TELKA.

THROUGH those golden summer days Our twin flocks were wont to graze On the hillside, which the sun Rested lovingly upon,—

Telka's flock and mine; and we Sung our songs in rapturous glee, Idling in the pleasant shade Which the solemn Yew-tree made,

While the Brook anear us played, And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew In the shadow of the Yew. Telka loved me passing well;

How I loved her none can tell! How I love her none may know,— Oh that man love woman so! When she was not at my side,

Loud my heart in anguish cried, And my lips, till she replied. Yet they think to silence me,— As if love could silenced be!

Fool were I, and fools were they! Still I wend my lonely way, “Telka,” evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky,

And the weary years go by. Telka, she was passing fair; And the glory of her hair Was such glory as the sun

With his blessing casts upon Yonder lonely mountain height, Lifting up to bid good-night To her sovereign in the west,

Sinking wearily to rest, Drowsing in that golden sea Where the realms of Dreamland be. So our love to fulness grew,

Whilst beneath the solemn Yew Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, As it were some fancied sight Blanched it with a dread affright.

Telka, she was passing fair; And our peace was perfect there Till, enchanted by her smile, Lurked the South Wind there awhile,

Underneath that hillside tree Where with singing idled we, And I heard the South Wind say Flattering words to her that day

Of a city far away. But the Yew-tree crouched as though It were like to whisper No To the words the South Wind said

As he smoothed my Telka's head. And the Brook, all pleading, cried To the dear one at my side: “Linger always where I am;

Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! Wander not where shadows deep On the treacherous quicksands sleep, And the haunted waters leap;

Be thou ware the waves that flow Toward the prison pool below, Where, beguiled from yonder sky, Captive moonbeams shivering lie,

And at dawn of morrow die.” So the Brook to Telka cried, But my Telka naught replied; And, as in a strange affright,

Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. When anon the North Wind came,— Rudely blustering Telka's name, And he kissed the leaves that grew

Round about the trembling Yew,— Kissed and romped till, blushing red, All one day in terror fled, And the white Rose hung her head;

Coming to our trysting spot, Long I called; she answered not. “Telka!” pleadingly I cried Up and down the mountain-side

Where we twain were wont to bide. There were those who thought that I Could be silenced with a lie, And they told me Telka's name

Should be spoken now with shame: “She is lost to us and thee,” — That is what they said to me. “Is my Telka lost?” quoth I.

“On this hilltop shall I cry, So that she may hear and then Find her way to me again. The South Wind spoke a lie that day;

All deceived, she lost her way Yonder where the shadows sleep ‘ Mongst the haunted waves that leap Over treacherous quicksands deep,

And where captive moonbeams lie Doomed at morrow's dawn to die She is lost, and that is all; I will search for her, and call.”

Summer comes and winter goes, Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; All the others are anear,— Only Telka is not here!

Gone the peace and love I knew Sometime‘ neath the hillside Yew; And the Rose, that mocks me so, I had crushed it long ago

But that Telka loved it then, And shall soothe its terror when She comes back to me again. Call I, seek I everywhere

For my Telka, passing fair. It is, oh, so many a year I have called! She does not hear, Yet nor feared nor worn am I;

For I know that if I cry She shall sometime hear my call. She is lost, and that is all,— She is lost in some far spot;

I have searched, and found it not. Could she hear me calling, then Would she come to me again; For she loved me passing well,—

How I love her none can tell! That is why these years I've cried “Telka!” on this mountain-side. “Telka!” still I, pleading, cry;

Answer me the woods and sky, And the lonely years go by. On an evening dark and chill Came a shadow up the hill,—

Came a spectre, grim and white As a ghost that walks the night, Grim and bowed, and with the cry Of a wretch about to die,—

Came and fell and cried to me: “It is Telka come!” said she. So she fell and so she cried On that lonely mountain-side

Where was Telka wont to bide. “Who hath bribed those lips to lie? Telka's face was fair,” quoth I; “Thine is furrowed with despair.

There is winter in thy hair; But upon her beauteous head Was there summer glory shed,— Such a glory as the sun,

When his daily course is run, Smiles upon this mountain height As he kisses it good-night. There was music in her tone,

Misery in thy voice alone. They have bid thee lie to me. Let me pass! Thou art not she! Let my sorrow sacred be

Underneath this trysting tree!” So in wrath I went my way, And they came another day,— Came another day, and said:

“Hush thy cry, for she is dead, Yonder on the mountain-side She is buried where she died, Where you twain were wont to bide,

Where she came and fell and cried Pardon that thy wrath denied; And above her bosom grows As in mockery the Rose:

It was white; but now‘ tis red, And in shame it bows its head Over sinful Telka dead.” So they thought to silence me,—

As if love could silenced be! Fool were I, and fools were they! Scornfully I went my way, And upon the mountain-side

“Telka!” evermore I cried. “Telka!” evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky: So the lonely years go by.

She is lost, and that is all; Sometime she shall hear my call, Hear my pleading call, and then Find her way to me again.