  THE SPEARS OF KAN-MAREYES that we look into—so, Hands that we kiss ere we go, Keep us,—remember us, hold us a night and a day; For the white road stretches ahead, And our spears have a vision of red, And our horses champ with their bits, and rear at the way. The tussocks of grass in the glare Are brown as a dream-maiden's hair, And over them, white in the sun, the spears of Kan-Mar; The curbs, and the froth at the lips— The bridle chains snapping like whips, And our plumes tossed red, and scenting the heels of war. The eyes that twinkle and burn— The wrists like elk-thongs that turn With the balancing, pausing, slender, murderous spear; The swords that lead us along, The thrust, the shriek and the song— Sights not fit for their eyes, nor sounds for their ears to hear. The city gates in the sun, The glory of brave deeds done, The clatter of horning hoofs and the song of old Kan-Mar, The roar of the narrow street Filled with clanging of feet— The white hands over the balconies, and the kiss on the burning scar! "COLD," cried the wind on the hill, "Cold," sang the tree; Your eyes were blue-grey and still And cold as the sea. Cold lay the snow on the land; Cold stood the pine; But neither as cold as your hand Lying in mine. Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon— Just smoldered and gone; A kiss by the light of the moon, A parting by dawn. WHERE are the men of my heart's desire? Of the British blood and the loyal names? Some are North, at the home hearth-fire, Where the hemlock glooms and the maple flames, And some are tramping the old world round For the pot of gold they have never found. Oh, leal are the men of my heart's desire— Their fathers were leal in the days gone by— And their blood is blithe with the subtle fire The purple breeds, and their hearts are high,— Poor, and gallant, and dear to me, With a strong hand each, and a pedigree. Good men are bred in the East and the West, And ripe, true gentles in Boston town, But the men of my blood to my blood seem best— Who still hold the honor of Mitre and Crown. Though empty their cellars and worn their attire, These are the men of my heart's desire. So, gentles, these stumbling rhymes I send To our spruce-clad hills, for a word of cheer,— Where there's ever a welcome and ever a friend, And the brown coat covers the cavalier. Take them, I pray you, for what they are worth, For I swear by my soul you're the salt of the earth. DOWN the long lanes of Arcadie My lady canters merrily; The grain is bleaching in the sun, The russet hickories confer, And mounted on old Cheveron With laughing call I follow her. The maples stand in flaming red, The sturdy brakes are sere and dead; But still my lady canters on Through field and wood and busy town, And mounted on old Cheveron I try to ride her down. Through the long lanes of Arcadie The crickets skip and chirp to me; My lady's just 'round yonder bend, Methinks I hear her call to me— Methinks our chase is at an end Through these long lanes of Arcadie! Nay, still she canters down the lane With floating skirt and loosened rein. We've traveled all this summer land, And still we mount and gallop on; Sometimes she turns and waves her hand, A challenge to old Cheveron. Through all this land of Arcadie She leads old Cheveron and me, And how her good mount stands it so Is really more than I can see; The valleys now are white with snow, Yet still we ride through Arcadie. Old Cheveron has cast his shoes! The Chase is up, my Lady Muse! |
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