_"Lydia, dic, per omnes Te deos oro!"_

I

What are the subtleties Which woo me in her eyes To oaths she deems but lies, I can not tell, I can not tell, Nor will she.

They are beyond my thought.

For when I gaze I'm nought, My senses all unwrought, It is not well, it is not well, Now Lily!

II

What is the magic sweet Which makes hot pulses beat, A wayward tongue repeat A name for weeks, a name for weeks Will, nill he?

Ai me! the pleasant pain Falls sweetly on the brain Like some slow sunny rain, Whene'er she speaks, whene'er she speaks This Lily.

III

What is the witchery rare Which snares me in her hair So deeply that I dare, I dare not move, I dare not move,-- Lie stilly?

In looks and winning ways The bloom of love she lays Like fire on all my days, And makes me love, and makes me love This Lily.

YULE.

Behold! it was night; and the wind and the rushing of snow on the wind, And the boom of the sea and the moaning of desolate pines that were thinned.

And the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wa.s.sail were filled, With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain, And sware out round oaths in hoa.r.s.e wit, and long quaffing sware laughing again.

Unharnessed from each s.h.a.ggy throat that was hot with mad l.u.s.t and with drink, The burly wild skins and barbaric tossed rent from their broad golden link.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the "_waes-heils_"

were shouted and roared By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

And huge on the hearth, that writhed hissing and bellied a bullion of gold, The yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.

And its warmth was a glory that glared and smote red through the width of the hall, To burnish wild-boar skins and swords and great war-axes hung on the wall.

Till the maidens, who hurried big goblets that bubbled excessive with barm, Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls when the shining steel mirrored each charm.

And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king, With the stormy rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle re-echoing ring.

For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er, And Harold, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the sh.o.r.e.

For the harrier, Harold the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf, With their men on the sh.o.r.e of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.

Behold! for the battle was finished, the battle that boomed in the day With the rumble of shields that were shocked and the shatter of spears that did slay;

With the hewing of swords that fierce lightened hot smoking with riotous blood, And the crush of the mace that was crashed through the helm and the brain that withstood;

And the cursing and shrieking of men at their G.o.ds--at their G.o.ds whom they cursed, Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their struggling burst.

And they fought in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow, Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.

And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched of the maniac wind Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.

And they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met till the battle G.o.d, Thor, From his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.

And they fell--like twin rocks of the mountain the ruinous whirlwinds have hurled From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the strength of the world.

And, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the stern iron altars of War Their flesh, their own flesh, yea, the victim, their blood the libation to Thor....

But a glitter and splendor of arms out of snow and the foam of the seas, And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries....

Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wa.s.sail are filled, With the steam of the flesh of the boar and the reek of the ale that is spilled.

For the Yule and the vict'ry are theirs, and the "_waes-heils_"

are shouted and roared By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls 'round the ponderous board.

THE TROUBADOUR.

He stood where all the rare voluptuous West, Like some mad Maenad wine-stained to the breast, Shot from delirious lips of ruby must Long, fierce, triumphant smiles wherein hot l.u.s.t Swam like a feverish wine exultant tost High from a golden goblet and so lost.

And all the West, and all the rosy West, Bathed his frail beauty, hair and throat and breast; And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows, A pa.s.sion flower of men of snows and rose Beneath the cas.e.m.e.nt of her old red tower Whereat the lady sat, as white a flower As ever blew in Provence, and the lace, Mist-like about her hair, half hid her face And all its moods which his sweet singing raised, Sad moods that censured it, sweet moods that praised.

And where the white rose climbing over and over Up to her wide-flung lattice like a lover, And gladiolas and deep fleurs-de-lis Held honey-cups up for the violent bee, Within her garden by the ivied wall, Where many a fountain falling musical Flamed fire-fierce in the eve against it flung, Like some mad nightingale the minstrel sung:--

"The pa.s.sion, O! of plunging through and through Lascivious curls star-litten as light dew, And jeweled thick, as is the bosomed dusk Dense scintillant with stars! Oh frenzy rare Of twisting curling fingers in thy hair!

No touch of balm-beat winds from torrid seas Were half so satin-soft in sorceries!

No G.o.d-like life so sweet as lost to lie Wrapped strand on strand deep in such hair and die, Ah love, sweet love!

"The mounting madness and the rapturous pain With fingers wound in thick, cool curls to strain All the wild sight deep in thy perilous eyes So agate polished, where the thoughts that rise Warm in the heart, like on a witch's gla.s.s Must forth in pictures beautiful and pa.s.s; No Siren sweetness wailed to lyres of gold, No naked beauty that the Greeks of old G.o.d-bosomed thro' the bursting foam did see Were potent, love, to tear mine eyes from thee, Ah love, sweet love!

"Far o'er the sea of old time once a witch, The fair aeaean, Circe, dwelt, so rich In marvelous magic, cruel as a G.o.d, She made or unmade lovers at a nod; Ah, bitter love that made all loves but brute!-- Ah, bitterer thou who mak'st my heart a lute To lie and languish for thee sad and mute, Strung high for utterance of the sweetest lay, Such magic music as Acrasia And all her lovers swooned to utter bliss,-- And then not wake it with a single kiss, Ah! cruel, cruel love!"

Knee-deep within the dew-damp gra.s.ses there, Against the stars, that now were everywhere Flung thro' the perfumed heav'ns of angel hands, And, linked in tangled labyrinths of bands Of soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolled One vast immensity of mazy gold, He sang, like some hurt creature desolate, Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mate Hounded and speared to death of heartless men In old romantic Arden waste; and then Turned to the one white star,--which like a stone Of precious worth low on the heaven shone,-- A white, sweet, lovely face and pa.s.sed away From the warm flowers and the fountains' spray.

And that fair lady in pale drapery, High in the quaint, red tower, did she sigh To see him, dimming down the purple night, Lone with his instrument die out of sight Far in the rose-pleached, musk-drunk avenues, Far in, far in amid the gleaming dews, And, left alone but with the sighing rush Of the wan fountains and the deep night hush, Weep to the melancholy stars above Half the lorn night for the desired love?

Or down the rush-strewn halls, where arras old Billowed with pa.s.sage of her fold on fold, Even to the ponderous iron-studded gate, That shrieked with rust, steal from her lord and wait Deep in the dingled hyacinth and rose For him who sang so sweetly erst?--who knows?

WHY?