Classic Poem

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie,
They live in a village of ancient elms,
Whose depth of shade the town o'erwhelms—
Like sunbeams through the shadows cool,
For years they have brightened the path to school;
Their lightsome feet,
And laughter sweet,
Making a May-day in the street:—

A May-day, every day of the year!
With lilacs and violets breathing near,
Dewy and odorous, fresh and clear;
And each is crowned with the flowers that blow,
In the scented deeps of the heart below,
In the dawn and the dew of Love's young morn:—
Wake, herald, awake your silver horn!
Till the sordid many, and noble few,
Shall know at last on earth are two—
A gain to us, to heaven a loss—
A golden pair not marred with dross,
Born in a glowing Ophirian grove,
In an El-Dorado realm of love.

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie,
They are wandering down where the fields are blithe
Through butterfly lanes, over buttercup banks,
Where the sweet-briar breathes its odorous thanks
To the sun and the air,
While here and there
A fragrance springs,
On invisible wings,
Up from the clover that dies on the scythe.

A little further, they find the brook,
And their faces catch the laughing look
Of the liquid sprite o'erwreathed with glee,
With dimples changing instantly,
And bubbles that saucily wink as they pass
Coquetting among the rushes and grass.

Oh, next to being a human soul,
With a destiny higher than earth's control,
'T were to be a never failing stream,
With the crystal wealth of the hills to teem
For ever and ever, and sing a way
Through meadows green and forests gray,
Over pebbles brown, and sands of gold,
Hither and thither sportively rolled,
To leap, as it were, at a lover's call,
With clapping hands, from the dizzy fall,
And fling the silvery spray on high,
An incense to the loving sky;
And with this mystic veil o'errun,
Call out young Iris from the sun.

Already, barefooted, my beautiful boy
Has leapt to mid-stream, with that jubilant joy
Which only youth knows, and he stands with his tresses
Thrown free to the sunlight that goldenly blesses.
Full twice seven summers and one,
Those tresses have deepened and curled in the sun.

“Oh, come!” he looks,—'t was but the call
That spoke from out his lustrous eye,
Two souls in such sweet tender thrall,
May still commune though speech should die.
It cannot be resisted—see!
The dainty slipper-shoon are drawn,
The stockings follow; light as a fawn
She steps adown the daisy lawn,
And meets his laugh with maiden glee.

A little chill—a breath caught in,
And under the crystal, the delicate skin
Of the lovely feet of the beautiful girl,
Shine pure as opalescent pearl;
And as she moves with gentle stir,
Feels crystal anklets clasped on her
By watery fingers, and hung with bells
Of bubbles, that ring their own quick knells

Ralph takes her delicate hand in his,
He puts one arm about her waist,
So fearful those dear feet might miss,
If on a slippery slant-stone placed.
With laugh and blush they onward wade
Till at last their beautiful limbs invade
That deeper pool, with swifter swells,
Where the hermit trout securely dwells,
Of which the baffled fisherman tells—
That fabulous trout in every stream,
Haunting the anxious angler's dream.

A little waterfall just ahead,
Breaks to spray on the rocky bed;
The rocks are mantled with mosses green,
And tangled wild-vines half way screen
The face of the fall, till it seems to be
A cell for the hermit Secrecy.

And in front of this fall an island lies,—
A couch, and no more, of flowers and moss,—
Its fringe of white lilies, along and across;
Its inwoven vines, and the feathery floss
Of the bloom of the grass, make a sweet surprise,
To kindle new light in an artist's eyes,
While its odors of many a mingled scent,
Hang round the place like a gauzy tent.

The clear pool deepens; and at the hem
Of Rosalie's dress drip water-pearls;
And every wave that round her whirls
Leaps up to add another gem.
And there the little fluttering maid
Stands half in ecstacy—half afraid,
Till stoops the youth, with enclosing arm,
And lifts her from the watery harm;
Folds on his breast her budding grace,
And feels this moment in his embrace
Is clasped more beauty than ever smiled
Before in the form of a twelve years' child.
Her arm about his neck entwines,
That like rose-tinted ivory shines.
He looks up in her face of light,
The flood of her curls half blinds his sight;
And, sportive as a chasing wind,
Her fingers play with his locks behind.
With a ripple and gurgle the waters flash
Around his light, translucent knees;
He strides with as bold an air and dash,
As did Balboa in the western main,
Bearing the imagined form of Spain
To enthrone her on the seas.
So, my beautiful boy, with triumphant smile,
Enthrones his queen on the flowering isle,
And then withdraws to a rock which stands
A little above the flooded sands,
And sits thereon with entranced look;
Then from his breast his companion-book,
With ecstatic hand he gaily draws,
And without further thought or pause,
With charmed pencil begins to impart
What he sees so well with eye and heart;
For his soul is full of the love of art,
And his youthful hand has long been skilled
In picturing what his fancy willed,
Till far and near, with pride and joy,
All speak of the marvellous village boy.

From either slant-bank over-head,
The great trees lean till their boughs are wed;
Where the little birds chase in and out,
Singing in their May-day rout.
The kingfisher sails down, and there
The long crane lights, and with sidelong stare,
Seems to the beautiful lovers to say,
“You're intruding, you know, but are welcome to stay.”
The drawing is finished, he strides to the isle,
And lowly sits at the maiden's feet,
And shows her the picture; with blush and smile
She praises the effort in accents sweet.
Great praise, though spoke by a queen aloud,
Ne'er made young Raphael feel more proud.

But look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
Swinging his rod with skilful hand;
The fly at the end of his gossamer line,
Swims through the sun like a summer moth,
Till dropt with a careful precision fine,
It touches the pool beyond the froth.
A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook,
Darts from his covert and seizes the hook.
Swift spins the reel; with easy slip
The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,
Lithe, and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim,
Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings
The spray from the flash of his finny wings;

Then falls on his side, and drunken with fright,
Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,
Till beached at last on the sandy marge,
Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,
While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.
The angler in his basket lays
The constellation, and goes his ways.

Ah, my sweet Ralph and Rosalie,
I would not mar your morning dream
By hinting at sadder things that be;
Of that solemn Angler who mournfully
Wanders and waits beside Life's stream;
There seeking ever the stariest prey
To bear to his shadowy realms away.