Poems from The Teacups | Page 8

that he made?To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade.?Some said they saw the hollow of a cave;?One, given to fables, swore it was a grave;?Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried,?Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied.?They said his house was framed with curious cares,?Lest some old friend might enter unawares;?That on the platform at his chamber's door?Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor;?Touch the black silken tassel next the bell,?Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell;?Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike,?To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike.?By day armed always; double-armed at night,
His tools lay round him; wake him such as might.?A carbine hung beside his India fan,?His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan;?Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt,?Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt;?A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;--?All this was what those lying boatmen said.?Then some were full of wondrous stories told?Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold;?Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars?That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars;?How his laced wallet often would disgorge?The fresh-faced guinea of an English George,?Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore,?Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore;?And how his finger wore a rubied ring?Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king.?But these fine legends, told with staring eyes,?Met with small credence from the old and wise.
Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain??Enough : the scorched and cindered beams remain.?He came, a silent pilgrim to the West,?Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast;?Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone;?He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown.
Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey,?As the black steamer dashes through the bay,?Why ask his buried secret to divine??He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine!
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Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause;?Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause;?When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke?Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke:
"The Lover's Secret,--surely that must need?The youngest voice our table holds to read.?Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose??Either were charming, neither will refuse;?But choose we must,--what better can we do?Than take the younger of the youthful two?"
True to the primal instinct of her sex,?"Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex.?"What if it does?" the voiceless question came,?That set those pale New England cheeks aflame;?"Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach?Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,--?She shall be youngest,--youngest for to-day,--?Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may;?All rights reserved,--the words we know so well,?That guard the claims of books which never sell."?The British maiden bowed a pleased assent,?Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent;?The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through?Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue.?Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl?And thus began,--the rose-lipped English girl.
THE LOVER'S SECRET
WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried?To guess his ill, and found herself defied.?The Augur plied his legendary skill;?Useless; the fair young Roman languished still.?His chariot took him every cloudless day?Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way;?They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil,?Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil;?They led him tottering down the steamy path?Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath;?Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave,?They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave.?They sought all curious herbs and costly stones,?They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's bones,?They tried all cures the votive tablets taught,?Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought,?O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran,?His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan.?At last a servant heard a stranger speak?A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek,?Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came?To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name.?The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes,?Who must be cunning, and who might be wise.?He spoke but little,--if they pleased, he said,?He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed.?So by his side he sat, serene and calm,?His very accents soft as healing balm;?Not curious seemed, but every movement spied,?His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide;?Asked a few questions,--what he felt, and where??"A pain just here," "A constant beating there."?Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails??"Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles."?What was the last prescription in his case??"A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase."?Had he no secret grief he nursed alone??A pause; a little tremor; answer,--"None."?Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech,?And muttered " Eros! " in his native speech.?In the broad atrium various friends await?The last new utterance from the lips of fate;?Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er,?And, restless, pace the tessellated floor.?Not unobserved the youth so long had pined?By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind;?One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride,?The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed";?The same the old Proconsul fain