Jes' now he squealed down dar; -- hush; dat's a mighty weakly scream!

Yas, sir, he's gone, he's gone; -- he snort way off, like in a dream!

O glory hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high!

De Debble's fai'ly skeered to def, he done gone flyin' by; I know'd he couldn' stand dat pra'r, I felt my Marster nigh!

You, Dinah; ain't you 'shamed, now, dat you didn' trust to grace?

I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face!

You fool, you think de Debble couldn't beat YOU in a race?

I tell you, Dinah, jes' as shuh as you is standin' dar, When folks starts prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' de a'r.

YAS, DINAH, WHAR 'OULD YOU BE NOW, JES' 'CEPTIN' FUR DAT PRA'R?

____ Baltimore, 1875.

Unrevised Early Poems.

These unrevised poems are not necessarily exponents of Mr. Lanier's later teaching, but are offered as examples of his youthful spirit, his earlier methods and his instructive growth. To many friends they present in addition a wealth of dear a.s.sociations.

But, putting Mr. Lanier upon trial as an artist, it is fair to remember that probably none of these poems would have been republished by him without material alterations, the slightest of which no other hand can be authorized to make.

The Jacquerie. A Fragment.

Chapter I.

Once on a time, a Dawn, all red and bright Leapt on the conquered ramparts of the Night, And flamed, one brilliant instant, on the world, Then back into the historic moat was hurled And Night was King again, for many years.

-- Once on a time the Rose of Spring blushed out But Winter angrily withdrew it back Into his rough new-bursten husk, and shut The stern husk-leaves, and hid it many years.

-- Once Famine tricked himself with ears of corn, And Hate strung flowers on his spiked belt, And glum Revenge in silver lilies pranked him, And l.u.s.t put violets on his shameless front, And all minced forth o' the street like holiday folk That sally off afield on Summer morns.

-- Once certain hounds that knew of many a chase, And bare great wounds of antler and of tusk That they had ta'en to give a lord some sport, -- Good hounds, that would have died to give lords sport -- Were so bewrayed and kicked by these same lords That all the pack turned tooth o' the knights and bit As knights had been no better things than boars, And took revenge as b.l.o.o.d.y as a man's, Unhoundlike, sudden, hot i' the chops, and sweet.

-- Once sat a falcon on a lady's wrist, Seeming to doze, with wrinkled eye-lid drawn, But dreaming hard of hoods and slaveries And of dim hungers in his heart and wings.

Then, while the mistress gazed above for game, Sudden he flew into her painted face And hooked his horn-claws in her lily throat And drove his beak into her lips and eyes In fierce and hawkish kissing that did scar And mar the lady's beauty evermore.

-- And once while Chivalry stood tall and lithe And flashed his sword above the stricken eyes Of all the simple peasant-folk of France: While Thought was keen and hot and quick, And did not play, as in these later days, Like summer-lightning flickering in the west -- As little dreadful as if glow-worms lay In the cool and watery clouds and glimmered weak -- But gleamed and struck at once or oak or man, And left not s.p.a.ce for Time to wave his wing Betwixt the instantaneous flash and stroke: While yet the needs of life were brave and fierce And did not hide their deeds behind their words, And logic came not 'twixt desire and act, And Want-and-Take was the whole Form of life: While Love had fires a-burning in his veins, And hidden Hate could flash into revenge: Ere yet young Trade was 'ware of his big thews Or dreamed that in the bolder afterdays He would hew down and bind old Chivalry And drag him to the highest height of fame And plunge him thence in the sea of still Romance To lie for aye in never-rusted mail Gleaming through quiet ripples of soft songs And sheens of old traditionary tales; -- On such a time, a certain May arose From out that blue Sea that between five lands Lies like a violet midst of five large leaves, Arose from out this violet and flew on And stirred the spirits of the woods of France And smoothed the brows of moody Auvergne hills, And wrought warm sea-tints into maidens' eyes, And calmed the wordy air of market-towns With faint suggestions blown from distant buds, Until the land seemed a mere dream of land, And, in this dream-field Life sat like a dove And cooed across unto her dove-mate Death, Brooding, pathetic, by a river, lone.

Oh, sharper tangs pierced through this perfumed May.

Strange aches sailed by with odors on the wind As when we kneel in flowers that grow on graves Of friends who died unworthy of our love.

King John of France was proving such an ache In English prisons wide and fair and grand, Whose long expanses of green park and chace Did ape large liberty with such success As smiles of irony ape smiles of love.

Down from the oaks of Hertford Castle park, Double with warm rose-breaths of southern Spring Came rumors, as if odors too had thorns, Sharp rumors, how the three Estates of France, Like old Three-headed Cerberus of h.e.l.l Had set upon the Duke of Normandy, Their rightful Regent, snarled in his great face, Snapped jagged teeth in inch-breadth of his throat, And blown such hot and savage breath upon him, That he had tossed great sops of royalty Unto the clamorous, three-mawed baying beast.

And was not further on his way withal, And had but changed a snarl into a growl: How Arnold de Cervolles had ta'en the track That war had burned along the unhappy land, Shouting, 'since France is then too poor to pay The soldiers that have b.l.o.o.d.y devoir done, And since needs must, pardie! a man must eat, Arm, gentlemen! swords slice as well as knives!'

And so had tempted stout men from the ranks, And now was adding robbers' waste to war's, Stealing the leavings of remorseless battle, And making gaunter the gaunt bones of want: How this Cervolles (called "Arch-priest" by the ma.s.s) Through warm Provence had marched and menace made Against Pope Innocent at Avignon, And how the Pope nor ate nor drank nor slept, Through G.o.dly fear concerning his red wines.

For if these knaves should sack his holy house And all the blessed casks be knocked o' the head, HORRENDUM! all his Holiness' drink to be Profanely guzzled down the reeking throats Of scoundrels, and inflame them on to seize The ma.s.sy coffers of the Church's gold, And steal, mayhap, the carven silver shrine And all the golden crucifixes? No! -- And so the holy father Pope made stir And had sent forth a legate to Cervolles, And treated with him, and made compromise, And, last, had bidden all the Arch-priest's troop To come and banquet with him in his house, Where they did wa.s.sail high by night and day And Father Pope sat at the board and carved Midst jokes that flowed full greasily, And priest and soldier trolled good songs for ma.s.s, And all the prayers the Priests made were, 'pray, drink,'

And all the oaths the Soldiers swore were, 'drink!'

Till Mirth sat like a jaunty postillon Upon the back of Time and urged him on With piquant spur, past chapel and past cross: How Charles, King of Navarre, in long duress By mandate of King John within the walls Of Crevacoeur and then of strong Alleres, In faithful ward of Sir Tristan du Bois, Was now escaped, had supped with Guy Kyrec, Had now a pardon of the Regent Duke By half compulsion of a Paris mob, Had turned the people's love upon himself By smooth harangues, and now was bold to claim That France was not the Kingdom of King John, But, By our Lady, his, by right and worth, And so was plotting treason in the State, And laughing at weak Charles of Normandy.

Nay, these had been like good news to the King, Were any man but bold enough to tell The King what [bitter] sayings men had made And hawked augmenting up and down the land Against the barons and great lords of France That fled from English arrows at Poictiers.

POICTIERS, POICTIERS: this grain i' the eye of France Had swelled it to a big and bloodshot ball That looked with rage upon a world askew.

Poictiers' disgrace was now but two years old, Yet so outrageous rank and full was grown That France was wholly overspread with shade, And bitter fruits lay on the untilled ground That stank and bred so foul contagious smells That not a nose in France but stood awry, Nor boor that cried not FAUGH! upon the air.

Chapter II.

Franciscan friar John de Rochetaillade With gentle gesture lifted up his hand And poised it high above the steady eyes Of a great crowd that thronged the market-place In fair Clermont to hear him prophesy.

Midst of the crowd old Gris Grillon, the maimed, -- A wretched wreck that fate had floated out From the drear storm of battle at Poictiers.

A living man whose larger moiety Was dead and buried on the battle-field -- A grisly trunk, without or arms or legs, And scarred with hoof-cuts over cheek and brow, Lay in his wicker-cradle, smiling.

"Jacques,"

Quoth he, "My son, I would behold this priest That is not fat, and loves not wine, and fasts, And stills the folk with waving of his hand, And threats the knights and thunders at the Pope.

Make way for Gris, ye who are whole of limb!

Set me on yonder ledge, that I may see."

Forthwith a dozen h.o.r.n.y hands reached out And lifted Gris Grillon upon the ledge, Whereon he lay and overlooked the crowd, And from the gray-grown hedges of his brows Shot forth a glance against the friar's eye That struck him like an arrow.

Then the friar, With voice as low as if a maiden hummed Love-songs of Provence in a mild day-dream: "And when he broke the second seal, I heard The second beast say, Come and see.

And then Went out another horse, and he was red.

And unto him that sat thereon was given To take the peace of earth away, and set Men killing one another: and they gave To him a mighty sword."

The friar paused And pointed round the circle of sad eyes.

"There is no face of man or woman here But showeth print of the hard hoof of war.

Ah, yonder leaneth limbless Gris Grillon.

Friends, Gris Grillon is France.

Good France; my France, Wilt never walk on glory's hills again?

Wilt never work among thy vines again?

Art footless and art handless evermore?

-- Thou felon, War, I do arraign thee now Of mayhem of the four main limbs of France!

Thou old red criminal, stand forth; I charge -- But O, I am too utter sorrowful To urge large accusation now.

Nathless, My work to-day, is still more grievous. Hear!

The stains that war hath wrought upon the land Show but as faint white flecks, if seen o' the side Of those blood-covered images that stalk Through yon cold chambers of the future, as The prophet-mood, now stealing on my soul, Reveals them, marching, marching, marching. See!

There go the kings of France, in piteous file.

The deadly diamonds shining in their crowns Do wound the foreheads of their Majesties And glitter through a setting of blood-gouts As if they smiled to think how men are slain By the sharp facets of the gem of power, And how the kings of men are slaves of stones.

But look! The long procession of the kings Wavers and stops; the world is full of noise, The ragged peoples storm the palaces, They rave, they laugh, they thirst, they lap the stream That trickles from the regal vestments down, And, lapping, smack their heated chaps for more, And ply their daggers for it, till the kings All die and lie in a crooked sprawl of death, Ungainly, foul, and stiff as any heap Of villeins rotting on a battle-field.

'Tis true, that when these things have come to pa.s.s Then never a king shall rule again in France, For every villein shall be king in France: And who hath lordship in him, whether born In hedge or silken bed, shall be a lord: And queens shall be as thick i' the land as wives, And all the maids shall maids of honor be: And high and low shall commune solemnly: And stars and stones shall have free interview.

But woe is me, 'tis also piteous true That ere this gracious time shall visit France, Your graves, Beloved, shall be some centuries old, And so your children's, and their children's graves And many generations'.

Ye, O ye Shall grieve, and ye shall grieve, and ye shall grieve.

Your Life shall bend and o'er his shuttle toil, A weaver weaving at the loom of grief.

Your Life shall sweat 'twixt anvil and hot forge, An armorer working at the sword of grief.

Your Life shall moil i' the ground, and plant his seed, A farmer foisoning a huge crop of grief.

Your Life shall chaffer in the market-place, A merchant trading in the goods of grief.

Your Life shall go to battle with his bow, A soldier fighting in defence of grief.

By every rudder that divides the seas, Tall Grief shall stand, the helmsman of the ship.

By every wain that jolts along the roads, Stout Grief shall walk, the driver of the team.

Midst every herd of cattle on the hills, Dull Grief shall lie, the herdsman of the drove.

Oh Grief shall grind your bread and play your lutes And marry you and bury you.

-- How else?

Who's here in France, can win her people's faith And stand in front and lead the people on?

Where is the Church?

The Church is far too fat.