THE BLOOD HORSE GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.
Look,-how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins ; Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!
RACHEL, the beautiful (as she was call'd), Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she Was tender-ey'd, lean-favor'd, and did lack The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin To sleek proportions beautiful and round, With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye. All this is fair and yet we know it true That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy side A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid, As well as where the soil is deeper tinct. So here with this same Rachel was it found: The dim blue-laced veins on either brow, Neath the transparent skin meandering, That with the silver-leaved lily vied; Her full dark eye, whose brightness glis- ten'd through
The sable lashes soft as camel-hair; Her slanting head curv'd like the maiden
And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine And blacker than a storm; her rounded ear Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore; Her whispering foot that carried all her weight,
Nor left its little pressure on the sand; Her lips as drowsy poppies, soft and red, Gathering a dew from her escaping breath; Her voice melodious, mellow, deep, and clear,
Lingering like sweet music in the ear; Her neck o'ersoften'd like to unsunn'd curd; Her tapering fingers rounded to a point; The silken softness of her veined hand; Her dimpled knuckles answering to her chin;
And teeth like honeycombs o' the wilder
All these did tend to a bad proof in her. For armed thus in beauty she did steal The eye of Jacob to her proper self, Engross'd his time, and kept him by her side,
Casting on Leah indifference and neglect ; Whereat great Heaven took our mother's part
And struck young Rachel with a barrenness, While she bore children: thus the matter
Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault, Turn'd to some penitence, which Heaven heard ;
And then she bore this Joseph, who must, and does,
Contemptible darkness never yet did dull The splendor of love's palpitating light. At love's slight curtains, that are made of sighs,
Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand Like to a flower closed in the night; Or, like a lovely image drooping down With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd, And mutely on its shoulder slumbering. Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear, And blended fragrance in his startled breath Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew. All outward thoughts, all common circum- stance,
Are buried in the dimple of his smile : And the great city like a vision sails From out the closing doors of the hush'd mind.
His heart strikes audibly against his ribs As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage, Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore I say Night-blooming Cereus, and the star-flower
The honeysuckle, and the eglantine, And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red wine,
Together with all intertwining flowers, Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each other,
And form the bower of all-precious Love, Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and leaves
From jealous interception of Love's gaze. This is Love's cabin in the light of day, But oh! compare it not with the black night;
Delay thou sun, and give me instant night- Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours; The whitest clouds are pillows to bright
Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you're merciless.
Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch There is no city feast, nor city show, The encampment of the king and soldiery. Rejoicings, revelries, and victories, Can equal the remembrance of my home In visible imagination.
Even as he was I see my father now, His grave and graceful head's benignity Musing beyond the confines of this world, His world within with all its mysteries. What pompless majesty was in his mien, An image of integrity creates,
Pattern of nature, in perfection. Lo! in the morning when we issued forth, The patriarch surrounded by his sons, Girt round with looks of sweet obedience, Each struggling who should honor him the most;
While from the wrinkles deep of many
And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried figs,
And pressed curds, and choicest rarities, Stores of the cheerless season of the year ; While at our sides the women of our tribe With pitchers on their heads, fill'd to the brim
With wine, and honey, and with smoking milk,
Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the swell
Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise. Thus would we journey to the wilderness, And fixing on some peak that did o'erlook The spacious plains that lay display'd beneath,
The minutes flying faster than our feet That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice, Making fatigue more sweet by appetite. There stood the graceful Reuben by my sire,
Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun, And, like him, stealing renovation Into the darkest corner of the soul,
And filling it with light. There, women group'd,
My sisters and their maids, with ears subdued,
With bosoms panting from the eager dance, Against each other lean'd; as I have seen A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend, While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some way off
My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for fame,
Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast
Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat Had crept about them like a sudden thaw. Anon they tied an eagle to a tree, And strove at archery; or with a bear Struggled for strength of limb.
No villain's sons to rifle passengers. The sports being done, the winners claim'd
Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow, Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse. And then my father bless'd us, and we sang Our sweet way home again. Oft I have ach'd
In memory of these so precious hours, And wept upon those keys that were my pride,
And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.
THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH
In the royal path Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers,
Sweeping the ground with incense-scented palms :
Then came the sweetest voices of the land,
Save that of eagles could confront the blaze That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge That riveted the weight. This car was drawn
By twelve jet horses, being four abreast, And pied in their own foam. Within the
His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword; And on his head a crown of drooping corn Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday. His robes were simple, but were full of grace,
And (out of love and truth I speak him thus)
I never did behold a man less proud, More dignified or grateful to admire. His honors nothing teas'd him from him- self;
And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man Who did intend to honor them as much As they could honor him.
FROM PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE"
I NEVER look'd that he should live so long. He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, He seem'd to live by miracle: his food Was glory, which was poison to his mind And peril to his body. He was one Of many thousand such that die betimes, Whose story is a fragment, known to few. Then comes the man who has the luck to live, And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances, And deem there 's ne'er a one in dangerous times
Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endow'd Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others
Have had their fortunes founder'd by a chance,
Whilst lighter barks push'd past them; to whom add
A smaller tally, of the singular few Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace.
The world knows nothing of its greatest
There was a time, so ancient records tell, There were communities, scarce known by
In these degenerate days, but once farfam'd,
Where liberty and justice, hand in hand, Order'd the common weal; where great
Up to their natural eminence, and none, Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great; Where power was of God's gift, to whom he gave
Supremacy of merit, the sole means And broad highway to power, that ever then
Was meritoriously administer'd,
Whilst all its instruments from first to last, The tools of state for service high or low, Were chosen for their aptness to those ends Which virtue meditates. To shake the ground
Deep-founded whereupon this structure stood,
Was verily a crime; a treason it was, Conspiracies to hatch against this state And its free innocence. But now, I ask, Where is there on God's earth that polity Which it is not, by consequence converse, A treason against nature to uphold ? Whom may we now call free? whom great?
Whom innocent? the free are only they Whom power makes free to execute all ills Their hearts imagine; they alone are great Whose passions nurse them from their cra- dles up
In luxury and lewdness, - whom to see Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn Their station's eminence; the wise, they
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