Poems from The Teacups | Page 8

or scorn
There came a flash as from the milky corn,
When
from the ear you rip the rustling sheath,
And the white ridges show
their even teeth.
His stature moderate, but his strength confessed,
In
spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast;
Full-armed, thick-handed;
one that had been strong,
And might be dangerous still, if things went
wrong.
He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade,
Did naught for
gain, yet all his debts were paid;
Rich, so 't was thought, but careful
of his store;
Had all he needed, claimed to have no more.
But some that lingered round the isle at night
Spoke of strange
stealthy doings in their sight;
Of creeping lonely visits 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!
. . . . . . . . . . .
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