A Christmas masque of Saint Roch, Père Dagobert, and Throwing the wanga . y have kissed 42 PERE DAGOBERT. In the olden days, grow warm again,And the eyes whereon rusty coins have lainFor a hundred years and more, grow brightWith the deathless joys of a long-gone night. —A bell in Don Almonascers towerBy the old Place dAmies rings out the hourShort in his canticle stops the PereTo cross himself and mutter a prayer;Then he climbs to his chilly resting-placeAnd pulls his cope uj) over his face,And folds his hands in a patient rests himself through the livelong day. The dames and courtiers
A Christmas masque of Saint Roch, Père Dagobert, and Throwing the wanga . y have kissed 42 PERE DAGOBERT. In the olden days, grow warm again,And the eyes whereon rusty coins have lainFor a hundred years and more, grow brightWith the deathless joys of a long-gone night. —A bell in Don Almonascers towerBy the old Place dAmies rings out the hourShort in his canticle stops the PereTo cross himself and mutter a prayer;Then he climbs to his chilly resting-placeAnd pulls his cope uj) over his face,And folds his hands in a patient rests himself through the livelong day. The dames and courtiers slowly rise,Brushincr the dews from their softened eves,And courtesying grandly as they go,They pass along in a stately row;They pause at the door of their family tombs-Glancing askance at the inner glooms,And lifting a finger with slow demur—To say with that air of a coiiiioisseur 43 PERE DAGOBERT. That greeted a Manon, when she and thevTrod the stage of the vieiix carre^ Ma foi! tis a wondrous thing and rare,The singing of Father Dagobert! 44 THROWING THE THROWING THE WANGA.* ST. Johns over dark blue PontchartrainIt conies and goes, the weird refrain,Wanga ! wanga ! The trackless swamp is quick with criesOf noisome things that dip and riseOn night-grown wings ; and in the pools the monstrous forms that sleepInert by day uplift their zela flower its poison shedsUpon the warm and languorous air;The lak-vine weat^es its noxious snare;The wide palmetto leaves are stirredBy venomed breathings, faintly heardAcross the still, star-lighted night. *See Notes, page 5S. 47 THROWING THE WANGA. Her lonely spice-fed fire^ alightUpon the black sivanips utmost rini^Noiu spreads and flares^ now smoulders dim;-And at her feet they curl and break,The dark blue ivaters of the lake. Her arms are wild above her head—Old withered arms., whose charm has fled. Zizi, Creole Zizi,You is slim an straight ez a saplin Dat grows by de bayous aidge ;You is brow
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookidchristmasmas, bookyear1896
