Poems — Themes and Context

She was a beautiful woman, with just enough blood from her mother Darkening her eyes and her hair to make her race known to a trader: You would have thought she was white. The man that was with her,--you see such,-- Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good-natured and vicious, Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating. I was a youngster then, and only learning the river,-- Not over-fond of the wheel. I used to watch them at monte, Down in the cabin at night, and learned to know all of the gamblers. So when I saw this weak one staking his money against them, Betting upon the turn of the cards, I knew what was coming: _They_ never left their pigeons a single feather to fly with. Next day I saw them together,--the stranger and one of the gamblers: Picturesque rascal he was, with long black hair and moustaches, Black slouch hat drawn down to his eyes from his villanous forehead. On together they moved, still earnestly talking in whispers, On toward the forecastle, where sat the woman alone by the gangway. Roused by the fall of feet, she turned, and, beholding her master, Greeted him with a smile that was more like a wife's than another's, Rose to meet him fondly, and then, with the dread apprehension Always haunting the slave, fell her eye on the face of the gambler,-- Dark and lustful and fierce and full of merciless cunning. Something was spoken so low that I could not hear what the words were; Only the woman started, and looked from one to the other, With imploring eyes, bewildered hands, and a tremor All through her frame: I saw her from where I was standing, she shook so. 'Say! is it so?' she cried. On the weak, white lips of her master Died a sickly smile, and he said, 'Louise, I have sold you.' God is my judge! May I never see such a look of despairing, Desolate anguish, as that which the woman cast on her master, Griping her breast with her little hands, as if he had stabbed her, Standing in silence a space, as fixed as the Indian woman Carved out of wood, on the pilot-house of the old Pocahontas! Then, with a gurgling moan, like the sound in the throat of the dying, Came back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, through wild incoherence, Into a terrible shriek that stopped my heart while she answered:-- 'Sold me? sold me? sold--And you promised to give me my freedom!-- Promised me, for the sake of our little boy in Saint Louis! What will you say to our boy, when he cries for me there in Saint Louis? What will you say to our God?--Ah, you have been joking! I see it!-- No? God! God! He shall hear it,--and all of the angels in heaven,-- Even the devils in hell!--and none will believe when they hear it! Sold me!'--Her voice died away with a wail, and in silence Down she sank on the deck, and covered her face with her fingers."

In his story a moment the pilot paused, while we listened To the salute of a boat, that, rounding the point of an island, Flamed toward us with fires that seemed to burn from the waters,-- Stately and vast and swift, and borne on the heart of the current. Then, with the mighty voice of a giant challenged to battle, Rose the responsive whistle, and all the echoes of island, Swamp-land, glade, and brake replied with a myriad clamor, Like wild birds that are suddenly startled from slumber at midnight, Then were at peace once more; and we heard the harsh cries of the peacocks Perched on a tree by a cabin-door, where the white-headed settler's White-headed children stood to look at the boat as it passed them, Passed them so near that we heard their happy talk and their laughter. Softly the sunset had faded, and now on the eastern horizon Hung, like a tear in the sky, the beautiful star of the evening.

Still with his back to us standing, the pilot went on with his story:-- "All of us flocked round the woman. The children cried, and their mothers Hugged them tight to their breasts; but the gambler said to the captain,-- 'Put me off there at the town that lies round the bend of the river. Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.' Roughly he seized the woman's arm and strove to uplift her. She--she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is dreaming, Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway, Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation. Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and the people Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment, Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler. Not one to save her,--not one of all the compassionate people! Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven! Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her! Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and horror. Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the night-time. White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to secure her; Then she turned and leaped,--in mid-air fluttered a moment,-- Down then, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from a tree-top, Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and crushed her, And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever."

Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope for stopping. Then, turning,-- "This is the place where it happened," brokenly whispered the pilot. "Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the night-time." Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the starlight, Cheerful with lamps. Below we could hear them reversing the engines, And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant exhausted. Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the eastward Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into silver. All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the willows Smote with a mystical sense of infinite sorrow upon us.

Red roses, in the slender vases burning, Breathed all upon the air,-- The passion and the tenderness and yearning, The waiting and the doubting and despair.

Still with the music of her voice was haunted, Through all its charmed rhymes, The open book of such a one as chanted The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times.

The silvern chords of the piano trembled Still with the music wrung From them; the silence of the room dissembled The closes of the songs that she had sung.

The languor of the crimson shawl's abasement,-- Lying without a stir Upon the floor,--the absence at the casement, The solitude and hush were full of her.

Without, and going from the room, and never Departing, did depart Her steps; and one that came too late forever Felt them go heavy o'er his broken heart.

And, sitting in the house's desolation, He could not bear the gloom, The vanishing encounter and evasion Of things that were and were not in the room.

Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions Of faces and of forms; He heard old tendernesses and derisions Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms.

By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under That lamps made at their feet, He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder, And sadly follow after him down the street.

The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded Between him and his quest; At unseen corners jostled and eluded, Against his hand her silken robes were pressed.

Doors closed upon her; out of garret casements He knew she looked at him; In splendid mansions and in squalid basements, Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim.

From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him, Whirling away from sight; From all the hopelessness of search she won him Back to the dull and lonesome house at night.

Full early into dark the twilights saddened Within its closed doors; The echoes, with the clock's monotony maddened, Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors;

But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter From wide-mouthed chimney-places, And the strange noises between roof and rafter, The wainscot clamor, and the scampering races

Of mice that chased each other through the chambers, And up and down the stair, And rioted among the ashen embers, And left their frolic footprints everywhere,--

Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending The broad steps, one by one, And toward the solitary chamber tending, Where the dim phantom of his hope alone

Rose up to meet him, with his growing nearer, Eager for his embrace, And moved, and melted into the white mirror, And stared at him with his own haggard face.

But, turning, he was 'ware _her_ looks beheld him Out of the mirror white; And at the window yearning arms she held him, Out of the vague and sombre fold of night.

Sometimes she stood behind him, looking over His shoulder as he read; Sometimes he felt her shadowy presence hover Above his dreamful sleep, beside his bed;

And rising from his sleep, her shadowy presence Followed his light descent Of the long stair; her shadowy evanescence Through all the whispering rooms before him went.

Upon the earthy draught of cellars blowing His shivering lamp-flame blue, Amid the damp and chill, he felt her flowing Around him from the doors he entered through.

The spiders wove their webs upon the ceiling; The bat clung to the wall; The dry leaves through the open transom stealing, Skated and danced adown the empty hall.

About him closed the utter desolation, About him closed the gloom; The vanishing encounter and evasion Of things that were and were not in the room

Vexed him forever; and his life forever Immured and desolate, Beating itself, with desperate endeavor, But bruised itself, against the round of fate.

The roses, in their slender vases burning, Were quenched long before; A dust was on the rhymes of love and yearning; The shawl was like a shroud upon the floor.

Her music from the thrilling chords had perished; The stillness was not moved With memories of cadences long cherished, The closes of the songs that she had loved.

But not the less he felt her presence never Out of the room depart; Over the threshold, not the less, forever He felt her going on his broken heart.

"Das Vergnuegen ist Nichts als ein hoechst angenehmer Schmerz."--HEINRICH HEINE.

Full of beautiful blossoms Stood the tree in early May: Came a chilly gale from the sunset, And blew the blossoms away;

Scattered them through the garden, Tossed them into the mere: The sad tree moaned and shuddered, "Alas! the Fall is here."

But all through the glowing summer The blossomless tree throve fair, And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow, With sunny rain and air;

And when the dim October With golden death was crowned, Under its heavy branches The tree stooped to the ground.

In youth there comes a west-wind Blowing our bloom away,-- A chilly breath of Autumn Out of the lips of May.

We bear the ripe fruit after,-- Ah, me! for the thought of pain!-- We know the sweetness and beauty And the heart-bloom never again.

One sails away to sea, One stands on the shore and cries; The ship goes down the world, and the light On the sullen water dies.

The whispering shell is mute, And after is evil cheer: She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain, Many and many a year.

But the stately, wide-winged ship Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; Far under, dead in his coral bed, The lover lies asleep.

Through the silent streets of the city, In the night's unbusy noon, Up and down in the pallor Of the languid summer moon,

I wander, and think of the village, And the house in the maple-gloom, And the porch with the honeysuckles And the sweet-brier all abloom.

My soul is sick with the fragrance Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: O darling! the house is empty, And lonesomer than death!

If I call, no one will answer; If I knock, no one will come: The feet are at rest forever, And the lips are cold and dumb.

The summer moon is shining So wan and large and still, And the weary dead are sleeping In the graveyard under the hill.

We looked at the wide, white circle Around the Autumn moon, And talked of the change of weather: It would rain, to-morrow, or soon.

And the rain came on the morrow, And beat the dying leaves From the shuddering boughs of the maples Into the flooded eaves.

The clouds wept out their sorrow; But in my heart the tears Are bitter for want of weeping, In all these Autumn years.

The bobolink sings in the meadow, The wren in the cherry-tree: Come hither, thou little maiden, And sit upon my knee;

And I will tell thee a story I read in a book of rhyme; I will but fain that it happened To me, one summer-time,

When we walked through the meadow, And she and I were young. The story is old and weary With being said and sung.

The story is old and weary: Ah, child! it is known to thee. Who was it that last night kissed thee Under the cherry-tree?

Like a bird of evil presage, To the lonely house on the shore Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, And shrieked at the bolted door,

And flapped its wings in the gables, And shouted the well-known names, And buffeted the windows Afeard in their shuddering frames.

It was night, and it is morning,-- The summer sun is bland, The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In to the summer land.

The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In the sun so soft and bright, And toss and play with the dead man Drowned in the storm last night.

I remember the burning brushwood, Glimmering all day long Yellow and weak in the sunlight, Now leaped up red and strong,

And fired the old dead chestnut, That all our years had stood, Gaunt and gray and ghostly, Apart from the sombre wood;

And, flushed with sudden summer, The leafless boughs on high Blossomed in dreadful beauty Against the darkened sky.

We children sat telling stories, And boasting what we should be, When we were men like our fathers, And watched the blazing tree,

That showered its fiery blossoms, Like a rain of stars, we said, Of crimson and azure and purple. That night, when I lay in bed,

I could not sleep for seeing, Whenever I closed my eyes, The tree in its dazzling splendor Against the darkened skies.

I cannot sleep for seeing, With closed eyes to-night, The tree in its dazzling splendor Dropping its blossoms bright;

And old, old dreams of childhood Come thronging my weary brain, Dear, foolish beliefs and longings: I doubt, are they real again?

It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, That I either think or see: The phantoms of dead illusions To-night are haunting me.

All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream.

The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute.

There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.

The wet trees hang above the walks Purple with damps and earthish stains, And strewn by moody, absent rains With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks.

Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths, The ripe June-grass is wanton blown; Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone; Along the sills hang drowsy moths.

Down the blank visage of the wall, Where many a wavering trace appears, Like a forgotten trace of tears, From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl.

Where everything was wide before, The curious wind, that comes and goes, Finds all the latticed windows close, Secret and close the bolted door.

And with the shrewd and curious wind, That in the arched doorway cries, And at the bolted portal tries, And harks and listens at the blind,--

Forever lurks my thought about, And in the ghostly middle-night Finds all the hidden windows bright, And sees the guests go in and out,

And lingers till the pallid dawn, And feels the mystery deeper there In silent, gust-swept chambers, bare, With all the midnight revel gone;

But wanders through the lonesome rooms, Where harsh the astonished cricket calls, And, from the hollows of the walls Vanishing, start unshapen glooms;

And lingers yet, and cannot come Out of the drear and desolate place, So full of ruin's solemn grace, And haunted with the ghost of home.

I stood on the brink in childhood, And watched the bubbles go From the rock-fretted, sunny ripple To the smoother tide below;

And over the white creek-bottom, Under them every one, Went golden stars in the water, All luminous with the sun.

But the bubbles broke on the surface, And under, the stars of gold Broke; and the hurrying water Flowed onward, swift and cold.

I stood on the brink in manhood, And it came to my weary brain, And my heart, so dull and heavy After the years of pain,--

That every hollowest bubble Which over my life had passed Still into its deeper current Some heavenly gleam had cast;

That, however I mocked it gayly, And guessed at its hollowness, Still shone, with each bursting bubble, One star in my soul the less.

One after one they left us; The sweet birds out of our breasts Went flying away in the morning: Will they come again to their nests?

Will they come again at nightfall, With God's breath in their song? Noon is fierce with the heats of summer, And summer days are long!

O my Life, with thy upward liftings, Thy downward-striking roots, Ripening out of thy tender blossoms But hard and bitter fruits!--

In thy boughs there is no shelter For the birds to seek again. The desolate nest is broken And torn with storms and rain!

LOUIS LEBEAU'S CONVERSION.

Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva, Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands, And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance, Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer, Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,-- While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather, Breathing air that was full of Old World sadness and beauty Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio, When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen.