spring I loved that madrigal. The moon shone then as shining now, Ineffably — I hear Again the music passing sweet, Triumphant, mother dear. They say I 'm loveless, laugh at me. But now the play is done. Dear mother, put my basket by. My rose is almost gone. I 've fondled it, day in, day out. Since that one starlit even, And I must have it on my breast When I shall be in heaven. And so, mamma, please put it there, Don't cry — the Lord knows best. He won't forget the flower and me. His children both, confessed. [ 56 ] O, mother, it is very cold And dark within the ground. O, Angel of the Lord, come down, And Glory, shine aromid ! ENVOY Hours of idleness lost in fragrant shade Leave shredded blossoms gathered while I stayed Loitering in green by-ways, plucking now A daisy from a stalk, robbing a bough Of fruit in promise, till the garden verge Passed absently, I start as I emerge. I will not seek the garden paths to-day. But when the streams and sedges sing of May I know where, waking, I may sweetly sleep Somnambulist in shops the flowers keep, Bartering leisure broad awake to stand. Finding strange garlands hanging in my hand. Searching the cluster born of ice and snow. Of sun and earth as stems and rootlets know, Among the gentle buds, friend, here and there Detect the hint of a wild odor, rare Reward more dear for many a futile quest. And challenged, name the plant we loved the best ! Bm ?S!i One copy del. to Cat. Div. |j)U^ hi fSiif