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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/29993-8.txt b/29993-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..99c17eb --- /dev/null +++ b/29993-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5160 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by William D. Howells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: William D. Howells + +Release Date: September 15, 2009 [EBook #29993] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + POEMS + + + BY + WILLIAM D. HOWELLS + + + BOSTON + TICKNOR AND COMPANY + 211 TREMONT STREET + MDCCCLXXXVI + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1873, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY + AND 1885, BY WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. + + _All rights reserved._ + + University Press: + JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + The Pilot's Story 3 + Forlorn 13 + Pleasure-Pain 19 + In August 26 + The Empty House 27 + Bubbles 29 + Lost Beliefs 31 + Louis Lebeau's Conversion 32 + Caprice 49 + Sweet Clover 51 + The Royal Portraits 54 + The Faithful of the Gonzaga 59 + The First Cricket 77 + The Mulberries 79 + Before the Gate 84 + Clement 86 + By the Sea 97 + Saint Christopher 98 + Elegy on John Butler Howells 100 + Thanksgiving 105 + A Springtime 106 + In Earliest Spring 108 + The Bobolinks are Singing 110 + Prelude 113 + The Movers 115 + Through the Meadow 120 + Gone 122 + The Sarcastic Fair 123 + Rapture 124 + Dead 125 + The Doubt 127 + The Thorn 129 + The Mysteries 130 + The Battle in the Clouds 131 + For One of the Killed 133 + The Two Wives 134 + Bereaved 136 + The Snow-Birds 138 + Vagary 139 + Feuerbilder 141 + Avery 143 + Bopeep: A Pastoral 148 + While she sang 160 + A Poet 163 + Convention 164 + The Poet Friends 165 + No Love Lost 166 + The Song the Oriole sings 199 + Pordenone 201 + The Long Days 223 + + + + +THE PILOT'S STORY. + + + I. + + It was a story the pilot told, with his back to his hearers,-- + Keeping his hand on the wheel and his eye on the globe of the + jack-staff, + Holding the boat to the shore and out of the sweep of the current, + Lightly turning aside for the heavy logs of the drift-wood, + Widely shunning the snags that made us sardonic obeisance. + + II. + + All the soft, damp air was full of delicate perfume + From the young willows in bloom on either bank of the river,-- + Faint, delicious fragrance, trancing the indolent senses + In a luxurious dream of the river and land of the lotus. + Not yet out of the west the roses of sunset were withered; + In the deep blue above light clouds of gold and of crimson + Floated in slumber serene; and the restless river beneath them + Rushed away to the sea with a vision of rest in its bosom; + Far on the eastern shore lay dimly the swamps of the cypress; + Dimly before us the islands grew from the river's expanses,-- + Beautiful, wood-grown isles, with the gleam of the swart inundation + Seen through the swaying boughs and slender trunks of their + willows; + And on the shore beside us the cotton-trees rose in the evening, + Phantom-like, yearningly, wearily, with the inscrutable sadness + Of the mute races of trees. While hoarsely the steam from her + 'scape-pipes + Shouted, then whispered a moment, then shouted again to the + silence, + Trembling through all her frame with the mighty pulse of her + engines, + Slowly the boat ascended the swollen and broad Mississippi, + Bank-full, sweeping on, with tangled masses of drift-wood, + Daintily breathed about with whiffs of silvery vapor, + Where in his arrowy flight the twittering swallow alighted, + And the belated blackbird paused on the way to its nestlings. + + III. + + It was the pilot's story:--"They both came aboard there, at Cairo, + From a New Orleans boat, and took passage with us for Saint Louis. + She was a beautiful woman, with just enough blood from her mother + Darkening her eyes and her hair to make her race known to a trader: + You would have thought she was white. The man that was with + her,--you see such,-- + Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good-natured and vicious, + Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating. + I was a youngster then, and only learning the river,-- + Not over-fond of the wheel. I used to watch them at monte, + Down in the cabin at night, and learned to know all of the + gamblers. + So when I saw this weak one staking his money against them, + Betting upon the turn of the cards, I knew what was coming: + _They_ never left their pigeons a single feather to fly with. + Next day I saw them together,--the stranger and one of the + gamblers: + Picturesque rascal he was, with long black hair and moustaches, + Black slouch hat drawn down to his eyes from his villanous + forehead. + On together they moved, still earnestly talking in whispers, + On toward the forecastle, where sat the woman alone by the gangway. + Roused by the fall of feet, she turned, and, beholding her master, + Greeted him with a smile that was more like a wife's than + another's, + Rose to meet him fondly, and then, with the dread apprehension + Always haunting the slave, fell her eye on the face of the + gambler,-- + Dark and lustful and fierce and full of merciless cunning. + Something was spoken so low that I could not hear what the words + were; + Only the woman started, and looked from one to the other, + With imploring eyes, bewildered hands, and a tremor + All through her frame: I saw her from where I was standing, she + shook so. + 'Say! is it so?' she cried. On the weak, white lips of her master + Died a sickly smile, and he said, 'Louise, I have sold you.' + God is my judge! May I never see such a look of despairing, + Desolate anguish, as that which the woman cast on her master, + Griping her breast with her little hands, as if he had stabbed her, + Standing in silence a space, as fixed as the Indian woman + Carved out of wood, on the pilot-house of the old Pocahontas! + Then, with a gurgling moan, like the sound in the throat of the + dying, + Came back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, through wild + incoherence, + Into a terrible shriek that stopped my heart while she answered:-- + 'Sold me? sold me? sold--And you promised to give me my freedom!-- + Promised me, for the sake of our little boy in Saint Louis! + What will you say to our boy, when he cries for me there in Saint + Louis? + What will you say to our God?--Ah, you have been joking! I see + it!-- + No? God! God! He shall hear it,--and all of the angels in heaven,-- + Even the devils in hell!--and none will believe when they hear it! + Sold me!'--Her voice died away with a wail, and in silence + Down she sank on the deck, and covered her face with her fingers." + + IV. + + In his story a moment the pilot paused, while we listened + To the salute of a boat, that, rounding the point of an island, + Flamed toward us with fires that seemed to burn from the waters,-- + Stately and vast and swift, and borne on the heart of the current. + Then, with the mighty voice of a giant challenged to battle, + Rose the responsive whistle, and all the echoes of island, + Swamp-land, glade, and brake replied with a myriad clamor, + Like wild birds that are suddenly startled from slumber at + midnight, + Then were at peace once more; and we heard the harsh cries of the + peacocks + Perched on a tree by a cabin-door, where the white-headed settler's + White-headed children stood to look at the boat as it passed them, + Passed them so near that we heard their happy talk and their + laughter. + Softly the sunset had faded, and now on the eastern horizon + Hung, like a tear in the sky, the beautiful star of the evening. + + V. + + Still with his back to us standing, the pilot went on with his + story:-- + "All of us flocked round the woman. The children cried, and their + mothers + Hugged them tight to their breasts; but the gambler said to the + captain,-- + 'Put me off there at the town that lies round the bend of the + river. + Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.' + Roughly he seized the woman's arm and strove to uplift her. + She--she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is + dreaming, + Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway, + Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation. + Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and + the people + Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment, + Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler. + Not one to save her,--not one of all the compassionate people! + Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven! + Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her! + Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and horror. + Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion + Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the night-time. + White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to secure + her; + Then she turned and leaped,--in mid-air fluttered a moment,-- + Down then, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from a + tree-top, + Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and + crushed her, + And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever." + + VI. + + Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him + Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope for stopping. Then, + turning,-- + "This is the place where it happened," brokenly whispered the + pilot. + "Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the night-time." + Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the + starlight, + Cheerful with lamps. Below we could hear them reversing the + engines, + And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant exhausted. + Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the eastward + Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into silver. + All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the willows + Smote with a mystical sense of infinite sorrow upon us. + + + + +FORLORN. + + + I. + + Red roses, in the slender vases burning, + Breathed all upon the air,-- + The passion and the tenderness and yearning, + The waiting and the doubting and despair. + + II. + + Still with the music of her voice was haunted, + Through all its charméd rhymes, + The open book of such a one as chanted + The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times. + + III. + + The silvern chords of the piano trembled + Still with the music wrung + From them; the silence of the room dissembled + The closes of the songs that she had sung. + + IV. + + The languor of the crimson shawl's abasement,-- + Lying without a stir + Upon the floor,--the absence at the casement, + The solitude and hush were full of her. + + V. + + Without, and going from the room, and never + Departing, did depart + Her steps; and one that came too late forever + Felt them go heavy o'er his broken heart. + + VI. + + And, sitting in the house's desolation, + He could not bear the gloom, + The vanishing encounter and evasion + Of things that were and were not in the room. + + VII. + + Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions + Of faces and of forms; + He heard old tendernesses and derisions + Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms. + + VIII. + + By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under + That lamps made at their feet, + He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder, + And sadly follow after him down the street. + + IX. + + The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded + Between him and his quest; + At unseen corners jostled and eluded, + Against his hand her silken robes were pressed. + + X. + + Doors closed upon her; out of garret casements + He knew she looked at him; + In splendid mansions and in squalid basements, + Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim. + + XI. + + From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him, + Whirling away from sight; + From all the hopelessness of search she won him + Back to the dull and lonesome house at night. + + XII. + + Full early into dark the twilights saddened + Within its closéd doors; + The echoes, with the clock's monotony maddened, + Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors; + + XIII. + + But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter + From wide-mouthed chimney-places, + And the strange noises between roof and rafter, + The wainscot clamor, and the scampering races + + XIV. + + Of mice that chased each other through the chambers, + And up and down the stair, + And rioted among the ashen embers, + And left their frolic footprints everywhere,-- + + XV. + + Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending + The broad steps, one by one, + And toward the solitary chamber tending, + Where the dim phantom of his hope alone + + XVI. + + Rose up to meet him, with his growing nearer, + Eager for his embrace, + And moved, and melted into the white mirror, + And stared at him with his own haggard face. + + XVII. + + But, turning, he was 'ware _her_ looks beheld him + Out of the mirror white; + And at the window yearning arms she held him, + Out of the vague and sombre fold of night. + + XVIII. + + Sometimes she stood behind him, looking over + His shoulder as he read; + Sometimes he felt her shadowy presence hover + Above his dreamful sleep, beside his bed; + + XIX. + + And rising from his sleep, her shadowy presence + Followed his light descent + Of the long stair; her shadowy evanescence + Through all the whispering rooms before him went. + + XX. + + Upon the earthy draught of cellars blowing + His shivering lamp-flame blue, + Amid the damp and chill, he felt her flowing + Around him from the doors he entered through. + + XXI. + + The spiders wove their webs upon the ceiling; + The bat clung to the wall; + The dry leaves through the open transom stealing, + Skated and danced adown the empty hall. + + XXII. + + About him closed the utter desolation, + About him closed the gloom; + The vanishing encounter and evasion + Of things that were and were not in the room + + XXIII. + + Vexed him forever; and his life forever + Immured and desolate, + Beating itself, with desperate endeavor, + But bruised itself, against the round of fate. + + XXIV. + + The roses, in their slender vases burning, + Were quenchéd long before; + A dust was on the rhymes of love and yearning; + The shawl was like a shroud upon the floor. + + XXV. + + Her music from the thrilling chords had perished; + The stillness was not moved + With memories of cadences long cherished, + The closes of the songs that she had loved. + + XXVI. + + But not the less he felt her presence never + Out of the room depart; + Over the threshold, not the less, forever + He felt her going on his broken heart. + + + + +PLEASURE-PAIN. + + "Das Vergnügen ist Nichts als ein höchst angenehmer + Schmerz."--HEINRICH HEINE. + + + I. + + Full of beautiful blossoms + Stood the tree in early May: + Came a chilly gale from the sunset, + And blew the blossoms away; + + Scattered them through the garden, + Tossed them into the mere: + The sad tree moaned and shuddered, + "Alas! the Fall is here." + + But all through the glowing summer + The blossomless tree throve fair, + And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow, + With sunny rain and air; + + And when the dim October + With golden death was crowned, + Under its heavy branches + The tree stooped to the ground. + + In youth there comes a west-wind + Blowing our bloom away,-- + A chilly breath of Autumn + Out of the lips of May. + + We bear the ripe fruit after,-- + Ah, me! for the thought of pain!-- + We know the sweetness and beauty + And the heart-bloom never again. + + II. + + One sails away to sea, + One stands on the shore and cries; + The ship goes down the world, and the light + On the sullen water dies. + + The whispering shell is mute, + And after is evil cheer: + She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain, + Many and many a year. + + But the stately, wide-winged ship + Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; + Far under, dead in his coral bed, + The lover lies asleep. + + III. + + Through the silent streets of the city, + In the night's unbusy noon, + Up and down in the pallor + Of the languid summer moon, + + I wander, and think of the village, + And the house in the maple-gloom, + And the porch with the honeysuckles + And the sweet-brier all abloom. + + My soul is sick with the fragrance + Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: + O darling! the house is empty, + And lonesomer than death! + + If I call, no one will answer; + If I knock, no one will come: + The feet are at rest forever, + And the lips are cold and dumb. + + The summer moon is shining + So wan and large and still, + And the weary dead are sleeping + In the graveyard under the hill. + + IV. + + We looked at the wide, white circle + Around the Autumn moon, + And talked of the change of weather: + It would rain, to-morrow, or soon. + + And the rain came on the morrow, + And beat the dying leaves + From the shuddering boughs of the maples + Into the flooded eaves. + + The clouds wept out their sorrow; + But in my heart the tears + Are bitter for want of weeping, + In all these Autumn years. + + V. + + The bobolink sings in the meadow, + The wren in the cherry-tree: + Come hither, thou little maiden, + And sit upon my knee; + + And I will tell thee a story + I read in a book of rhyme; + I will but fain that it happened + To me, one summer-time, + + When we walked through the meadow, + And she and I were young. + The story is old and weary + With being said and sung. + + The story is old and weary: + Ah, child! it is known to thee. + Who was it that last night kissed thee + Under the cherry-tree? + + VI. + + Like a bird of evil presage, + To the lonely house on the shore + Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, + And shrieked at the bolted door, + + And flapped its wings in the gables, + And shouted the well-known names, + And buffeted the windows + Afeard in their shuddering frames. + + It was night, and it is morning,-- + The summer sun is bland, + The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, + In to the summer land. + + The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, + In the sun so soft and bright, + And toss and play with the dead man + Drowned in the storm last night. + + VII. + + I remember the burning brushwood, + Glimmering all day long + Yellow and weak in the sunlight, + Now leaped up red and strong, + + And fired the old dead chestnut, + That all our years had stood, + Gaunt and gray and ghostly, + Apart from the sombre wood; + + And, flushed with sudden summer, + The leafless boughs on high + Blossomed in dreadful beauty + Against the darkened sky. + + We children sat telling stories, + And boasting what we should be, + When we were men like our fathers, + And watched the blazing tree, + + That showered its fiery blossoms, + Like a rain of stars, we said, + Of crimson and azure and purple. + That night, when I lay in bed, + + I could not sleep for seeing, + Whenever I closed my eyes, + The tree in its dazzling splendor + Against the darkened skies. + + I cannot sleep for seeing, + With closéd eyes to-night, + The tree in its dazzling splendor + Dropping its blossoms bright; + + And old, old dreams of childhood + Come thronging my weary brain, + Dear, foolish beliefs and longings: + I doubt, are they real again? + + It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, + That I either think or see: + The phantoms of dead illusions + To-night are haunting me. + + + + +IN AUGUST. + + + All the long August afternoon, + The little drowsy stream + Whispers a melancholy tune, + As if it dreamed of June + And whispered in its dream. + + The thistles show beyond the brook + Dust on their down and bloom, + And out of many a weed-grown nook + The aster-flowérs look + With eyes of tender gloom. + + The silent orchard aisles are sweet + With smell of ripening fruit. + Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, + Flutter, at coming feet, + The robins strange and mute. + + There is no wind to stir the leaves, + The harsh leaves overhead; + Only the querulous cricket grieves, + And shrilling locust weaves + A song of Summer dead. + + + + +THE EMPTY HOUSE. + + + The wet trees hang above the walks + Purple with damps and earthish stains, + And strewn by moody, absent rains + With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks. + + Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths, + The ripe June-grass is wanton blown; + Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone; + Along the sills hang drowsy moths. + + Down the blank visage of the wall, + Where many a wavering trace appears, + Like a forgotten trace of tears, + From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl. + + Where everything was wide before, + The curious wind, that comes and goes, + Finds all the latticed windows close, + Secret and close the bolted door. + + And with the shrewd and curious wind, + That in the archéd doorway cries, + And at the bolted portal tries, + And harks and listens at the blind,-- + + Forever lurks my thought about, + And in the ghostly middle-night + Finds all the hidden windows bright, + And sees the guests go in and out, + + And lingers till the pallid dawn, + And feels the mystery deeper there + In silent, gust-swept chambers, bare, + With all the midnight revel gone; + + But wanders through the lonesome rooms, + Where harsh the astonished cricket calls, + And, from the hollows of the walls + Vanishing, start unshapen glooms; + + And lingers yet, and cannot come + Out of the drear and desolate place, + So full of ruin's solemn grace, + And haunted with the ghost of home. + + + + +BUBBLES. + + + I. + + I stood on the brink in childhood, + And watched the bubbles go + From the rock-fretted, sunny ripple + To the smoother tide below; + + And over the white creek-bottom, + Under them every one, + Went golden stars in the water, + All luminous with the sun. + + But the bubbles broke on the surface, + And under, the stars of gold + Broke; and the hurrying water + Flowed onward, swift and cold. + + II. + + I stood on the brink in manhood, + And it came to my weary brain, + And my heart, so dull and heavy + After the years of pain,-- + + That every hollowest bubble + Which over my life had passed + Still into its deeper current + Some heavenly gleam had cast; + + That, however I mocked it gayly, + And guessed at its hollowness, + Still shone, with each bursting bubble, + One star in my soul the less. + + + + +LOST BELIEFS. + + + One after one they left us; + The sweet birds out of our breasts + Went flying away in the morning: + Will they come again to their nests? + + Will they come again at nightfall, + With God's breath in their song? + Noon is fierce with the heats of summer, + And summer days are long! + + O my Life, with thy upward liftings, + Thy downward-striking roots, + Ripening out of thy tender blossoms + But hard and bitter fruits!-- + + In thy boughs there is no shelter + For the birds to seek again. + The desolate nest is broken + And torn with storms and rain! + + + + +LOUIS LEBEAU'S CONVERSION. + + + Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva, + Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands, + And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance, + Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer, + Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,-- + While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather, + Breathing air that was full of Old World sadness and beauty + Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio, + When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River + Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen. + + Pealed from the campanili, responding from island to island, + Bells of that ancient faith whose incense and solemn devotions + Rise from a hundred shrines in the broken heart of the city; + But in my revery heard I only the passionate voices + Of the people that sang in the virgin heart of the forest. + Autumn was in the land, and the trees were golden and crimson, + And from the luminous boughs of the over-elms and the maples + Tender and beautiful fell the light in the worshippers' faces, + Softer than lights that stream through the saints on the windows of + churches, + While the balsamy breath of the hemlocks and pines by the river + Stole on the winds through the woodland aisles like the breath of a + censer. + Loud the people sang old camp-meeting anthems that quaver + Quaintly yet from lips forgetful of lips that have kissed them; + Loud they sang the songs of the Sacrifice and Atonement, + And of the end of the world, and the infinite terrors of Judgment:-- + Songs of ineffable sorrow, and wailing, compassionate warning + Unto the generations that hardened their hearts to their Savior; + Songs of exultant rapture for them that confessed him and followed, + Bearing his burden and yoke, enduring and entering with him + Into the rest of his saints, and the endless reward of the blessed. + Loud the people sang; but through the sound of their singing + Broke inarticulate cries and moans and sobs from the mourners, + As the glory of God, that smote the apostle of Tarsus, + Smote them and strewed them to earth like leaves in the breath of + the whirlwind. + + Hushed at last was the sound of the lamentation and singing; + But from the distant hill the throbbing drum of the pheasant + Shook with its heavy pulses the depths of the listening silence, + When from his place arose a white-haired exhorter, and faltered: + "Brethren and sisters in Jesus! the Lord hath heard our petitions, + So that the hearts of his servants are awed and melted within + them,-- + Even the hearts of the wicked are touched by his infinite mercy. + All my days in this vale of tears the Lord hath been with me, + He hath been good to me, he hath granted me trials and patience; + But this hour hath crowned my knowledge of him and his goodness. + Truly, but that it is well this day for me to be with you, + Now might I say to the Lord,--'I know thee, my God, in all fulness; + Now let thy servant depart in peace to the rest thou hast + promised!'" + + Faltered and ceased. And now the wild and jubilant music + Of the singing burst from the solemn profound of the silence, + Surged in triumph, and fell, and ebbed again into silence. + + Then from the group of the preachers arose the greatest among + them,-- + He whose days were given in youth to the praise of the Savior, + He whose lips seemed touched, like the prophet's of old, from the + altar, + So that his words were flame, and burned to the hearts of his + hearers, + Quickening the dead among them, reviving the cold and the doubting. + There he charged them pray, and rest not from prayer while a sinner + In the sound of their voices denied the Friend of the sinner: + "Pray till the night shall fall,--till the stars are faint in the + morning,-- + Yea, till the sun himself be faint in that glory and brightness, + Faint in the light which shall dawn in mercy for penitent sinners." + Kneeling, he led them in prayer; and the quick and sobbing + responses + Spake how their souls were moved with the might and the grace of the + Spirit. + Then while the converts recounted how God had chastened and saved + them,-- + Children, whose golden locks yet shone with the lingering + effulgence + Of the touches of Him who blessed little children forever; + Old men, whose yearning eyes were dimmed with the far-streaming + brightness + Seen through the opening gates in the heart of the heavenly city,-- + Stealthily through the harking woods the lengthening shadows + Chased the wild things to their nests, and the twilight died into + darkness. + + Now the four great pyres that were placed there to light the + encampment, + High on platforms raised above the people, were kindled. + Flaming aloof, as it were the pillar by night in the Desert + Fell their crimson light on the lifted orbs of the preachers, + Fell on the withered brows of the old men, and Israel's mothers, + Fell on the bloom of youth, and the earnest devotion of manhood, + Fell on the anguish and hope in the tearful eyes of the mourners. + Flaming aloof, it stirred the sleep of the luminous maples + With warm summer-dreams, and faint, luxurious languor. + Near the four great pyres the people closed in a circle, + In their midst the mourners, and, praying with them, the exhorters, + And on the skirts of the circle the unrepentant and scorners,-- + Ever fewer and sadder, and drawn to the place of the mourners, + One after one, by the prayers and tears of the brethren and + sisters, + And by the Spirit of God, that was mightily striving within them, + Till at the last alone stood Louis Lebeau, unconverted. + + Louis Lebeau, the boatman, the trapper, the hunter, the fighter, + From the unlucky French of Gallipolis he descended, + Heir to Old World want and New World love of adventure. + Vague was the life he led, and vague and grotesque were the rumors + Through which he loomed on the people,--the hero of mythical + hearsay, + Quick of hand and of heart, impatient, generous, Western, + Taking the thought of the young in secret love and in envy. + Not less the elders shook their heads and held him for outcast, + Reprobate, roving, ungodly, infidel, worse than a Papist, + With his whispered fame of lawless exploits at St. Louis, + Wild affrays and loves with the half-breeds out on the Osage, + Brawls at New Orleans, and all the towns on the rivers, + All the godless towns of the many-ruffianed rivers. + Only she who loved him the best of all, in her loving + Knew him the best of all, and other than that of the rumors. + Daily she prayed for him, with conscious and tender effusion, + That the Lord would convert him. But when her father forbade him + Unto her thought, she denied him, and likewise held him for + outcast, + Turned her eyes when they met, and would not speak, though her heart + broke. + + Bitter and brief his logic that reasoned from wrong unto error: + "This is their praying and singing," he said, "that makes you reject + me,-- + You that were kind to me once. But I think my fathers' religion, + With a light heart in the breast and a friendly priest to absolve + one, + Better than all these conversions that only bewilder and vex me, + And that have made men so hard and women fickle and cruel. + Well, then, pray for my soul, since you would not have spoken to + save me,-- + Yes; for I go from these saints to my brethren and sisters, the + sinners." + Spoke and went, while her faint lips fashioned unuttered entreaties,-- + Went, and came again in a year at the time of the meeting, + Haggard and wan of face, and wasted with passion and sorrow. + Dead in his eyes was the careless smile of old, and its phantom + Haunted his lips in a sneer of restless, incredulous mocking. + Day by day he came to the outer skirts of the circle, + Dwelling on her, where she knelt by the white-haired exhorter, her + father, + With his hollow looks, and never moved from his silence. + + Now, where he stood alone, the last of impenitent sinners, + Weeping, old friends and comrades came to him out of the circle, + And with their tears besought him to hear what the Lord had done for + them. + Ever he shook them off, not roughly, nor smiled at their transports. + Then the preachers spoke and painted the terrors of Judgment, + And of the bottomless pit, and the flames of hell everlasting. + Still and dark he stood, and neither listened nor heeded; + But when the fervent voice of the white-haired exhorter was lifted, + Fell his brows in a scowl of fierce and scornful rejection. + "Lord, let this soul be saved!" cried the fervent voice of the old + man; + "For that the Shepherd rejoiceth more truly for one that hath + wandered, + And hath been found again, than for all the others that strayed + not." + + Out of the midst of the people, a woman old and decrepit, + Tremulous through the light, and tremulous into the shadow, + Wavered toward him with slow, uncertain paces of palsy, + Laid her quivering hand on his arm and brokenly prayed him: + "Louis Lebeau, I closed in death the eyes of your mother. + On my breast she died, in prayer for her fatherless children, + That they might know the Lord, and follow him always, and serve + him. + O, I conjure you, my son, by the name of your mother in glory, + Scorn not the grace of the Lord!" As when a summer-noon's tempest + Breaks in one swift gush of rain, then ceases and gathers + Darker and gloomier yet on the lowering front of the heavens, + So broke his mood in tears, as he soothed her, and stilled her + entreaties, + And so he turned again with his clouded looks to the people. + + Vibrated then from the hush the accents of mournfullest pity,-- + His who was gifted in speech, and the glow of the fires illumined + All his pallid aspect with sudden and marvellous splendor: + "Louis Lebeau," he spake, "I have known you and loved you from + childhood; + Still, when the others blamed you, I took your part, for I knew + you. + Louis Lebeau, my brother, I thought to meet you in heaven, + Hand in hand with her who is gone to heaven before us, + Brothers through her dear love! I trusted to greet you and lead you + Up from the brink of the River unto the gates of the City. + Lo! my years shall be few on the earth. O my brother, + If I should die before you had known the mercy of Jesus, + Yea, I think it would sadden the hope of glory within me!" + + Neither yet had the will of the sinner yielded an answer; + But from his lips there broke a cry of unspeakable anguish, + Wild and fierce and shrill, as if some demon within him + Bent his soul with the ultimate pangs of fiendish possession; + And with the outstretched arms of bewildered imploring toward them, + Death-white unto the people he turned his face from the darkness. + + Out of the sedge by the creek a flight of clamorous killdees + Rose from their timorous sleep with piercing and iterant challenge, + Wheeled in the starlight, and fled away into distance and silence. + White in the vale lay the tents, and beyond them glided the river, + Where the broadhorn[1] drifted slow at the will of the current, + And where the boatman listened, and knew not how, as he listened, + Something touched through the years the old lost hopes of his + childhood,-- + Only his sense was filled with low, monotonous murmurs, + As of a faint-heard prayer, that was chorused with deeper + responses. + + Not with the rest was lifted her voice in the fervent responses, + But in her soul she prayed to Him that heareth in secret, + Asking for light and for strength to learn his will and to do it: + "O, make me clear to know if the hope that rises within me + Be not part of a love unmeet for me here, and forbidden! + So, if it be not that, make me strong for the evil entreaty + Of the days that shall bring me question of self and reproaches, + When the unrighteous shall mock, and my brethren and sisters shall + doubt me! + Make me worthy to know thy will, my Savior, and do it!" + In her pain she prayed, and at last, through her mute adoration, + Rapt from all mortal presence, and in her rapture uplifted, + Glorified she rose, and stood in the midst of the people, + Looking on all with the still, unseeing eyes of devotion,-- + Vague, and tender, and sweet, as the eyes of the dead, when we dream + them + Living and looking on us, but they cannot speak, and we cannot,-- + Knowing only the peril that threatened his soul's unrepentance, + Knowing only the fear and error and wrong that withheld him, + Thinking, "In doubt of me, his soul had perished forever!" + Touched with no feeble shame, but trusting her power to save him, + Through the circle she passed, and straight to the side of her + lover, + Took his hand in her own, and mutely implored him an instant, + Answering, giving, forgiving, confessing, beseeching him all + things; + Drew him then with her, and passed once more through the circle + Unto her place, and knelt with him there by the side of her father, + Trembling as women tremble who greatly venture and triumph,-- + But in her innocent breast was the saint's sublime exultation. + + So was Louis converted; and though the lips of the scorners + Spared not in after years the subtle taunt and derision + (What time, meeker grown, his heart held his hand from its answer), + Not the less lofty and pure her love and her faith that had saved + him, + Not the less now discerned was her inspiration from heaven + By the people, that rose, and embracing and weeping together, + Poured forth their jubilant songs of victory and of thanksgiving, + Till from the embers leaped the dying flame to behold them, + And the hills of the river were filled with reverberant echoes,-- + Echoes that out of the years and the distance stole to me hither, + While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather; + Echoes that mingled and fainted and fell with the fluttering + murmurs + In the hearts of the hushing bells, as from island to island + Swooned the sound on the wide lagoons into palpitant silence. + + +FOOTNOTE: + + [1] The old-fashioned flatboats were so called. + + + + +CAPRICE. + + + I. + + She hung the cage at the window: + "If he goes by," she said, + "He will hear my robin singing, + And when he lifts his head, + I shall be sitting here to sew, + And he will bow to me, I know." + + The robin sang a love-sweet song, + The young man raised his head; + The maiden turned away and blushed: + "I am a fool!" she said, + And went on broidering in silk + A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk. + + II. + + The young man loitered slowly + By the house three times that day; + She took her bird from the window: + "He need not look this way." + She sat at her piano long, + And sighed, and played a death-sad song. + + But when the day was done, she said, + "I wish that he would come! + Remember, Mary, if he calls + To-night--I'm not at home." + So when he rang, she went--the elf!-- + She went and let him in herself. + + III. + + They sang full long together + Their songs love-sweet, death-sad; + The robin woke from his slumber, + And rang out, clear and glad. + "Now go!" she coldly said; "'tis late;" + And followed him--to latch the gate. + + He took the rosebud from her hair, + While, "You shall not!" she said; + He closed her hand within his own, + And, while her tongue forbade, + Her will was darkened in the eclipse + Of blinding love upon his lips. + + + + +SWEET CLOVER. + + "... My letters back to me." + + + I. + + I know they won the faint perfume, + That to their faded pages clings, + From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and things + Kept in the soft and scented gloom + + Of some mysterious box--poor leaves + Of summer, now as sere and dead + As any leaves of summer shed + From crimson boughs when autumn grieves! + + The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrill + All through with such delicious pain + Of soul and sense, to breathe again + The sweet that haunted memory still. + + And under these December skies, + As bland as May's in other climes, + I move, and muse my idle rhymes + And subtly sentimentalize. + + I hear the music that was played,-- + The songs that silence knows by heart!-- + I see sweet burlesque feigning art, + The careless grace that curved and swayed + + Through dances and through breezy walks; + I feel once more the eyes that smiled, + And that dear presence that beguiled + The pauses of the foolish talks, + + When this poor phantom of perfume + Was the Sweet Clover's living soul, + And breathed from her as if it stole, + Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom! + + II. + + We have not many ways with pain: + We weep weak tears, or else we laugh; + I doubt, not less the cup we quaff, + And tears and scorn alike are vain. + + But let me live my quiet life; + I will not vex my calm with grief, + I only know the pang was brief, + And there an end of hope and strife. + + And thou? I put the letters by: + In years the sweetness shall not pass; + More than the perfect blossom was + I count its lingering memory. + + Alas! with Time dear Love is dead, + And not with Fate. And who can guess + How weary of our happiness + We might have been if we were wed? + +Venice. + + + + +THE ROYAL PORTRAITS. + +(AT LUDWIGSHOF.) + + + I. + + Confronting each other the pictures stare + Into each other's sleepless eyes; + And the daylight into the darkness dies, + From year to year in the palace there: + But they watch and guard that no device + Take either one of them unaware. + + Their majesties the king and the queen, + The parents of the reigning prince: + Both put off royalty many years since, + With life and the gifts that have always been + Given to kings from God, to evince + His sense of the mighty over the mean. + + I cannot say that I like the face + Of the king; it is something fat and red; + And the neck that lifts the royal head + Is thick and coarse; and a scanty grace + Dwells in the dull blue eyes that are laid + Sullenly on the queen in her place. + + He must have been a king in his day + 'Twere well to pleasure in work and sport: + One of the heaven-anointed sort + Who ruled his people with iron sway, + And knew that, through good and evil report, + God meant him to rule and them to obey. + + There are many other likenesses + Of the king in his royal palace there; + You find him depicted everywhere,-- + In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress, + In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,-- + A king in all of them, none the less; + + But most himself in this on the wall + Over against his consort, whose + Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes + Make her the finest lady of all + The queens or courtly dames you choose, + In the ancestral portrait hall. + + A glorious blonde: a luxury + Of luring blue and wanton gold, + Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold, + Of lines that flow voluptuously + In tender, languorous curves to fold + Her form in perfect symmetry. + + She might have been false. Of her withered dust + There scarcely would be enough to write + Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right + To our lenient doubt if not to our trust: + So if the truth cannot make her white, + Let us be as merciful as we--must. + + II. + + The queen died first, the queen died young, + But the king was very old when he died, + Rotten with license, and lust, and pride; + And the usual Virtues came and hung + Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide + Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung. + + How the queen died is not certainly known, + And faithful subjects are all forbid + To speak of the murder which some one did + One night while she slept in the dark alone: + History keeps the story hid, + And Fear only tells it in undertone. + + Up from your startled feet aloof, + In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound + Leaps the echo, and round and round + Beating itself against the roof,-- + A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,-- + Dies ere its terror can utter proof + + Of that it knows. A door is fast, + And none is suffered to enter there. + His sacred majesty could not bear + To look at it toward the last, + As he grew very old. It opened where + The queen died young so many years past. + + III. + + How the queen died is not certainly known; + But in the palace's solitude + A harking dread and horror brood, + And a silence, as if a mortal groan + Had been hushed the moment before, and would + Break forth again when you were gone. + + The present king has never dwelt + In the desolate palace. From year to year + In the wide and stately garden drear + The snows and the snowy blossoms melt + Unheeded, and a ghastly fear + Through all the shivering leaves is felt. + + By night the gathering shadows creep + Along the dusk and hollow halls, + And the slumber-broken palace calls + With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep; + And then the ghostly moonlight falls + Athwart the darkness brown and deep. + + At early dawn the light wind sighs, + And through the desert garden blows + The wasted sweetness of the rose; + At noon the feverish sunshine lies + Sick in the walks. But at evening's close, + When the last, long rays to the windows rise, + + And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak + Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur + His cruel vigilance and her + Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak + A hopeless hate that cannot stir, + A voiceless hate that cannot speak + + In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes; + And as if she saw her murderer glare + On her face, and he the white despair + Of his victim kindle in wild surmise, + Confronted the conscious pictures stare,-- + And their secret back into darkness dies. + + + + +THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.[2] + + + I. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + Downcast, through the garden goes: + He is hurt with the grace of the lily, + And the beauty of the rose. + + For what is the grace of the lily + But her own slender grace? + And what is the rose's beauty + But the beauty of her face?-- + + Who sits beside her window + Waiting to welcome him, + That comes so lothly toward her + With his visage sick and dim. + + "Ah! lily, I come to break thee! + Ah! rose, a bitter rain + Of tears shall beat thy light out + That thou never burn again!" + + II. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + Takes the lady by the hand: + "Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey, + For I leave my native land. + + "From Mantua to-morrow + I go, a banished man; + Make me glad for truth and love's sake + Of my father's curse and ban. + + "Our quarrel has left my mother + Like death upon the floor; + And I come from a furious presence + I never shall enter more. + + "I would not wed the woman + He had chosen for my bride, + For my heart had been before him, + With his statecraft and his pride. + + "I swore to him by my princehood + In my love I would be free; + And I swear to thee by my manhood, + I love no one but thee. + + "Let the Duke of Bavaria marry + His daughter to whom he will: + There where my love was given + My word shall be faithful still. + + "There are six true hearts will follow + My truth wherever I go, + And thou equal truth wilt keep me + In welfare and in woe." + + The maiden answered him nothing + Of herself, but his words again + Came back through her lips like an echo + From an abyss of pain; + + And vacantly repeating + "In welfare and in woe," + Like a dream from the heart of fever + From her arms she felt him go. + + III. + + Out of Mantua's gate at daybreak + Seven comrades wander forth + On a path that leads at their humor, + East, west, or south, or north. + + The prince's laugh rings lightly, + "What road shall we take from home?" + And they answer, "We never shall lose it + If we take the road to Rome." + + And with many a jest and banter + The comrades keep their way, + Journeying out of the twilight + Forward into the day, + + When they are aware beside them + Goes a pretty minstrel lad, + With a shy and downward aspect, + That is neither sad nor glad. + + Over his slender shoulder, + His mandolin was slung, + And around its chords the treasure + Of his golden tresses hung. + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "Little minstrel, whither away?"-- + "With seven true-hearted comrades + On their journey, if I may." + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "If our way be hard and long?"-- + "I will lighten it with my music + And shorten it with my song." + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "But what are the songs thou know'st?"-- + "O, I know many a ditty, + But this I sing the most: + + "How once was an humble maiden + Beloved of a great lord's son, + That for her sake and his troth's sake + Was banished and undone. + + "And forth of his father's city + He went at break of day, + And the maiden softly followed + Behind him on the way + + "In the figure of a minstrel, + And prayed him of his love, + 'Let me go with thee and serve thee + Wherever thou may'st rove. + + "'For if thou goest in exile + I rest banished at home, + And where thou wanderest with thee + My fears in anguish roam, + + "'Besetting thy path with perils, + Making thee hungry and cold, + Filling thy heart with trouble + And heaviness untold. + + "'But let me go beside thee, + And banishment shall be + Honor, and riches, and country, + And home to thee and me!'" + + Down falls the minstrel-maiden + Before the Marquis' son, + And the six true-hearted comrades + Bow round them every one. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + From its scabbard draws his sword: + "Now swear by the honor and fealty + Ye bear your friend and lord, + + "That whenever, and wherever, + As long as ye have life, + Ye will honor and serve this lady + As ye would your prince's wife!" + + IV. + + Over the broad expanses + Of garlanded Lombardy, + Where the gentle vines are swinging + In the orchards from tree to tree; + + Through Padua from Verona, + From the sculptured gothic town, + Carved from ruin upon ruin, + And ancienter than renown; + + Through Padua from Verona + To fair Venice, where she stands + With her feet on subject waters, + Lady of many lands; + + From Venice by sea to Ancona; + From Ancona to the west; + Climbing many a gardened hillside + And many a castled crest; + + Through valleys dim with the twilight + Of their gray olive trees; + Over plains that swim with harvests + Like golden noonday seas; + + Whence the lofty campanili + Like the masts of ships arise, + And like a fleet at anchor + Under them, the village lies; + + To Florence beside her Arno, + In her many-marbled pride, + Crowned with infamy and glory + By the sons she has denied; + + To pitiless Pisa, where never + Since the anguish of Ugolin + The moon in the Tower of Famine[3] + Fate so dread as his hath seen; + + Out through the gates of Pisa + To Livorno on her bay, + To Genoa and to Naples + The comrades hold their way, + + Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered, + Past the fortressed Ghibelline, + Through lands that reek with slaughter, + Treason, and shame, and sin; + + By desert, by sea, by city, + High hill-cope and temple-dome, + Through pestilence, hunger, and horror, + Upon the road to Rome; + + While every land behind them + Forgets them as they go, + And in Mantua they are remembered + As is the last year's snow; + + But the Marchioness goes to her chamber + Day after day to weep,-- + For the changeless heart of a mother + The love of a son must keep. + + The Marchioness weeps in her chamber + Over tidings that come to her + Of the exiles she seeks, by letter + And by lips of messenger, + + Broken hints of their sojourn and absence, + Comfortless, vague, and slight,-- + Like feathers wafted backwards + From passage birds in flight.[4] + + The tale of a drunken sailor, + In whose ship they went to sea; + A traveller's evening story + At a village hostelry, + + Of certain comrades sent him + By our Lady, of her grace, + To save his life from robbers + In a lonely desert place; + + Word from the monks of a convent + Of gentle comrades that lay + One stormy night at their convent, + And passed with the storm at day; + + The long parley of a peasant + That sold them wine and food, + The gossip of a shepherd + That guided them through a wood; + + A boatman's talk at the ferry + Of a river where they crossed, + And as if they had sunk in the current + All trace of them was lost; + + And so is an end of tidings + But never an end of tears, + Of secret and friendless sorrow + Through blank and silent years. + + V. + + To the Marchioness in her chamber + Sends word a messenger, + Newly come from the land of Naples, + Praying for speech with her. + + The messenger stands before her, + A minstrel slender and wan: + "In a village of my country + Lies a Mantuan gentleman, + + "Sick of a smouldering fever, + Of sorrow and poverty; + And no one in all that country + Knows his title or degree. + + "But six true Mantuan peasants, + Or nobles, as some men say, + Watch by the sick man's bedside, + And toil for him, night and day, + + "Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing, + Bearing burdens, and far and nigh + Begging for him on the highway + Of the strangers that pass by; + + "And they look whenever you meet them + Like broken-hearted men, + And I heard that the sick man would not + If he could, be well again; + + "For they say that he for love's sake + Was gladly banishèd, + But she for whom he was banished + Is worse to him, now, than dead,-- + + "A recreant to his sorrow, + A traitress to his woe." + From her place the Marchioness rises, + The minstrel turns to go. + + But fast by the hand she takes him,-- + His hand in her clasp is cold,-- + "If gold may be thy guerdon + Thou shalt not lack for gold; + + "And if the love of a mother + Can bless thee for that thou hast done, + Thou shalt stay and be his brother, + Thou shalt stay and be my son." + + "Nay, my lady," answered the minstrel, + And his face is deadly pale, + "Nay, this must not be, sweet lady, + But let my words prevail. + + "Let me go now from your presence, + And I will come again, + When you stand with your son beside you, + And be your servant then." + + VI. + + At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga + Kneels his lady on the floor; + "Lord, grant me before I ask it + The thing that I implore." + + "So it be not of that ingrate."-- + "Nay, lord, it is of him." + 'Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis + His eyes are tender and dim. + + "He lies sick of a fever in Naples, + Near unto death, as they tell, + In his need and pain forsaken + By the wanton he loved so well. + + "Now send for him and forgive him, + If ever thou loved'st me, + Now send for him and forgive him + As God shall be good to thee." + + "Well so,--if he turn in repentance + And bow himself to my will; + That the high-born lady I chose him + May be my daughter still." + + VII. + + In Mantua there is feasting + For the Marquis' grace to his son; + In Mantua there is rejoicing + For the prince come back to his own. + + The pomp of a wedding procession + Pauses under the pillared porch, + With silken rustle and whisper, + Before the door of the church. + + In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom + Stands with his high-born bride; + The six true-hearted comrades + Are three on either side. + + The bridegroom is gray as his father, + Where they stand face to face, + And the six true-hearted comrades + Are like old men in their place. + + The Marquis takes the comrades + And kisses them one by one: + "That ye were fast and faithful + And better than I to my son, + + "Ye shall be called forever, + In the sign that ye were so true, + The Faithful of the Gonzaga, + And your sons after you." + + VIII. + + To the Marchioness comes a courtier: + "I am prayed to bring you word + That the minstrel keeps his promise + Who brought you news of my lord; + + "And he waits without the circle + To kiss your highness' hand; + And he asks no gold for guerdon, + But before he leaves the land + + "He craves of your love once proffered + That you suffer him for reward, + In this crowning hour of his glory, + To look on your son, my lord." + + Through the silken press of the courtiers + The minstrel faltered in. + His claspèd hands were bloodless, + His face was white and thin; + + And he bent his knee to the lady, + But of her love and grace + To her heart she raised him and kissed him + Upon his gentle face. + + Turned to her son the bridegroom, + Turned to his high-born wife, + "I give you here for your brother + Who gave back my son to life. + + "For this youth brought me news from Naples + How thou layest sick and poor, + By true comrades kept, and forsaken + By a false paramour. + + "Wherefore I charge you love him + For a brother that is my son." + The comrades turned to the bridegroom + In silence every one. + + But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel + With a visage blank and changed, + As his whom the sight of a spectre + From his reason hath estranged; + + And the smiling courtiers near them + On a sudden were still as death; + And, subtly-stricken, the people + Hearkened and held their breath + + With an awe uncomprehended + For an unseen agony:-- + Who is this that lies a-dying, + With her head on the prince's knee? + + A light of anguish and wonder + Is in the prince's eye, + "O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me, + Or I cannot let thee die! + + "For now I see thy hardness + Was softer than mortal ruth, + And thy heavenly guile was whiter, + My saint, than martyr's truth." + + She speaks not and she moves not, + But a blessed brightness lies + On her lips in their silent rapture + And her tender closèd eyes. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + He rises from his knee: + "Aye, you have been good, my father, + To them that were good to me. + + "You have given them honors and titles, + But here lies one unknown-- + Ah, God reward her in heaven + With the peace he gives his own!" + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [2] The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story + to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which + occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so + nearly as he found it in the _Cronache Montovane_, that he is + ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it. + The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of + Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his + subjects. + + [3] "Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda, + La qual per me ha il titol della fame + E in che conviene ancor ch'altri si chiuda, + M'avea mostrato per lo suo forame + Piu lune gia." + + DANTE, _L'Inferno_. + + [4] "As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in its flight." + + + + +THE FIRST CRICKET. + + + Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning, + And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,-- + Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining, + All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay? + + Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber, + Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan, + Yet with th' unconscious earth's boded evil my soul thou dost + cumber, + And in the year's lost youth makest me still lose my own. + + Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and + bleakest, + And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room, + And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,-- + Thou wilt again give me all,--dew and fragrance and bloom? + + Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing, + If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf, + Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling, + Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and--himself: + + Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers + Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree. + Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers, + Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be? + + + + +THE MULBERRIES. + + I. + + On the Rialto Bridge we stand; + The street ebbs under and makes no sound; + But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, + The noisy market rings around. + + "_Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!_" + A tuneful voice,--and light, light measure; + Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear, + If I paid three times the price for my pleasure. + + Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood, + The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves + Hiding the berries beneath them;--good! + Let us take whatever the young rogue gives. + + For you know, old friend, I haven't eaten + A mulberry since the ignorant joy + Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten + All this bitter world for a boy. + + II. + + O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood + By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof + On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, + I could see the top of our cabin roof. + + And, looking westward, could sweep the shores + Of the river where we used to swim + Under the ghostly sycamores, + Haunting the waters smooth and dim; + + And eastward athwart the pasture-lot + And over the milk-white buckwheat field + I could see the stately elm, where I shot + The first black squirrel I ever killed. + + And southward over the bottom-land + I could see the mellow breadths of farm + From the river-shores to the hills expand, + Clasped in the curving river's arm. + + In the fields we set our guileless snares + For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails, + Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs + From doubtful wings and vanished tails. + + And in the blue summer afternoon + We used to sit in the mulberry-tree: + The breaths of wind that remembered June + Shook the leaves and glittering berries free; + + And while we watched the wagons go + Across the river, along the road, + To the mill above, or the mill below, + With horses that stooped to the heavy load, + + We told old stories and made new plans, + And felt our hearts gladden within us again, + For we did not dream that this life of a man's + Could ever be what we know as men. + + We sat so still that the woodpeckers came + And pillaged the berries overhead; + From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame, + Peered, and listened to what we said. + + III. + + One of us long ago was carried + To his grave on the hill above the tree; + One is a farmer there, and married; + One has wandered over the sea. + + And, if you ask me, I hardly know + Whether I'd be the dead or the clown,-- + The clod above or the clay below,-- + Or this listless dust by fortune blown + + To alien lands. For, however it is, + So little we keep with us in life: + At best we win only victories, + Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife. + + But if I could turn from the long defeat + Of the little successes once more, and be + A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet, + Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,-- + + From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleep + Of the will that cannot itself awaken, + From the promise the future can never keep, + From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,-- + + Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrill + In the grass beneath the blanching thistle, + And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill, + Harked to the quail's complaining whistle,-- + + Ah me! should I paint the morrows again + In quite the colors so faint to-day, + And with the imperial mulberry's stain + Re-purple life's doublet of hodden-gray? + + Know again the losses of disillusion? + For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?-- + In spite of the question's bitter infusion, + Don't you find these mulberries over-sweet? + + All our atoms are changed, they say; + And the taste is so different since then; + We live, but a world has passed away + With the years that perished to make us men. + + + + +BEFORE THE GATE. + + + They gave the whole long day to idle laughter, + To fitful song and jest, + To moods of soberness as idle, after, + And silences, as idle too as the rest. + + But when at last upon their way returning, + Taciturn, late, and loath, + Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, + They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both. + + Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish + Such as but women know + That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, + And what they would, would rather they would not so; + + Till he said,--man-like nothing comprehending + Of all the wondrous guile + That women won win themselves with, and bending + Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,-- + + "Ah, if beyond this gate the path united + Our steps as far as death, + And I might open it!--" His voice, affrighted + At its own daring, faltered under his breath. + + Then she--whom both his faith and fear enchanted + Far beyond words to tell, + Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted + The art he had that knew to blunder so well-- + + Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking, + "Shall we not be too late + For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: + Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you--open the gate?" + + + + +CLEMENT. + + I. + + That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden, + Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September, + Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying + All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens; + Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest + autumn, + But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall, + Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor; + And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels, + And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the + tree-top; + When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the + thistles, + Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the + loppings, + When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield, + And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes; + When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision, + And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot + remember,-- + Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing! + That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow, + Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor + Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset, + Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel, + Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the + sense, there. + Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded + Hands, that held a few sad asters: "I sigh for this idyl + Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life," + With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner, + "Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened + Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together + Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands; + All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit + Village,--so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal, + Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, + in its silence. + Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to _him_ for his + kindness, + Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin + Clement; + Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors. + --No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is + coming: + Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future? + Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,--just as you like it;-- + Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you. + Then I'll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young + person + Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius + Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman. + O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish? + Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband." + Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him, + Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken, + Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,-- + All her mocking face transfigured,--with mournful effusion: + "Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,-- + Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition, + Fame, and your art,--you have all these things to console you. + I--what have I in this world? Since my child is dead--a bereavement." + Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him + Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he + answered + (Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover), + "Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me + beforetime, + With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness! + Yes, you might play it, I think,--that _rôle_ of remorseful young + person, + That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted. + Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal, + Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant + you-- + Not, indeed, for your word--that is light--but I wish to believe + you. + Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever! + I--I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married. + Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,-- + Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I + cherished!" + There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle, + Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance, + Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision: + "You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,-- + Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember." + Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house, + Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight. + + II. + + High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled; + Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-tree + Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished. + Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging + together, + Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor; + Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness, + Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children. + (Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our + first-loves!) + Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the + corners, + Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment, + In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,-- + Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick. + Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub, + Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols, + By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clambered + Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them, + Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him. + Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another + Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household, + Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely + importance, + Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the + kitchen; + Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him, + Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together + Over his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, "Who is it?" + Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of + children, + Calling his sister's children around her, and stilling their + clamor, + Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent, + Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visage + With the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion + Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble, + Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him. + Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children; + Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling, + Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her + keepsake, + Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before + them. + But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone + together + Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket + Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the + pendule + Sighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were + perished,-- + It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were + reading. + "Read it to-night," she said, "that I may not seem to be going." + Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought + him. + From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,-- + All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing, + Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,-- + Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered, + Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their + anguish, + But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness, + Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love's + sake. + Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to + silence, + Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another, + Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning, + Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion + With their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict, + Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine, + Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving. + So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future, + Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,-- + Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder. + Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silence + Shrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the + thistle + Out of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her: + "Perish the thorns and splendor,--the bloom and the sweetness are + perished. + Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one's Duty,-- + These and the world, for dead Love!--The end of these modern + romances! + Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin + Clement." + + + + +BY THE SEA. + + + I walked with her I love by the sea, + The deep came up with its chanting waves, + Making a music so great and free + That the will and the faith, which were dead in me, + Awoke and rose from their graves. + + Chanting, and with a regal sweep + Of their 'broidered garments up and down + The strand, came the mighty waves of the deep, + Dragging the wave-worn drift from its sleep + Along the sea-sands bare and brown. + + "O my soul, make the song of the sea!" I cried. + "How it comes, with its stately tread, + And its dreadful voice, and the splendid pride + Of its regal garments flowing wide + Over the land!" to my soul I said. + + My soul was still; the deep went down. + "What hast thou, my soul," I cried, + "In thy song?" "The sea-sands bare and brown, + With broken shells and sea-weed strown, + And stranded drift," my soul replied. + + + + +SAINT CHRISTOPHER. + + + In the narrow Venetian street, + On the wall above the garden gate + (Within, the breath of the rose is sweet, + And the nightingale sings there, soon and late), + + Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone, + With the little child in his huge caress, + And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown + About his gigantic tenderness; + + And over the wall a wandering growth + Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, + And climbs around them, and holds them both + In its netted clasp of knots and rings, + + Clothing the saint from foot to beard + In glittering leaves that whisper and dance + To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, + With a lusty summer exuberance. + + To the child on his arm the faithful saint + Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy; + His brows and his heavy beard aslant + Under the dimpled chin of the boy, + + Who plays with the world upon his palm, + And bends his smiling looks divine + On the face of the giant mild and calm, + And the glittering frolic of the vine. + + He smiles on either with equal grace,-- + On the simple ivy's unconscious life, + And the soul in the giant's lifted face, + Strong from the peril of the strife: + + For both are his own,--the innocence + That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven, + And the virtue that gently rises thence + Through trial sent and victory given. + + Grow, ivy, up to his countenance, + But it cannot smile on my life as on thine; + Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, + Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine. + +Venice, 1863. + + + + +ELEGY ON JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, + + Who died, "with the first song of the birds," Wednesday morning, + April 27, 1864. + + + I. + + In the early morning when I wake + At the hour that is sacred for his sake, + + And hear the happy birds of spring + In the garden under my window sing, + + And through my window the daybreak blows + The sweetness of the lily and rose, + + A dormant anguish wakes with day, + And my heart is smitten with strange dismay: + + Distance wider than thine, O sea, + Darkens between my brother and me! + + II. + + A scrap of print, a few brief lines, + The fatal word that swims and shines + + On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, + Make faltering reason know him dead, + + And I would that my heart might feel it too, + And unto its own regret be true; + + For this is the hardest of all to bear, + That his life was so generous and fair, + + So full of love, so full of hope, + Broadening out with ample scope, + + And so far from death, that his dying seems + The idle agony of dreams + + To my heart, that feels him living yet,-- + And I forget, and I forget. + + III. + + He was almost grown a man when he passed + Away, but when I kissed him last + + He was still a child, and I had crept + Up to the little room where he slept, + + And thought to kiss him good-by in his sleep; + But he was awake to make me weep + + With terrible homesickness, before + My wayward feet had passed the door. + + Round about me clung his embrace, + And he pressed against my face his face, + + As if some prescience whispered him then + That it never, never should be again. + + IV. + + Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, + When he was a babe and I played with him, + + I remember his looks and all his ways; + And how he grew through childhood's grace, + + To the hopes, and strifes, and sports, and joys, + And innocent vanity of boys; + + I hear his whistle at the door, + His careless step upon the floor, + + His song, his jest, his laughter yet,-- + And I forget, and I forget. + + V. + + Somewhere in the graveyard that I know, + Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow, + + They have laid him; and his sisters set + On his grave the flowers their tears have wet; + + And above his grave, while I write, the song + Of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong + + From the leafy dark of the chestnut-tree; + And many a murmuring honey-bee + + On the strawberry blossoms in the grass + Stoops by his grave and will not pass; + + And in the little hollow beneath + The slope of the silent field of death, + + The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, + And the cattle go by with homeward feet, + + And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, + At the harmless noises not meant for him; + + And Nature, unto her loving heart + Has taken our darling's mortal part, + + Tenderly, that he may be, + Like the song of the robin in the tree, + + The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, + A part of Summer evermore. + + VI. + + I write, and the words with my tears are wet,-- + But I forget, O, I forget! + + Teach me, Thou that sendest this pain, + To know and feel my loss and gain! + + Let me not falter in belief + On his death, for that is sorest grief: + + O, lift me above this wearing strife, + Till I discern his deathless life, + + Shining beyond this misty shore, + A part of Heaven evermore. + +Venice, Wednesday Morning, at Dawn, May 16, 1864. + + + + +THANKSGIVING. + + + I. + + Lord, for the erring thought + Not into evil wrought: + Lord, for the wicked will + Betrayed and baffled still: + For the heart from itself kept, + Our thanksgiving accept. + + II. + + For ignorant hopes that were + Broken to our blind prayer: + For pain, death, sorrow, sent + Unto our chastisement: + For all loss of seeming good, + Quicken our gratitude. + + + + +A SPRINGTIME. + + + One knows the spring is coming: + There are birds; the fields are green; + There is balm in the sunlight and moonlight, + And dew in the twilights between. + + But over there is a silence, + A rapture great and dumb, + That day when the doubt is ended, + And at last the spring is come. + + Behold the wonder, O silence! + Strange as if wrought in a night,-- + The waited and lingering glory, + The world-old, fresh delight! + + O blossoms that hang like winter, + Drifted upon the trees, + O birds that sing in the blossoms, + O blossom-haunting bees,-- + + O green, green leaves on the branches, + O shadowy dark below, + O cool of the aisles of orchards, + Woods that the wild flowers know,-- + + O air of gold and perfume, + Wind, breathing sweet and sun, + O sky of perfect azure-- + Day, Heaven and Earth in one!-- + + Let me draw near thy secret, + And in thy deep heart see + How fared, in doubt and dreaming, + The spring that is come in me. + + For my soul is held in silence, + A rapture, great and dumb,-- + For the mystery that lingered, + The glory that is come! + +1861. + + + + +IN EARLIEST SPRING. + + + Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, + Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, + Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart all the hollows and + angles + Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. + + But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow + Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift + Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, + Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift. + + Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire + (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes,-- + Rapture of life ineffable, perfect,--as if in the brier, + Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose. + + + + +THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING. + + + Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Out of its fragrant heart of bloom + The apple-tree whispers to the room, + "Why art thou but a nest of gloom, + While the bobolinks are singing?" + + The two wan ghosts of the chamber there,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + The two wan ghosts of the chamber there + Cease in the breath of the honeyed air, + Sweep from the room and leave it bare, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + Then with a breath so chill and slow,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Then with a breath so chill and slow, + It freezes the blossoms into snow, + The haunted room makes answer low, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "I know that in the meadow-land,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + I know that in the meadow-land + The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand, + And the brook goes by on the other hand, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "But ever I see, in the brawling stream,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + But ever I see in the brawling stream + A maiden drowned and floating dim, + Under the water, like a dream, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Buried, she lies in the meadow-land, + Under the sorrowful elms where they stand. + Wind, blow over her soft and bland, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing + The farmer saw so heavily swing + From the elm, one merry morn of spring, + While the bobolinks were singing. + + "O blow, and blow away the bloom,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + O blow, and blow away the bloom + That sickens me in my heart of gloom, + That sweetly sickens the haunted room, + While the bobolinks are singing!" + + + + +PRELUDE. + +(TO AN EARLY BOOK OF VERSE.) + + + In March the earliest bluebird came + And caroled from the orchard-tree + His little tremulous songs to me, + And called upon the summer's name, + + And made old summers in my heart + All sweet with flower and sun again; + So that I said, "O, not in vain + Shall be thy lay of little art, + + "Though never summer sun may glow, + Nor summer flower for thee may bloom; + Though winter turn in sudden gloom, + And drowse the stirring spring with snow"; + + And learned to trust, if I should call + Upon the sacred name of Song, + Though chill through March I languish long, + And never feel the May at all, + + Yet may I touch, in some who hear, + The hearts, wherein old songs asleep + Wait but the feeblest touch to leap + In music sweet as summer air! + + I sing in March brief bluebird lays, + And hope a May, and do not know: + May be, the heaven is full of snow,-- + May be, there open summer days. + + + + +THE MOVERS. + +SKETCH. + + + Parting was over at last, and all the good-bys had been spoken. + Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly, + Bearing the mother and children, while onward before them the + father + Trudged with his gun on his arm, and the faithful house-dog beside + him, + Grave and sedate, as if knowing the sorrowful thoughts of his + master. + + April was in her prime, and the day in its dewy awaking: + Like a great flower, afar on the crest of the eastern woodland, + Goldenly bloomed the sun, and over the beautiful valley, + Dim with its dew and shadow, and bright with its dream of a river, + Looked to the western hills, and shone on the humble procession, + Paining with splendor the children's eyes, and the heart of the + mother. + + Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the air like a palpable + presence. + Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves and the flowers in the + wild-wood, + Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in the aisles of the forest. + Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning, the wild birds were + singing: + Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together; + Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage; + Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings unfrequent, + While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music, + Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing; + Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher + Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him; + Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows; + And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the + blackbirds. + + Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward, + Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly. + Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley, + Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden; + Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her + children, + Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder. + + Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them; + Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the + woodlands, + Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of + the dogwood, + Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud; + Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily + grazing,-- + Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the + cow-bells,-- + Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry + borders, + Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms. + Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar, + As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been + spoken. + Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin-- + Home for so many years, now home no longer forever-- + Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish. + Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney + Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever; + Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were + playing; + Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly. + Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty. + Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies, + Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness. + + Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the + winter, + Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer + evening, + Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber, + Still the father beheld her weep o'er the child that was dying, + Still the place was haunted by all the Past's sorrow and gladness! + + Neither of them might speak for the thoughts that came crowding + their hearts so, + Till, in their ignorant trouble aloud the children lamented; + Then was the spell of silence dissolved, and the father and mother + Burst into tears and embraced, and turned their dim eyes to the + Westward. + +Ohio, 1859. + + + + +THROUGH THE MEADOW. + + + The summer sun was soft and bland, + As they went through the meadow land. + + The little wind that hardly shook + The silver of the sleeping brook + Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- + A mystery of mysteries! + So he must often pause, and stoop, + And all the wanton ringlets loop + Behind her dainty ear--emprise + Of slow event and many sighs. + + Across the stream was scarce a step,-- + And yet she feared to try the leap; + And he, to still her sweet alarm, + Must lift her over on his arm. + + She could not keep the narrow way, + For still the little feet would stray, + And ever must he bend t' undo + The tangled grasses from her shoe,-- + From dainty rosebud lips in pout, + Must kiss the perfect flowér out! + + Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit! + Some things are bitter that were sweet. + + + + +GONE. + + + Is it the shrewd October wind + Brings the tears into her eyes? + Does it blow so strong that she must fetch + Her breath in sudden sighs? + + The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, + The Rider has passed from sight; + The day dies out of the crimson west, + And coldly falls the night. + + She presses her tremulous fingers tight + Against her closéd eyes, + And on the lonesome threshold there, + She cowers down and cries. + + + + +THE SARCASTIC FAIR. + + + Her mouth is a honey-blossom, + No doubt, as the poet sings; + But within her lips, the petals, + Lurks a cruel bee, that stings. + + + + +RAPTURE. + + + In my rhyme I fable anguish, + Feigning that my love is dead, + Playing at a game of sadness, + Singing hope forever fled,-- + + Trailing the slow robes of mourning, + Grieving with the player's art, + With the languid palms of sorrow + Folded on a dancing heart. + + I must mix my love with death-dust, + Lest the draught should make me mad; + I must make believe at sorrow, + Lest I perish, over-glad. + + + + +DEAD. + + + I. + + Something lies in the room + Over against my own; + The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom + Of candles, burning alone,-- + Untrimmed, and all aflare + In the ghastly silence there! + + II. + + People go by the door, + Tiptoe, holding their breath, + And hush the talk that they held before, + Lest they should waken Death, + That is awake all night + There in the candlelight! + + III. + + The cat upon the stairs + Watches with flamy eye + For the sleepy one who shall unawares + Let her go stealing by. + She softly, softly purrs, + And claws at the banisters. + + IV. + + The bird from out its dream + Breaks with a sudden song, + That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; + The hound the whole night long + Howls to the moonless sky, + So far, and starry, and high. + + + + +THE DOUBT. + + + She sits beside the low window, + In the pleasant evening-time, + With her face turned to the sunset, + Reading a book of rhyme. + + And the wine-light of the sunset, + Stolen into the dainty nook, + Where she sits in her sacred beauty, + Lies crimson on the book. + + O beautiful eyes so tender, + Brown eyes so tender and dear, + Did you leave your reading a moment + Just now, as I passed near? + + Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes + Her features, so lily-pale; + Maybe, 'tis the lover's passion, + She reads of in the tale. + + O darling, and darling, and darling, + If I dared to trust my thought; + If I dared to believe what I must not, + Believe what no one ought,-- + + We would read together the poem + Of the Love that never died, + The passionate, world-old story + Come true, and glorified. + + + + +THE THORN. + + + "Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, + But this has none, I know." + She clasped my rival's Rose + Over her breast of snow. + + I bowed to hide my pain, + With a man's unskilful art; + I moved my lips, and could not say + The Thorn was in my heart! + + + + +THE MYSTERIES. + + + Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, + Holding my breath; + There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept + At the dark mystery of Death. + + Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, + Spent with the strife,-- + O mother, let me weep upon thy breast + At the sad mystery of Life! + + + + +THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS. + + "The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of + General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top of + Lookout Mountain."--GENERAL MEIG'S _Report of the Battle before + Chattanooga_. + + + Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain, + Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe, + Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Mountain + Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below. + O, green be the laurels that grow, + O sweet be the wild-buds that blow, + In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low. + + Light of our hope and crown of our story, + Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deeds of daring + glow, + While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory, + On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe. + O, soft be the gales when they go + Through the pines on the summit where they blow, + Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below. + + + + +FOR ONE OF THE KILLED. + + + There on the field of battle + Lies the young warrior dead: + Who shall speak in the soldier's honor? + How shall his praise be said? + + Cannon, there in the battle, + Thundered the soldier's praise, + Hark! how the volumed volleys echo + Down through the far-off days! + + Tears for the grief of a father, + For a mother's anguish, tears; + But for him that died in his country's battle, + Glory and endless years. + + + + +THE TWO WIVES. + +(TO COLONEL J. G. M., IN MEMORY OF THE EVENT BEFORE ATLANTA.) + + I. + + The colonel rode by his picket-line + In the pleasant morning sun, + That glanced from him far off to shine + On the crouching rebel picket's gun. + + II. + + From his command the captain strode + Out with a grave salute, + And talked with the colonel as he rode;-- + The picket levelled his piece to shoot. + + III. + + The colonel rode and the captain walked,-- + The arm of the picket tired; + Their faces almost touched as they talked, + And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired. + + IV. + + The captain fell at the horse's feet, + Wounded and hurt to death, + Calling upon a name that was sweet + As God is good, with his dying breath. + + V. + + And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt + To close the eyes so dim, + A high remorse for God's mercy felt, + Knowing the shot was meant for him. + + VI. + + And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath, + The name of his own young wife: + For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death, + Alone could make his with life. + + + + +BEREAVED. + + + The passionate humming-birds cling + To the honeysuckles' hearts; + In and out at the open window + The twittering house-wren darts, + And the sun is bright. + + June is young, and warm, and sweet; + The morning is gay and new; + Glimmers yet the grass of the door-yard, + Pearl-gray with fragrant dew, + And the sun is bright. + + From the mill, upon the stream, + A busy murmur swells; + On to the pasture go the cattle, + Lowing, with tinkling bells, + And the sun is bright. + + She gathers his playthings up, + And dreamily puts them by; + Children are playing in the meadow, + She hears their joyous cry, + And the sun is bright. + + She sits and clasps her brow, + And looks with swollen eyes + On the landscape that reels and dances,-- + To herself she softly cries, + And the sun is bright. + + + + +THE SNOW-BIRDS. + + + The lonesome graveyard lieth, + A deep with silent waves + Of night-long snow, all white, and billowed + Over the hidden graves. + + The snow-birds come in the morning, + Flocking and fluttering low, + And light on the graveyard brambles, + And twitter there in the snow. + + The Singer, old and weary, + Looks out from his narrow room: + "Ah, me! but my thoughts are snow-birds, + Haunting a graveyard gloom, + + "Where all the Past is buried + And dead, these many years, + Under the drifted whiteness + Of frozen falls of tears. + + "Poor birds! that know not summer, + Nor sun, nor flowèrs fair,-- + Only the graveyard brambles, + And graves, and winter air!" + + + + +VAGARY. + + + Up and down the dusty street, + I hurry with my burning feet; + Against my face the wind-waves beat, + Fierce from the city-sea of heat. + Deep in my heart the vision is, + Of meadow grass and meadow trees + Blown silver in the summer breeze, + And ripe, red, hillside strawberries. + + My sense the city tumult fills,-- + The tumult that about me reels + Of strokes and cries, and feet and wheels. + Deep in my dream I list, and, hark! + From out the maple's leafy dark, + The fluting of the meadow lark! + + About the throngéd street I go: + There is no face here that I know; + Of all that pass me to and fro + There is no face here that I know. + Deep in my soul's most sacred place, + With a sweet pain I look and trace + The features of a tender face, + All lit with love and girlish grace. + + Some spell is on me, for I seem + A memory of the past, a dream + Of happiness remembered dim, + Unto myself that walk the street + Scathed with the city's noontide heat, + With puzzled brain and burning feet. + + + + +FEUERBILDER. + + + The children sit by the fireside + With their little faces in bloom; + And behind, the lily-pale mother, + Looking out of the gloom, + + Flushes in cheek and forehead + With a light and sudden start; + But the father sits there silent, + From the firelight apart. + + "Now, what dost thou see in the embers? + Tell it to me, my child," + Whispers the lily-pale mother + To her daughter sweet and mild. + + "O, I see a sky and a moon + In the coals and ashes there, + And under, two are walking + In a garden of flowers so fair. + + "A lady gay, and her lover, + Talking with low-voiced words, + Not to waken the dreaming flowers + And the sleepy little birds." + + Back in the gloom the mother + Shrinks with a sudden sigh. + "Now, what dost thou see in the embers?" + Cries the father to the boy. + + "O, I see a wedding-procession + Go in at the church's door,-- + Ladies in silk and knights in steel,-- + A hundred of them, and more. + + "The bride's face is as white as a lily, + And the groom's head is white as snow; + And without, with plumes and tapers, + A funeral paces slow." + + Loudly then laughed the father, + And shouted again for cheer, + And called to the drowsy housemaid + To fetch him a pipe and beer. + + + + +AVERY. + +[NIAGARA, 1853.] + + I. + + All night long they heard in the houses beside the shore, + Heard, or seemed to hear, through the multitudinous roar, + Out of the hell of the rapids as 'twere a lost soul's cries,-- + Heard and could not believe; and the morning mocked their eyes, + Showing, where wildest and fiercest the waters leaped up and ran + Raving round him and past, the visage of a man + Clinging, or seeming to cling, to the trunk of a tree that, caught + Fast in the rocks below, scarce out of the surges raught. + Was it a life, could it be, to yon slender hope that clung? + Shrill, above all the tumult the answering terror rung. + + II. + + Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is drowned, + Over the rocks the lines of another are tangled and wound; + And the long, fateful hours of the morning have wasted soon, + As it had been in some blessed trance, and now it is noon. + Hurry, now with the raft! But O, build it strong and stanch, + And to the lines and treacherous rocks look well as you launch! + Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent sides, + Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides, + Onward rushes the raft, with many a lurch and leap,-- + Lord! if it strike him loose from the hold he scarce can keep! + + No! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harmless at last, + And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast. + Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men, and slow; + Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go! + Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multitude; + Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood + Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all, + Save for the rapids' plunge, and the thunder of the fall. + But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale, + Chorussing his unheard despair, a desperate wail: + Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings, + Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings. + + III. + + All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways; + And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and prays: + Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to save, + Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and the wave + Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their strife, + Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his life,-- + Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and women swoon. + Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon, + And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last + Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed. + + IV. + + Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay, + Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his way. + "No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him. You, + Tell us, who are you?" "His brother!" "God help you both! Pass + through." + Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to him, + Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim; + But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are lost + As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are tossed. + And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope + Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope; + Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry,-- + Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying free; + Sees, then, the form,--that, spent with effort and fasting and + fear, + Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying so near,-- + Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and + hurled + Headlong on to the cataract's brink, and out of the world. + + + + +BOPEEP: A PASTORAL. + + "O, to what uses shall we put + The wildweed flower that simply blows? + And is there any moral shut + Within the bosom of the rose?" + + TENNYSON. + + I. + + She lies upon the soft, enamoured grass, + I' the wooing shelter of an apple-tree, + And at her feet the trancéd brook is glass, + And in the blossoms over her the bee + Hangs charméd of his sordid industry; + For love of her the light wind will not pass. + + II. + + Her golden hair, blown over her red lips, + That seem two rose-leaves softly breathed apart, + Athwart her rounded throat like sunshine slips; + Her small hand, resting on her beating heart, + The crook that tells her peaceful shepherd-art + Scarce keeps with light and tremulous finger-tips. + + III. + + She is as fair as any shepherdess + That ever was in mask or Christmas scene: + Bright silver spangles hath she on her dress, + And of her red-heeled shoes appears the sheen; + And she hath ribbons of such blue or green + As best suits pastoral people's comeliness. + + IV. + + She sleeps, and it is in the month of May, + And the whole land is full of the delight + Of music and sweet scents; and all the day + The sun is gold; the moon is pearl all night, + And like a paradise the world is bright, + And like a young girl's hopes the world is gay. + + V. + + So waned the hours; and while her beauteous sleep + Was blest with many a happy dream of Love, + Untended still, her silly, vagrant sheep + Afar from that young shepherdess did rove, + Along the vales and through the gossip grove, + O'er daisied meads and up the thymy steep. + + VI. + + Then (for it happens oft when harm is nigh, + Our dreams grow haggard till at last we wake) + She thought that from the little runnel by + There crept upon a sudden forth a snake, + And stung her hand, and fled into the brake; + Whereat she sprang up with a bitter cry, + + VII. + + And wildly over all that place did look, + And could not spy her ingrate, wanton flock,-- + Not there among tall grasses by the brook, + Not there behind the mossy-bearded rock; + And pitiless Echo answered with a mock + When she did sorrow that she was forsook. + + VIII. + + Alas! the scattered sheep might not be found, + And long and loud that gentle maid did weep, + Till in her blurréd sight the hills went round, + And, circling far, field, wood, and stream did sweep; + And on the ground the miserable Bopeep + Fell and forgot her troubles in a swound. + + IX. + + When she awoke, the sun long time had set, + And all the land was sleeping in the moon, + And all the flowers with dim, sad dews were wet, + As they had wept to see her in that swoon. + It was about the night's low-breathing noon; + Only the larger stars were waking yet. + + X. + + Bopeep, the fair and hapless shepherdess, + Rose from her swooning in a sore dismay, + And tried to smooth her damp and rumpled dress, + That showed in truth a grievous disarray; + Then where the brook the wan moon's mirror lay, + She laved her eyes, and curled each golden tress. + + XI. + + And looking to her ribbons, if they were + As ribbons of a shepherdess should be, + She took the hat that she was wont to wear + (Bedecked it was with ribbons flying free + As ever man in opera might see), + And set it on her curls of yellow hair. + + XII. + + "And I will go and seek my sheep," she said, + "Through every distant land until I die; + But when they bring me hither, cold and dead, + Let me beneath these apple-blossoms lie, + With this dear, faithful, lovely runnel nigh, + Here, where my cru--cru--cruel sheep have fed." + + XIII. + + Thus sorrow and despair make bold Bopeep, + And forth she springs, and hurries on her way: + Across the lurking rivulet she can leap, + No sombre forest shall her quest delay, + No crooked vale her eager steps bewray: + What dreadeth she that seeketh her lost sheep? + + XIV. + + By many a pond, where timorous water-birds, + With clattering cries and throbbing wings, arose, + By many a pasture, where the soft-eyed herds + Looked shadow-huge in their unmoved repose, + Long through the lonesome night that sad one goes + And fills the solitude with wailing words; + + XV. + + So that the little field-mouse dreams of harm, + Snuggled away from harm beneath the weeds; + The violet, sleeping on the clover's arm, + Wakes, and is cold with thoughts of dreadful deeds; + The pensive people of the water-reeds + Hark with a mute and dolorous alarm. + + XVI. + + And the fond hearts of all the turtle-doves + Are broken in compassion of her woe, + And every tender little bird that loves + Feels in his breast a sympathetic throe; + And flowers are sad wherever she may go, + And hoarse with sighs the waterfalls and groves. + + XVII. + + The pale moon droppeth low; star after star + Grows faint and slumbers in the gray of dawn; + And still she lingers not, but hurries far, + Till in a dreary wilderness withdrawn + Through tangled woods she lorn and lost moves on, + Where griffins dire and dreadful dragons are. + + XVIII. + + Her ribbons all are dripping with the dew, + Her red-heeled shoes are torn, and stained with mire, + Her tender arms the angry sharpness rue + Of many a scraggy thorn and envious brier; + And poor Bopeep, with no sweet pity nigh her, + Wrings her small hands, and knows not what to do. + + XIX. + + And on that crude and rugged ground she sinks, + And soon her seeking had been ended there, + But through the trees a fearful glimmer shrinks, + And of a hermit's dwelling she is 'ware: + At the dull pane a dull-eyed taper blinks, + Drowsed with long vigils and the morning air. + + XX. + + Thither she trembling moves, and at the door + Falls down, and cannot either speak or stir: + The hermit comes,--with no white beard before, + Nor coat of skins, nor cap of shaggy fur: + It was a comely youth that lifted her, + And to his hearth, and to his breakfast, bore. + + XXI. + + Arrayed he was in princeliest attire, + And of as goodly presence sooth was he + As any little maiden might admire, + Or any king-beholding cat might see + "My poor Bopeep," he sigheth piteously, + "Rest here, and warm you at a hermit's fire." + + XXII. + + She looked so beautiful, there, mute and white, + He kissed her on the lips and on the eyes + (The most a prince could do in such a plight); + But chiefly gazed on her in still surprise, + And when he saw her lily eyelids rise, + For him the whole world had no fairer sight. + + XXIII. + + "Rude is my fare: a bit of venison steak, + A dish of honey and a glass of wine, + With clean white bread, is the poor feast I make. + Be served, I pray: I think this flask is fine," + He said. "Hard is this hermit life of mine: + This day I will its weariness forsake." + + XXIV. + + And then he told her how it chanced that he, + King Cole's son, in that forest held his court, + And the sole reason that there seemed to be + Was, he was being hermit there for sport; + But he confessed the life was not his forte, + And therewith both laughed out right jollily. + + XXV. + + And sly Bopeep forgot her sheep again + In gay discourse with that engaging youth: + Love hath such sovran remedies for pain! + But then he was a handsome prince, in truth, + And both were young, and both were silly, sooth, + And everything to Love but love seems vain. + + XXVI. + + They took them down the silver-claspéd book + That this young anchorite's predecessor kept,-- + A holy seer,--and through it they did look; + Sometimes their idle eyes together crept, + Sometimes their lips; but still the leaves they swept, + Until they found a shepherd's pictured crook. + + XXVII. + + And underneath was writ it should befall + On such a day, in such a month and year, + A maiden fair, a young prince brave and tall, + By such a chance should come together here. + They were the people, that was very clear: + "O love," the prince said, "let us read it all!" + + XXVIII. + + And thus the hermit's prophecy ran on: + Though she her lost sheep wist not where to find, + Yet should she bid her weary care begone, + And banish every doubt from her sweet mind: + They, with their little snow-white tails behind, + Homeward would go, if they were left alone. + + XXIX. + + They closed the book, and in her happy eyes + The prince read truth and love forevermore,-- + Better than any hermit's prophecies! + They passed together from the cavern's door; + Embraced, they turned to look at it once more, + And over it beheld the glad sun rise, + + XXX. + + That streamed before them aisles of dusk and gold + Under the song-swept arches of the wood, + And forth they went, tranced in each other's hold, + Down through that rare and luminous solitude, + Their happy hearts enchanted in the mood + Of morning, and of May, and romance old. + + XXXI. + + Sometimes the saucy leaves would kiss her cheeks, + And he must kiss their wanton kiss away; + To die beneath her feet the wood-flower seeks, + The quivering aspen feels a fine dismay, + And many a scented blossom on the spray + In odorous sighs its passionate longing speaks. + + XXXII. + + And forth they went down to that stately stream, + Bowed over by the ghostly sycamores + (Awearily, as if some heavy dream + Held them in languor), but whose opulent shores + With pearléd shells and dusts of precious ores + Were tremulous brilliance in the morning beam; + + XXXIII. + + Where waited them, beside the lustrous sand, + A silk-winged shallop, sleeping on the flood; + And smoothly wafted from the hither strand, + Across the calm, broad stream they lightly rode, + Under them still the silver fishes stood; + The eager lilies, on the other land, + + XXXIV. + + Beckonéd them; but where the castle shone + With diamonded turrets and a wall + Of gold-embedded pearl and costly stone, + Their vision to its peerless splendor thrall + The maiden fair, the young prince brave and tall, + Thither with light, unlingering feet pressed on. + + XXXV. + + A gallant train to meet this loving pair, + In silk and steel, moves from the castle door, + And up the broad and ringing castle stair + They go with gleeful minstrelsy before, + And "Hail our prince and princess evermore!" + From all the happy throng is greeting there. + + XXXVI. + + And in the hall the prince's sire, King Cole, + Sitting with crown and royal ermine on, + His fiddlers three behind with pipe and bowl, + Rises and moves to lift his kneeling son, + Greeting his bride with kisses many a one, + And tears and laughter from his jolly soul; + + XXXVII. + + Then both his children to a window leads + That over daisied pasture-land looks out, + And shows Bopeep where her lost flock wide feeds, + And every frolic lambkin leaps about. + She hears Boy-Blue, that lazy shepherd, shout, + Slow pausing from his pipe of mellow reeds; + + XXXVIII. + + And, turning, peers into her prince's eyes; + Then, caught and clasped against her prince's heart, + Upon her breath her answer wordless dies, + And leaves her gratitude to sweeter art,-- + To lips from which the bloom shall never part, + To looks wherein the summer never dies! + + + + +WHILE SHE SANG. + + I. + + She sang, and I heard the singing, + Far out of the wretched past, + Of meadow-larks in the meadow, + In a breathing of the blast. + + Cold through the clouds of sunset + The thin red sunlight shone, + Staining the gloom of the woodland + Where I walked and dreamed alone; + + And glinting with chilly splendor + The meadow under the hill, + Where the lingering larks were lurking + In the sere grass hid and still. + + Out they burst with their singing, + Their singing so loud and gay; + They made in the heart of October + A sudden ghastly May, + + That faded and ceased with their singing. + The thin red sunlight paled, + And through the boughs above me + The wind of evening wailed;-- + + Wailed, and the light of evening + Out of the heaven died; + And from the marsh by the river + The lonesome killdee cried. + + II. + + The song is done, but a phantom + Of music haunts the chords, + That thrill with its subtile presence, + And grieve for the dying words. + + And in the years that are perished, + Far back in the wretched past, + I see on the May-green meadows + The white snow falling fast;-- + + Falling, and falling, and falling, + As still and cold as death, + On the bloom of the odorous orchard, + On the small, meek flowers beneath; + + On the roofs of the village-houses, + On the long, silent street, + Where its plumes are soiled and broken + Under the passing feet; + + On the green crest of the woodland, + On the cornfields far apart; + On the cowering birds in the gable, + And on my desolate heart. + + + + +A POET. + + + From wells where Truth in secret lay + He saw the midnight stars by day. + + "O marvellous gift!" the many cried, + "O cruel gift!" his voice replied. + + The stars were far, and cold, and high, + That glimmered in the noonday sky; + + He yearned toward the sun in vain, + That warmed the lives of other men. + + + + +CONVENTION. + + + He falters on the threshold, + She lingers on the stair: + Can it be that was his footstep? + Can it be that she is there? + + Without is tender yearning, + And tender love is within; + They can hear each other's heart-beats, + But a wooden door is between. + + + + +THE POET'S FRIENDS. + + + The robin sings in the elm; + The cattle stand beneath, + Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes + And fragrant meadow-breath. + + They listen to the flattered bird, + The wise-looking, stupid things; + And they never understand a word + Of all the robin sings. + + + + +NO LOVE LOST. + +A ROMANCE OF TRAVEL. + + 1862. + BERTHA--_Writing from Venice_. + + I. + + On your heart I feign myself fallen--ah, heavier burden, + Darling, of sorrow and pain than ever shall rest there! I take you + Into these friendless arms of mine, that you cannot escape me; + Closer and closer I fold you, and tell you all, and you listen + Just as you used at home, and you let my sobs and my silence + Speak, when the words will not come--and you understand and forgive + me. + --Ah! no, no! but I write, with the wretched bravado of distance, + What you must read unmoved by the pity too far for entreaty. + + II. + + Well, I could never have loved him, but when he sought me and + asked me,-- + When to the men that offered their lives, the love of a woman + Seemed so little to give!--I promised the love that he asked me, + Sent him to war with my kiss on his lips, and thought him my hero. + Afterward came the doubt, and out of long question, self-knowledge,-- + Came that great defeat, and the heart of the nation was withered; + Mine leaped high with the awful relief won of death. But the + horror, + Then, of the crime that was wrought in that guilty moment of + rapture,-- + Guilty as if my will had winged the bullet that struck him,-- + Clung to me day and night, and dreaming I saw him forever, + Looking through battle-smoke with sorrowful eyes of upbraiding, + Or, in the moonlight lying gray, or dimly approaching, + Holding toward me his arms, that still held nearer and nearer, + Folded about me at last ... and I would I had died in the fever!-- + Better then than now, and better than ever hereafter! + + III. + + Weary as some illusion of fever to me was the ocean-- + Storm-swept, scourged with bitter rains, and wandering always + Onward from sky to sky with endless processions of surges, + Knowing not life nor death, but since the light was, the first day, + Only enduring unrest till the darkness possess it, the last day. + Over its desolate depths we voyaged away from all living: + All the world behind us waned into vaguest remoteness; + Names, and faces, and scenes recurred like that broken remembrance + Of the anterior, bodiless life of the spirit,--the trouble + Of a bewildered brain, or the touch of the Hand that created,-- + And when the ocean ceased at last like a faded illusion, + Europe itself seemed only a vision of eld and of sadness. + Naught but the dark in my soul remained to me constant and real, + Growing and taking the thoughts bereft of happier uses, + Blotting all sense of lapse from the days that with swift iteration + Were and were not. They fable the bright days the fleetest: + These that had nothing to give, that had nothing to bring or to + promise, + Went as one day alone. For me was no alternation + Save from my dull despair to wild and reckless rebellion, + When the regret for my sin was turned to ruthless self-pity-- + When I hated him whose love had made me its victim, + Through his faith and my falsehood yet claiming me. Then I was + smitten + With so great remorse, such grief for him, and compassion, + That, if he could have come back to me, I had welcomed and loved + him + More than man ever was loved. Alas, for me that another + Holds his place in my heart evermore! Alas, that I listened + When the words, whose daring lured my spirit and lulled it, + Seemed to take my blame away with my will of resistance! + + Do not make haste to condemn me: my will was the will of a + woman,-- + Fain to be broken by love. Yet unto the last I endeavored + What I could to be faithful still to the past and my penance; + And as we stood that night in the old Roman garden together-- + By the fountain whose passionate tears but now had implored me + In his pleading voice--and he waited my answer, I told him + All that had been before of delusion and guilt, and conjured him + Not to darken his fate with mine. The costly endeavor + Only was subtler betrayal. O me, from the pang of confession, + Sprang what strange delight, as I tore from its lurking that + horror-- + Brooded upon so long--with the hope that at last I might see it + Through his eyes, unblurred by the tears that disordered my vision! + Oh, with what rapturous triumph I humbled my spirit before him, + That he might lift me and soothe me, and make that dreary + remembrance, + All this confused present, seem only some sickness of fancy, + Only a morbid folly, no certain and actual trouble! + If from that refuge I fled with words of too feeble denial-- + Bade him hate me, with sobs that entreated his tenderest pity, + Moved mute lips and left the meaningless farewell unuttered-- + She that never has loved, alone can wholly condemn me. + + IV. + + How could he other than follow? My heart had bidden him follow, + Nor had my lips forbidden; and Rome yet glimmered behind me, + When my soul yearned towards his from the sudden forlornness of + absence. + Everywhere his face looked from vanishing glimpses of faces, + Everywhere his voice reached my senses in fugitive cadence. + Sick, through the storied cities, with wretched hopes, and + upbraidings + Of my own heart for its hopes, I went from wonder to wonder, + Blind to them all, or only beholding them wronged, and related, + Through some trick of wayward thought, to myself and my trouble. + Not surprise nor regret, but a fierce, precipitate gladness + Sent the blood to my throbbing heart when I found him in Venice. + "Waiting for you," he whispered; "you would so." I answered him + nothing. + + V. + + Father, whose humor grows more silent and ever more absent + (Changed in all but love for me since the death of my mother), + Willing to see me contented at last, and trusting us wholly, + Left us together alone in our world of love and of beauty. + So, by noon and by night, we two have wandered in Venice, + Where the beautiful lives in vivid and constant caprices, + Yet, where the charm is so perfect that nothing fantastic surprises + More than in dreams, and one's life with the life of the city is + blended + In a luxurious calm, and the tumult without and beyond it + Seems but the emptiest fable of vain aspiration and labor. + + Yes, from all that makes this Venice sole among cities, + Peerless forever,--the still lagoons that sleep in the sunlight, + Lulled by their island-bells; the night's mysterious waters + Lit through their shadowy depths by stems of splendor, that blossom + Into the lamps that float, like flamy lotuses, over; + Narrow and secret canals, that dimly gleaming and glooming + Under palace-walls and numberless arches of bridges, + List no sound but the dip of the gondolier's oar and his warning + Cried from corner to corner; the sad, superb Canalazzo + Mirroring marvellous grandeur and beauty, and dreaming of glory + Out of the empty homes of her lords departed; the footways + Wandering sunless between the walls of the houses, and stealing + Glimpses, through rusted cancelli, of lurking greenness of gardens, + Wild-grown flowers and broken statues and mouldering frescos; + Thoroughfares filled with traffic, and throngs ever ebbing and + flowing + To and from the heart of the city, whose pride and devotion, + Lifting high the bells of St. Mark's like prayers unto heaven, + Stretch a marble embrace of palaces toward the cathedral + Orient, gorgeous, and flushed with color and light, like the + morning!-- + From the lingering waste that is not yet ruin in Venice, + And her phantasmal show, through all, of being and doing-- + Came a strange joy to us, untouched by regret for the idle + Days without yesterdays that died into nights without morrows. + Here, in our paradise of love we reigned, new-created, + As in the youth of the world, in the days before evil and + conscience. + Ah! in our fair, lost world was neither fearing nor doubting, + Neither the sickness of old remorse nor the gloom of foreboding,-- + Only the glad surrender of all individual being + Unto him whom I loved, and in whose tender possession, + Fate-free, my soul reposed from its anguish. + + --Of these things I write you + As of another's experience; part of my own they no longer + Seem to me now, through the doom that darkens the past like the + future. + + VI. + + Golden the sunset gleamed, above the city behind us, + Out of a city of clouds as fairy and lovely as Venice, + While we looked at the fishing-tails of purple and yellow + Far on the rim of the sea, whose light and musical surges + Broke along the sands with a faint, reiterant sadness. + But, when the sails had darkened into black wings, through the + twilight + Sweeping away into night--past the broken tombs of the Hebrews + Homeward we sauntered slowly, through dew-sweet, blossomy alleys; + So drew near the boat by errant and careless approaches, + Entered, and left with indolent pulses the Lido behind us. + + All the sunset had paled, and the campanili of Venice + Rose like the masts of a mighty fleet moored there in the water. + Lights flashed furtively to and fro through the deepening twilight. + Massed in one thick shade lay the Gardens; the numberless islands + Lay like shadows upon the lagoons. And on us as we loitered + By their enchanted coasts, a spell of ineffable sweetness + Fell and made us at one with them; and silent and blissful + Shadows we seemed, that drifted on through a being of shadow, + Vague, indistinct to ourselves, unbounded by hope or remembrance. + Yet we knew the beautiful night, as it grew from the evening: + Far beneath us and far above us the vault of the heavens + Glittered and darkened; and now the moon, that had haunted the + daylight + Thin and pallid, dimmed the stars with her fulness of splendor, + And over all the lagoons fell the silvery rain of the moonbeams, + As in the song the young girls sang while their gondolas passed + us,-- + Sang in the joy of love, or youth's desire of loving. + + Balmy night of the South! O perfect night of the Summer! + Night of the distant dark, of the near and tender effulgence!-- + How from my despair are thy peace and loveliness frightened! + For, while our boat lay there at the will of the light undulations, + Idle as if our mood imbued and controlled it, yet ever + Seeming to bear us on athwart those shining expanses + Out to shining seas beyond pursuit or returning-- + There, while we lingered, and lingered, and would not break from our + rapture, + Down the mirrored night another gondola drifted + Nearer and slowly nearer our own, and moonlighted faces + Stared. And that sweet trance grew a rigid and dreadful possession, + Which, if no dream indeed, yet mocked with such semblance of + dreaming, + That, as it happens in dreams, when a dear face, stooping to kiss + us, + Takes, ere the lips have touched, some malign and horrible aspect, + _His_ face faded away, and the face of the Dead--of that other-- + Flashed on mine, and writhing, through every change of emotion,-- + Wild amaze and scorn, accusation and pitiless mocking,-- + Vanished into the swoon whose blackness encompassed and hid me. + + PHILIP--_To Bertha_. + + I am not sure, I own, that if first I had seen my delusion + When I saw _you_, last night, I should be so ready to give you + Now your promises back, and hold myself nothing above you, + That it is mine to offer a freedom you never could ask for. + Yet, believe me, indeed, from no bitter heart I release you: + You are as free of me now as though I had died in the battle, + Or as I never had lived. Nay, if it is mine to forgive you, + Go without share of the blame that could hardly be all upon your + side. + + Ghosts are not sensitive things; yet, after my death in the + papers, + Sometimes a harrowing doubt assailed this impalpable essence: + Had I done so well to plead my cause at that moment, + When your consent must be yielded less to the lover than soldier? + "Not so well," I was answered by that ethereal conscience + Ghosts have about them, "and not so nobly or wisely as might be." + --Truly, I loved you, then, as now I love you no longer. + + I was a prisoner then, and this doubt in the languor of sickness + Came; and it clung to my convalescence, and grew to the purpose, + After my days of captivity ended, to seek you and solve it, + And, if I haply had erred, to undo the wrong, and release you. + + Well, you have solved me the doubt. I dare to trust that you wept + me, + Just a little, at first, when you heard of me dead in the battle? + For we were plighted, you know, and even in this saintly humor, + I would scarce like to believe that my loss had merely relieved + you. + Yet, I say, it was prudent and well not to wait for my coming + Back from the dead. If it may be I sometimes had cherished a fancy + That I had won some right to the palm with the pang of the + martyr,-- + Fondly intended, perhaps, some splendor of self-abnegation,-- + Doubtless all that was a folly which merciful chances have spared + me. + No, I am far from complaining that Circumstance coolly has ordered + Matters of tragic fate in such a commonplace fashion. + How do I know, indeed, that the easiest isn't the best way? + + Friendly adieux end this note, and our little comedy with it. + + FANNY--_To Clara_. + + I. + + Yes, I promised to write, but how shall I write to you, darling? + Venice we reached last Monday, wild for canals and for color, + Palaces, prisons, lagoons, and gondolas, bravoes, and moonlight, + All the mysterious, dreadful, beautiful things in existence. + Fred had joined us at Naples, insuff'rably knowing and travelled, + Wise in the prices of things and great at tempestuous bargains, + Rich in the costly nothing our youthful travellers buy here, + At a prodigious outlay of time and money and trouble; + Utter confusion of facts, and talking the wildest of pictures,-- + Pyramids, battle-fields, bills, and examinations of luggage, + Passports, policemen, porters, and how he got through his + tobacco,-- + Ignorant, handsome, full-bearded, brown, and good-natured as ever: + Annie thinks him perfect, and I well enough for a brother. + Also, a friend of Fred's came with us from Naples to Venice; + And, altogether, I think, we are rather agreeable people, + For we've been taking our pleasure at all times in perfect + good-humor; + Which is an excellent thing that you'll understand when you've + travelled, + Seen Recreation dead-beat and cross, and learnt what a burden + Frescos, for instance, can be, and, in general, what an affliction + Life is apt to become among the antiques and old masters. + + Venice we've thoroughly done, and it's perfectly true of the + pictures-- + Titians and Tintorettos, and Palmas and Paul Veroneses; + Neither are gondolas fictions, but verities, hearse-like and + swan-like, + Quite as the heart could wish. And one finds, to one's infinite + comfort, + Venice just as unique as one's fondest visions have made it: + Palaces and mosquitoes rise from the water together, + And, in the city's streets, the salt-sea is ebbing and flowing + Several inches or more. + + --Ah! let me not wrong thee, O Venice! + Fairest, forlornest, and saddest of all the cities, and dearest! + Dear, for my heart has won here deep peace from cruel confusion; + And in this lucent air, whose night is but tenderer noon-day, + Fear is forever dead, and hope has put on the immortal! + --There! and you need not laugh. I'm coming to something directly. + One thing: I've bought you a chain of the famous fabric of Venice-- + Something peculiar and quaint, and of such a delicate texture + That you must wear it embroidered upon a riband of velvet, + If you would have the effect of its exquisite fineness and beauty. + "Isn't it very frail?" I asked of the workman who made it. + "Strong enough, if you will, to bind a lover, signora,"-- + With an expensive smile. 'Twas bought near the Bridge of Rialto. + (Shylock, you know.) In our shopping, Aunt May and Fred do the + talking: + Fred begins always in French, with the most delicious effront'ry, + Only to end in profoundest humiliation and English. + Aunt, however, scorns to speak any tongue but Italian: + "Quanto per these ones here?" and "What did you say was the + prezzo?" + "Ah! troppo caro! _Too much!_ No, no! Don't I _tell_ you it's + troppo?" + All the while insists that the gondolieri shall show us + What she calls Titian's palazzo, and pines for the house of + Othello. + Annie, the dear little goose, believes in Fred and her mother + With an enchanting abandon. She doesn't at all understand them, + But she has some twilight views of their cleverness. Father is + quiet, + Now and then ventures some French when he fancies that nobody hears + him, + In an aside to the valet-de-place--I never detect him-- + Buys things for mother and me with a quite supernatural sweetness, + Tolerates all Fred's airs, and is indispensably pleasant. + + II. + + Prattling on of these things, which I think cannot interest + deeply, + So I hold back in my heart its dear and wonderful secret + (Which I must tell you at last, however I falter to tell you), + Fain to keep it all my own for a little while longer,-- + Doubting but it shall lose some part of its strangeness and + sweetness, + Shared with another, and fearful that even _you_ may not find it + Just the marvel that I do--and thus turn our friendship to hatred. + + Sometimes it seems to me that this love, which I feel is eternal, + Must have begun with my life, and that only an absence was ended + When we met and knew in our souls that we loved one another. + For from the first was no doubt. The earliest hints of the passion, + Whispered to girlhood's tremulous dream, may be mixed with + misgiving, + But, when the very love comes, it bears no vagueness of meaning; + Touched by its truth (too fine to be felt by the ignorant senses, + Knowing but looks and utterance) soul unto soul makes confession, + Silence to silence speaks. And I think that this subtile assurance, + Yet unconfirmed from without, is even sweeter and dearer + Than the perfected bliss that comes when the words have been + spoken. + --Not that I'd have them unsaid, now! But 't was delicious to + ponder + All the miracle over, and clasp it, and keep it, and hide it,-- + While I beheld him, you know, with looks of indifferent languor, + Talking of other things, and felt the divine contradiction + Trouble my heart below! + + And yet, if no doubt touched our passion, + Do not believe for that, our love has been wholly unclouded. + All best things are ours when pain and patience have won them: + Peace itself would mean nothing but for the strife that preceded; + Triumph of love is greatest, when peril of love has been sorest. + (That's to say, I dare say. I'm only repeating what _he_ said.) + Well, then, of all wretched things in the world, a mystery, Clara, + Lurked in this life dear to mine, and hopelessly held us asunder + When we drew nearest together, and all but his speech said, "I love + you." + Fred had known him at college, and then had found him at Naples, + After several years,--and called him a capital fellow. + Thus far his knowledge went, and beyond this began to run shallow + Over troubled ways, and to break into brilliant conjecture, + Harder by far to endure than the other's reticent absence-- + Absence wherein at times he seemed to walk like one troubled + By an uneasy dream, whose spell is not broken with waking, + But it returns all day with a vivid and sudden recurrence, + Like a remembered event. Of the past that was closest the present, + This we knew from himself: He went at the earliest summons, + When the Rebellion began, and falling, terribly wounded, + Into the enemy's hands, after ages of sickness and prison, + Made his escape at last; and, returning, found all his virtues + Grown out of recognition and shining in posthumous splendor,-- + Found all changed and estranged, and, he fancied, more wonder than + welcome. + So, somewhat heavy of heart, and disabled for war, he had wandered + Hither to Europe for perfecter peace. Abruptly his silence, + Full of suggestion and sadness, made here a chasm between us; + But we spanned the chasm with conversational bridges, + Else talked all around it, and feigned an ignorance of it, + With that absurd pretence which is always so painful, or comic, + Just as you happen to make it or see it. + + In spite of our fictions, + Severed from his by that silence, my heart grew ever more anxious, + Till last night when together we sat in Piazza San Marco + (Then, when the morrow must bring us parting--forever, it might + be), + Taking our ices al fresco. Some strolling minstrels were singing + Airs from the Trovatore. I noted with painful observance, + With the unwilling minuteness at such times absolute torture, + All that brilliant scene, for which I cared nothing, before me: + Dark-eyed Venetian leoni regarding the forestieri + With those compassionate looks of gentle and curious wonder + Home-keeping Italy's nations bend on the voyaging races,-- + Taciturn, indolent, sad, as their beautiful city itself is; + Groups of remotest English--not just the traditional English + (Lavish Milor is no more, and your travelling Briton is frugal)-- + English, though, after all, with the Channel always between them, + Islanded in themselves, and the Continent's sociable races; + Country-people of ours--the New World's confident children, + Proud of America always, and even vain of the Troubles + As of disaster laid out on a scale unequalled in Europe; + Polyglot Russians that spoke all languages better than natives; + White-coated Austrian officers, anglicized Austrian dandies; + Gorgeous Levantine figures of Greek, and Turk, and Albanian-- + These, and the throngs that moved through the long arcades and + Piazza, + Shone on by numberless lamps that flamed round the perfect Piazza, + Jewel-like set in the splendid frame of this beautiful picture, + Full of such motley life, and so altogether Venetian. + + Then we rose and walked where the lamps were blanched by the + moonlight + Flooding the Piazzetta with splendor, and throwing in shadow + All the façade of Saint Mark's, with its pillars, and horses, and + arches; + But the sculptured frondage, that blossoms over the arches + Into the forms of saints, was touched with tenderest lucence, + And the angel that stands on the crest of the vast campanile + Bathed his golden vans in the liquid light of the moonbeams. + Black rose the granite pillars that lift the Saint and the Lion; + Black sank the island campanili from distance to distance; + Over the charmèd scene there brooded a presence of music, + Subtler than sound, and felt, unheard, in the depth of the spirit. + + How can I gather and show you the airy threads of enchantment + Woven that night round my life and forever wrought into my being, + As in our boat we glided away from the glittering city? + Dull at heart I felt, and I looked at the lights in the water, + Blurring their brilliance with tears, while the tresses of eddying + seaweed, + Whirled in the ebbing tide, like the tresses of sea-maidens + drifting + Seaward from palace-haunts, in the moonshine glistened and + darkened. + + Sad and vague were my thoughts, and full of fear was the silence; + And, when he turned to speak at last, I trembled to hear him, + Feeling he now must speak of his love, and his life and its + secret,-- + Now that the narrowing chances had left but that cruel conclusion, + Else the life-long ache of a love and a trouble unuttered. + Better, my feebleness pleaded, the dreariest doubt that had vexed + me, + Than my life left nothing, not even a doubt to console it; + But, while I trembled and listened, his broken words crumbled to + silence, + And, as though some touch of fate had thrilled him with warning, + Suddenly from me he turned. Our gondola slipped from the shadow + Under a ship lying near, and glided into the moonlight, + Where, in its brightest lustre, another gondola rested. + _I_ saw two lovers there, and he, in the face of the woman, + Saw what has made him mine, my own belovèd, forever! + Mine!--but through _what_ tribulation, and awful confusion of + spirit! + Tears that I think of with smiles, and sighs I remember with + laughter, + Agonies full of absurdity, keen, ridiculous anguish, + Ending in depths of blissful shame, and heavenly transports! + + III. + + White, and estranged as a man who has looked on a spectre, he + mutely + Sank to the place at my side, nor while we returned to the city + Uttered a word of explaining, or comment, or comfort, but only, + With his good-night, incoherently craved my forgiveness and + patience, + Parted, and left me to spend the night in hysterical vigils, + Tending to Annie's supreme dismay, and postponing our journey + One day longer at least; for I went to bed in the morning, + Firmly rejecting the pity of friends, and the pleasures of travel, + Fixed in a dreadful purpose never to get any better. + + Later, however, I rallied, when Fred, with a maddening prologue + Touching the cause of my sickness, including his fever at Jaffa, + Told me that some one was waiting; and could he see me a moment? + See me? Certainly not. Or,--yes. But why did he want to? + So, in the dishabille of a morning-gown and an arm-chair, + Languid, with eloquent wanness of eye and of cheek, I received + him-- + Willing to touch and reproach, and half-melted myself by my pathos, + Which, with a reprobate joy, I wholly forgot the next instant, + When, with electric words, few, swift, and vivid, he brought me, + Through a brief tempest of tears, to this heaven of sunshine and + sweetness. + + Yes, he had looked on a ghost--the phantom of love that was + perished!-- + When, last night, he beheld the scene of which I have told you. + For to the woman he saw there, his troth had been solemnly plighted + Ere he went to the war. His return from the dead found her absent + In the belief of his death; and hither to Europe he followed,-- + Followed to seek her, and keep, if she would, the promise between + them, + Or, were a haunting doubt confirmed, to break it and free her. + Then, at Naples we met, and the love that, before he was conscious, + Turned his life toward mine, laid torturing stress to the purpose + Whither it drove him forever, and whence forever it swerved him. + How could he tell me his love, with this terrible burden upon him? + How could he linger near me, and still withhold the avowal? + And what ruin were that, if the other were doubted unjustly, + And should prove fatally true! With shame, he confessed he had + faltered, + Clinging to guilty delays, and to hopes that were bitter with + treason, + Up to the eve of our parting. And then the last anguish was spared + him. + _Her_ love for him was dead. But the heart that leaped in his bosom + With a great, dumb throb of joy and wonder and doubting, + Still must yield to the spell of his silencing will till that + phantom + Proved an actual ghost by common-place tests of the daylight, + Such as speech with the lady's father. + + And now, could I pardon-- + Nay, did I think I could love him? I sobbingly answered, I thought + so. + And we are all of us going to Lago di Como to-morrow, + With an ulterior view at the first convenient Legation. + + Patientest darling, good-by! Poor Fred, whose sense of what's + proper + Never was touched till now, is shocked at my glad self-betrayals, + And I am pointed out as an awful example to Annie, + Figuring all she must never be. But, oh, if _he_ loves me!-- + + POSTSCRIPT. + + Since, he has shown me a letter in which he absolves and forgives + her + (Philip, of course, not Fred; and the _other_, of course, and not + Annie). + Don't you think him generous, noble, unselfish, heroic? + + L'ENVOY.--_Clara's Comment_. + + Well, I'm glad, I am sure, if Fanny supposes she's happy. + I've no doubt her lover is good and noble--as men go. + But, as regards his release of a woman who'd wholly forgot him, + And whom he loved no longer, for one whom he loves, and who loves + him, + _I_ don't exactly see where the _heroism_ commences. + + + + +THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS. + + + There is a bird that comes and sings + In the Professor's garden-trees; + Upon the English oak he swings, + And tilts and tosses in the breeze. + + I know his name, I know his note, + That so with rapture takes my soul; + Like flame the gold beneath his throat, + His glossy cope is black as coal. + + O oriole, it is the song + You sang me from the cottonwood, + Too young to feel that I was young, + Too glad to guess if life were good. + + And while I hark, before my door, + Adown the dusty Concord Road, + The blue Miami flows once more + As by the cottonwood it flowed. + + And on the bank that rises steep, + And pours a thousand tiny rills, + From death and absence laugh and leap + My school-mates to their flutter-mills. + + The blackbirds jangle in the tops + Of hoary-antlered sycamores; + The timorous killdee starts and stops + Among the drift-wood on the shores. + + Below, the bridge--a noonday fear + Of dust and shadow shot with sun-- + Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, + Far unto alien coasts unknown. + + And on those alien coasts, above, + Where silver ripples break the stream's + Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove + A hidden parrot scolds and screams. + + Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things: + A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath-- + It is a song the oriole sings-- + And all the rest belongs to death. + + But oriole, my oriole, + Were some bright seraph sent from bliss + With songs of heaven to win my soul + From simple memories such as this, + + What could he tell to tempt my ear + From you? What high thing could there be, + So tenderly and sweetly dear + As my lost boyhood is to me? + + + + +PORDENONE. + + I. + + Hard by the Church of Saint Stephen, in sole and beautiful Venice, + Under the colonnade of the Augustinian Convent, + Every day, as I passed, I paused to look at the frescos + Painted upon the ancient walls of the court of the Convent + By a great master of old, who wore his sword and his dagger + While he wrought the figures of patriarchs, martyrs, and virgins + Into the sacred and famous scenes of Scriptural story. + + II. + + Long ago the monks from their snug self-devotion were driven, + Wistful and fat and slow: looking backward, I fancied them going + Out through the sculptured doorway, and down the Ponte de'Frati, + Cowled and sandalled and beaded, a plump and pensive procession; + And in my day their cells were barracks for Austrian soldiers, + Who in their turn have followed the Augustinian Friars. + As to the frescos, little remained of work once so perfect. + Summer and winter weather of some three cycles had wasted; + Plaster had fallen, and left unsightly blotches of ruin; + Wanton and stupid neglect had done its worst to the pictures: + Yet to the sympathetic and reverent eye was apparent-- + Where the careless glance but found, in expanses of plaster, + Touches of incoherent color and lines interrupted-- + Somewhat still of the life of surpassing splendor and glory + Filling the frescos once; and here and there was a figure, + Standing apart, and out from the common decay and confusion, + Flushed with immortal youth and ineffaceable beauty, + Such as that figure of Eve in pathetic expulsion from Eden, + Taking--the tourist remembers--the wrath of Heaven al fresco, + As is her well-known custom in thousands of acres of canvas. + + III. + + I could make out the much-bepainted Biblical subjects, + When I had patience enough: The Temptation, of course, and + Expulsion; + Cain killing Abel, his Brother--the merest fragment of murder; + Noah's Debauch--the trunk of the sea-faring patriarch naked, + And the garment, borne backward to cover it, fearfully tattered; + Abraham offering Isaac--no visible Isaac, and only + Abraham's lifted knife held back by the hovering angel; + Martyrdom of Saint Stephen--a part of the figure of Stephen; + And the Conversion of Paul--the greaves on the leg of a soldier + Held across the back of a prostrate horse by the stirrup; + But when I looked at the face of that tearful and beauteous + figure,-- + Eve in the fresco there, and, in Venice of old, Violante, + As I must fain believe (the lovely daughter of Palma, + Who was her father's Saint Barbara, and was the Bella of Titian),-- + Such a meaning and life shone forth from its animate presence + As could restore those vague and ineffectual pictures, + With their pristine colors, and fill them with light and with + movement. + Nay, sometimes it could blind me to all the present about me, + Till I beheld no more the sausage-legged Austrian soldiers, + Where they stood on guard beside one door of the Convent, + Nor the sentinel beggars that watched the approach to the other; + Neither the bigolanti, the broad-backed Friulan maidens, + Drawing the water with clatter and splashing, and laughter and + gossip, + Out of the carven well in the midst of the court of the Convent-- + No, not even the one with the mole on her cheek and the sidelong + Look, as she ambled forth with her buckets of bronze at her + shoulder, + Swinging upon the yoke to and fro, a-drip and a-glimmer. + All in an instant was changed, and once more the cloister was + peopled + By the serene monks of old, and against walls of the cloisters, + High on his scaffolding raised, Pordenone[5] wrought at his + frescos. + Armed with dagger and sword, as the legend tells, against Titian, + Who was his rival in art and in love. + + IV. + + It seemed to be summer, + In the forenoon of the day; and the master's diligent pencil + Laid its last light touches on Eve driven forth out of Eden, + Otherwise Violante, and while his pupils about him + Wrought and chattered, in silence ran the thought of the painter: + "She, and forever she! Is it come to be my perdition? + Shall I, then, never more make the face of a beautiful woman + But it must take her divine, accursèd beauty upon it, + And, when I finish my work, stand forth her visible presence? + Ah! I could take this sword and strike it into her bosom! + Though I believe my own heart's blood would stream from the + painting, + So much I love her! Yes, that look is marvellous like you, + Wandering, tender--such as I'd give my salvation to win you + Once to bend upon me! But I knew myself better than make you, + Lest I should play the fool about you here before people, + Helpless to turn away from your violet eyes, Violante, + That have turned all my life to a vision of madness." The painter + Here unto speech betraying the thoughts he had silently pondered, + "Visions, visions, my son?" said a gray old friar who listened, + Seated there in the sun, with his eye on the work of the painter + Fishily fixed, while the master blasphemed behind his mustaches. + "Much have I envied your Art, who vouchsafeth to those who adore + her + Visions of heavenly splendor denied to fastings and vigils. + I have spent days and nights of faint and painful devotion, + Scourged myself almost to death, without one glimpse of the glory + Which your touch has revealed in the face of that heavenly maiden. + Pleasure me to repeat what it was you were saying of visions: + Fain would I know how they come to you, though _I_ never see them, + And in my thickness of hearing I fear some words have escaped me." + Then, while the painter glared on the lifted face of the friar, + Baleful, breathless, bewildered, fiercer than noon in the dog-days, + Round the circle of pupils there ran a tittering murmur; + From the lips to the ears of those nameless Beppis and Gigis + Buzzed the stinging whisper: "Let's hear Pordenone's confession." + Well they knew the master's luckless love, and whose portrait + He had unconsciously painted there, and guessed that his visions + Scarcely were those conceived by the friar, who constantly + blundered + Round the painter at work, mistaking every subject-- + Noah's drunken Debauch for the Stoning of Stephen the Martyr, + And the Conversion of Paul for the Flight into Egypt; forever + Putting his hand to his ear and shouting, "Speak louder, I pray + you!" + So they waited now, in silent, amused expectation, + Till Pordenone's angry scorn should gather to bursting. + Long the painter gazed in furious silence, then slowly + Uttered a kind of moan, and turned again to his labor. + Tears gathered into his eyes, of mortification and pathos, + And when the dull old monk, who forgot, while he waited the answer, + Visions and painter, and all, had maundered away in his error, + Pordenone half envied the imbecile peace of his bosom; + "For in my own," he mused, "is such a combat of devils, + That I believe torpid age or stupid youth would be better + Than this manhood of mine that has climbed aloft to discover + Heights which I never can reach, and bright on the pinnacle + standing + In the unfading light, my rival crowned victor above me. + If I could hint what I feel, what forever escapes from my pencil, + All after-time should know my will was not less than my failure, + Nor should any one dare remember me merely in pity. + All should read my sorrows and do my discomfiture homage, + Saying: 'Not meanly at any time this painter meant or endeavored; + His was the anguish of one who falls short of the highest + achievement, + Conscious of doing his utmost, and knowing how vast his defeat is. + Life, if he would, might have had some second guerdon to give him, + But he would only the first; and behold! Let us honor + Grief such as his must have been; no other sorrow can match it! + There are certainly some things here that are nobly imagined: + Look! here is masterly power in this play of light, and these + shadows + Boldly are massed; and what color! One can well understand + Buonarotti + Saying the sight of his Curtius was worth the whole journey from + Florence. + Here is a man at least never less than his work; you can feel it + As you can feel in Titian's the painter's inferior spirit. + He and this Pordenone, you know, were rivals; and Titian + Knew how to paint to the popular humor, and spared not + Foul means or fair (his way with rivals) to crush Pordenone, + Who with an equal chance'-- + "Alas, if the whole world should tell me + I was his equal in art, and the lie could save me from torment, + So must I be lost, for my soul could never believe it! + Nay, let my envy snarl as fierce as it will at his glory, + Still, when I look on his work, my soul makes obeisance within me, + Humbling itself before the touch that shall never be equalled." + + He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence, + And Pordenone was roused from these thoughts anon by the sudden + Hush that had fallen upon the garrulous group of his pupils; + And ere he turned half-way with instinctive looks of inquiry, + He was already warned, with a shock at the heart, of a presence + Long attended, not feared; and he laid one hand on his sword-hilt, + Seizing the sheath with the other hand, that the pallet had dropped + from. + Then he fronted Titian, who stood with his arms lightly folded, + And with a curious smile, half of sarcasm, half of compassion, + Bent on th' embattled painter, cried: "Your slave, Messere Antonio! + What good friend has played this bitter jest with your humor? + As I beheld you just now full-armed with your pencil and palette, + I was half awed by your might; but these sorry trappings of bravo + Make me believe you less fit to be the rival of Titian, + Here in the peaceful calm of our well-ordered city of Venice, + Than to take service under some Spanish lordling at Naples, + Needy in blades for work that can not wait for the poison." + + Pordenone flushed with anger and shame to be taken + At an unguarded point; but he answered with scornful defiance: + "Oh, you are come, I see, with the favorite weapon of Titian, + And you would make a battle of words. If you care for my counsel, + Listen to me: I say you are skilfuller far in my absence, + And your tongue can inflict a keener and deadlier mischief + When it is dipped in poisonous lies, and wielded in secret." + "Nay, then," Titian responded, "methinks that our friend Aretino[6] + Makes a much better effect than either of us in that tongue-play. + But since Messer Robusti has measured our wit for his portrait, + Even _he_ has grown shyer of using his tongue than he once was. + Have you not heard the tale? Tintoretto was told Aretino + Meant to make him the subject of one of his merry effusions; + And with his naked dirk he went carefully over his person, + Promising, if the poet made free with him in his verses, + He would immortalize my satirical friend with that pencil. + Doubtless the tale is not true. Aretino says nothing about it; + Always speaks, in fact, with the highest respect of Robusti. + True or not, 'tis well found." Then looking around on the frescos: + "Good, very good indeed! Your breadth and richness and softness + No man living surpasses; those heads are truly majestic. + Yes, Buonarotti was right, when he said that to look at your + Curtius + Richly repaid him the trouble and cost of a journey from Florence. + Surely the world shall know you the first of painters in fresco! + Well? You will not strike me unarmed? This was hardly expected + By the good people that taught you to think our rivalry blood-red. + Let us be friends, Pordenone!" + "Be patron and patronized, rather; + Nay, if you spoke your whole mind out, be assassin and victim. + Could the life beat again in the broken heart of Giorgione, + He might tell us, I think, something pleasant of friendship with + Titian." + Suddenly over the shoulder of Titian peered an ironical visage, + Smiling, malignly intent--the leer of the scurrilous poet: + "You know--all the world knows--who dug the grave of Giorgione.[7] + Titian and he were no friends--our Lady of Sorrows forgive 'em! + But for all hurt that Titian did him he might have been living, + Greater than any living, and lord of renown and such glory + As would have left you both dull as yon withered moon in the + sunshine." + Loud laughed the listening group at the insolent gibe of the poet, + Stirring the gall to its depths in the bitter soul of their master, + Who with his tremulous fingers tapped the hilt of his poniard, + Answering naught as yet. Anon the glance of the ribald, + Carelessly ranging from Pordenone's face to the picture, + Dwelt with an absent light on its marvellous beauty, and kindled + Into a slow recognition, with "Ha! Violante!" Then, erring + Wilfully as to the subject, he cackled his filthy derision: + "What have we here! More Magdalens yet of the painter's acquaintance? + Ah--!" + The words had scarce left his lips, when the painter + Rushed upon him, and clutching his throat, thrust him backward and + held him + Over the scaffolding's edge in air, and straightway had flung him + Crashing down on the pave of the cloister below, but for Titian, + Who around painter and poet alike wound his strong arms and stayed + them + Solely, until the bewildered pupils could come to the rescue. + Then, as the foes relaxed that embrace of frenzy and murder-- + White, one with rage and the other with terror, and either with + hatred-- + Grimly the great master smiled: "You were much nearer paradise, + Piero, + Than you have been for some time. Be ruled now by me and get + homeward + Fast as you may, and be thankful." And then, as the poet, + Looking neither to right nor to left, amid the smiles of the pupils + Tottered along the platform, and trembling descended the ladder + Down to the cloister pave, and, still without upward or backward + Glance, disappeared beneath the outer door of the Convent, + Titian turned again to the painter: "Farewell, Pordenone! + Learn more fairly to know me. I envy you not; and no rival + Now, or at any time, have I held you, or ever shall hold you. + Prosper and triumph still, for all me: you shall but do me honor, + Seeing that I too serve the art that your triumphs illustrate. + I for my part find life too short for work and for pleasure; + If it should touch a century's bound, I should think it too + precious + Even to spare a moment for rage at another's good fortune. + Do not be fooled by the purblind flatterers who would persuade you + Either of us shall have greater fame through the fall of the other. + We can thrive only in common. The tardily blossoming cycles, + Flowering at last in this glorious age of our art, had not waited, + Folded calyxes still, for Pordenone or Titian. + Think you if we had not been, our pictures had never been painted? + Others had done them, or better, the same. We are only + Pencils God paints with. And think you that He had wanted for + pencils + But for our being at hand? And yet--for some virtue creative + Dwells and divinely exists in the being of every creature, + So that the thing done through him is dear as if he had done it-- + If I should see your power, a tint of this great efflorescence, + Fading, methinks I should feel myself beginning to wither. + They have abused your hate who told you that Titian was jealous. + Once, in my youth that is passed, I too had my hates and my envies. + 'Sdeath! how it used to gall me--that power and depth of Giorgione! + I could have turned my knife in his heart when I looked at his + portraits. + Ah! we learn somewhat still as the years go. Now, when I see you + Doing this good work here, I am glad in my soul of its beauty. + Art is not ours, O friend! but if we are not hers, we are nothing. + Look at the face you painted last year--or yesterday, even: + Far, so far, it seems from you, so utterly, finally, parted, + Nothing is stranger to you than this child of your soul; and you + wonder-- + 'Did I indeed then do it?' No thrill of the rapture of doing + Stirs in your breast at the sight. Nay, then, not even the beauty + Which we had seemed to create is our own: the frame universal + Is as much ours. And shall I hate you because you are doing + That which when done you cannot feel yours more than I mine can feel + it? + It shall belong hereafter to all who perceive and enjoy it, + Rather than him who made it; he, least of all, shall enjoy it. + They of the Church conjure us to look on death and be humble; + I say, look upon life and keep your pride if you can, then: + See how to-day's achievement is only to-morrow's confusion; + See how possession always cheapens the thing that was precious + To our endeavor; how losses and gains are equally losses; + How in ourselves we are nothing, and how we are anything only + As indifferent parts of the whole, that still, on our ceasing, + Whole remains as before, no less without us than with us. + Were it not for the delight of doing, the wonderful instant + Ere the thing done is done and dead, life scarce were worth living. + Ah, but that makes life divine! We are gods, for that instant + immortal, + Mortal for evermore, with a few days' rumor--or ages'-- + What does it matter? We, too, have our share of eating and + drinking, + Love, and the liking of friends--mankind's common portion and + pleasure. + Come, Pordenone, with me; I would fain have you see my Assumption + While it is still unfinished, and stay with me for the evening: + You shall send home for your lute, and I'll ask Sansovino to + supper.[8] + After what happened just now I scarcely could ask Aretino; + Though, for the matter of that, the dog is not one to bear malice. + Will you not come?" + + V. + + I listen with Titian, and wait for the answer. + But, whatever the answer that comes to Titian, I hear none. + Nay, while I linger, all those presences fade into nothing, + In the dead air of the past; and the old Augustinian Convent + Lapses to picturesque profanation again as a barrack; + Lapses and changes once more, and this time vanishes wholly, + Leaving me at the end with the broken, shadowy legend, + Broken and shadowy still, as in the beginning. I linger, + Teased with its vague unfathomed suggestion, and wonder, + As at first I wondered, what happened about Violante, + And am but ill content with those metaphysical phrases + Touching the strictly impersonal nature of personal effort, + Wherewithal Titian had fain avoided the matter at issue. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [5] Giovanni Antonio Licinio, called _Pordenone_ from his birth-place + in the Friuli, was a contemporary of Titian's, whom he equalled + in many qualities, and was one of the most eminent Venetian + painters in fresco. + + [6] Pietro Aretino, the satirical poet, was a friend of Titian, whose + house he frequented. The story of Tintoretto's measuring him for + a portrait with his dagger is well known. + + [7] Giorgione (Giorgio Barbarelli) was Titian's fellow-pupil and rival + in the school of Bellini. He died at thirty-four, after a life + of great triumphs and excesses. + + [8] Sansovino, the architect, was a familiar guest at Titian's table, + in his house near the Fondamenta Nuove. + + + + +THE LONG DAYS. + + + Yes! they are here again, the long, long days, + After the days of winter, pinched and white; + Soon, with a thousand minstrels comes the light, + Late, the sweet robin-haunted dusk delays. + + But the long days that bring us back the flowers, + The sunshine, and the quiet-dripping rain, + And all the things we knew of spring again, + The long days bring not the long-lost long hours. + + The hours that now seem to have been each one + A summer in itself, a whole life's bound, + Filled full of deathless joy--where in his round, + Have these forever faded from the sun? + + The fret, the fever, the unrest endures, + But the time flies.... Oh, try, my little lad, + Coming so hot and play-worn, to be glad + And patient of the long hours that are yours! + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber Notes + +Archaic and variable spelling and hypenation preserved, including +words like chorussing and chipmonk. + +Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some inconsistent +quotes in "Pordenone". + +Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by William D. Howells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 29993-8.txt or 29993-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/9/9/29993/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Howells</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + @media screen { + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none;border-top:thin dashed silver;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; text-indent: 0; position: absolute; right: 2%; padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; background-color: inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color: silver;} + } + @media print { + hr.pb {border:none;page-break-after: always;} + .pagenum { display:none; } + } + body {margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + + .center p {text-align: center;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: 0.25em; text-decoration: none; font-size: 90%;} + .larger {font-size: large;} + .padtop {margin-top: 2em;} + .pinfo {margin: -.5em 15% 1em 15%; font-size: small;} + .smaller {font-size: small;} + .trnote {background-color: #EEE; color: inherit; margin: 2em 5% 1em 5%; font-size: small; padding: 0.5em 1em 0.5em 1em; border: dotted 1px gray;} + blockquote {display: block; margin: .75em 5%; font-size: 90%;} + div.poem {margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + h1,h2,h3 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em; clear: both;} + + .chsp {margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em;} + .footnote {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smcaplc {text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: small-caps;} + a {text-decoration: none;} + div.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em;} + div.poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + div.poem p.indent14{padding-left:8.6em;} + div.poem p.indent18{padding-left:10.2em;} + div.poem p.indent2{padding-left:3.8em;} + div.poem p.indent4{padding-left:4.6em;} + div.poem p.indent6{padding-left:5.4em;} + div.poem p.indent8{padding-left:6.2em;} + hr.fn {width:3em; text-align:left; margin-left: 0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; height:1px; border: none; border-bottom: 1px solid black;} + hr.toprule {width: 65%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; clear:both;} + p.center {text-align: center !important;} + p.ralign {text-align: right !important;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + td.chalgn {text-align:right; margin-top:0; padding-right:1em;} +</style> + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by William D. Howells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: William D. Howells + +Release Date: September 15, 2009 [EBook #29993] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center"> +<h1>POEMS</h1> +<p class='padtop'><b><span class='smcaplc'>BY</span><br /> +WILLIAM D. HOWELLS</b></p> +<p class='padtop'>BOSTON<br /> +TICKNOR AND COMPANY<br /> +211 TREMONT STREET<br /> +<span class='smaller'>MDCCCLXXXVI</span></p> +<hr class='pb' /> +<p class='smaller'><span class='smcap'>Copyright, 1873, by James R. Osgood and Company<br /> +and 1885, By William D. Howells.</span></p> +<p class='smaller'><i>All rights reserved.</i></p> +<p class='padtop smaller'>University Press:<br /> +<span class='smcap'>John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.</span></p> +</div> +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'> +<tr> + <td /> + <td valign='top' align='right'><p class="smaller" style='text-align:right;'>PAGE</p></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Pilot’s Story</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_PILOTS_STORY'>3</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Forlorn</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FORLORN'>13</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Pleasure-Pain</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PLEASUREPAIN'>19</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>In August</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IN_AUGUST'>26</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Empty House</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_EMPTY_HOUSE'>27</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Bubbles</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BUBBLES'>29</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Lost Beliefs</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LOST_BELIEFS'>31</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Louis Lebeau’s Conversion</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LOUIS_LEBEAUS_CONVERSION'>32</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Caprice</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CAPRICE'>49</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Sweet Clover</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SWEET_CLOVER'>51</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Royal Portraits</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_ROYAL_PORTRAITS_AT_LUDWIGSHOF'>54</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Faithful of the Gonzaga</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_FAITHFUL_OF_THE_GONZAGA'>59</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The First Cricket</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_FIRST_CRICKET'>77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Mulberries</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_MULBERRIES'>79</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Before the Gate</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BEFORE_THE_GATE'>84</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Clement</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CLEMENT'>86</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>By the Sea</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BY_THE_SEA'>97</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Saint Christopher</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SAINT_CHRISTOPHER'>98</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Elegy on John Butler Howells</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ELEGY_ON_JOHN_BUTLER_HOWELLS'>100</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Thanksgiving</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THANKSGIVING'>105</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>A Springtime</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_SPRINGTIME'>106</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>In Earliest Spring</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IN_EARLIEST_SPRING'>108</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Bobolinks are Singing</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_BOBOLINKS_ARE_SINGING'>110</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Prelude</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PRELUDE_TO_AN_EARLY_BOOK_OF_VERSE'>113</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Movers</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_MOVERS_SKETCH'>115</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Through the Meadow</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THROUGH_THE_MEADOW'>120</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Gone</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GONE'>122</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Sarcastic Fair</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_SARCASTIC_FAIR'>123</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Rapture</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#RAPTURE'>124</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Dead</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DEAD'>125</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Doubt</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_DOUBT'>127</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Thorn</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_THORN'>129</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Mysteries</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_MYSTERIES'>130</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Battle in the Clouds</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_BATTLE_IN_THE_CLOUDS'>131</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>For One of the Killed</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FOR_ONE_OF_THE_KILLED'>133</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Two Wives</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_TWO_WIVES_TO_COLONEL_J_G_M_IN_MEMORY_OF_THE_EVENT_BEFORE_ATLANTA'>134</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Bereaved</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BEREAVED'>136</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Snow-Birds</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_SNOWBIRDS'>138</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Vagary</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VAGARY'>139</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Feuerbilder</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FEUERBILDER'>141</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Avery</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#AVERY_NIAGARA_1853'>143</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Bopeep: A Pastoral</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BOPEEP_A_PASTORAL'>148</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>While she sang</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WHILE_SHE_SANG'>160</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>A Poet</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_POET'>163</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Convention</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CONVENTION'>164</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Poet Friends</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_POETS_FRIENDS'>165</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>No Love Lost</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#NO_LOVE_LOST_A_ROMANCE_OF_TRAVEL'>166</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Song the Oriole sings</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_SONG_THE_ORIOLE_SINGS'>199</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Pordenone</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PORDENONE'>201</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Long Days</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_LONG_DAYS'>223</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3' name='page_3'></a>3</span> +<a name='THE_PILOTS_STORY' id='THE_PILOTS_STORY'></a> +<h2>THE PILOT’S STORY.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It was a story the pilot told, with his back to his hearers,––</p> +<p>Keeping his hand on the wheel and his eye on the globe of the jack-staff,</p> +<p>Holding the boat to the shore and out of the sweep of the current,</p> +<p>Lightly turning aside for the heavy logs of the drift-wood,</p> +<p>Widely shunning the snags that made us sardonic obeisance.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>All the soft, damp air was full of delicate perfume</p> +<p>From the young willows in bloom on either bank of the river,––</p> +<p>Faint, delicious fragrance, trancing the indolent senses</p> +<p>In a luxurious dream of the river and land of the lotus.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4' name='page_4'></a>4</span></p> +<p>Not yet out of the west the roses of sunset were withered;</p> +<p>In the deep blue above light clouds of gold and of crimson</p> +<p>Floated in slumber serene; and the restless river beneath them</p> +<p>Rushed away to the sea with a vision of rest in its bosom;</p> +<p>Far on the eastern shore lay dimly the swamps of the cypress;</p> +<p>Dimly before us the islands grew from the river’s expanses,––</p> +<p>Beautiful, wood-grown isles, with the gleam of the swart inundation</p> +<p>Seen through the swaying boughs and slender trunks of their willows;</p> +<p>And on the shore beside us the cotton-trees rose in the evening,</p> +<p>Phantom-like, yearningly, wearily, with the inscrutable sadness</p> +<p>Of the mute races of trees. While hoarsely the steam from her ’scape-pipes</p> +<p>Shouted, then whispered a moment, then shouted again to the silence,</p> +<p>Trembling through all her frame with the mighty pulse of her engines,</p> +<p>Slowly the boat ascended the swollen and broad Mississippi,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span></p> +<p>Bank-full, sweeping on, with tangled masses of drift-wood,</p> +<p>Daintily breathed about with whiffs of silvery vapor,</p> +<p>Where in his arrowy flight the twittering swallow alighted,</p> +<p>And the belated blackbird paused on the way to its nestlings.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It was the pilot’s story:––“They both came aboard there, at Cairo,</p> +<p>From a New Orleans boat, and took passage with us for Saint Louis.</p> +<p>She was a beautiful woman, with just enough blood from her mother</p> +<p>Darkening her eyes and her hair to make her race known to a trader:</p> +<p>You would have thought she was white. The man that was with her,––you see such,––</p> +<p>Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good-natured and vicious,</p> +<p>Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating.</p> +<p>I was a youngster then, and only learning the river,––</p> +<p>Not over-fond of the wheel. I used to watch them at monte,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span></p> +<p>Down in the cabin at night, and learned to know all of the gamblers.</p> +<p>So when I saw this weak one staking his money against them,</p> +<p>Betting upon the turn of the cards, I knew what was coming:</p> +<p><i>They</i> never left their pigeons a single feather to fly with.</p> +<p>Next day I saw them together,––the stranger and one of the gamblers:</p> +<p>Picturesque rascal he was, with long black hair and moustaches,</p> +<p>Black slouch hat drawn down to his eyes from his villanous forehead.</p> +<p>On together they moved, still earnestly talking in whispers,</p> +<p>On toward the forecastle, where sat the woman alone by the gangway.</p> +<p>Roused by the fall of feet, she turned, and, beholding her master,</p> +<p>Greeted him with a smile that was more like a wife’s than another’s,</p> +<p>Rose to meet him fondly, and then, with the dread apprehension</p> +<p>Always haunting the slave, fell her eye on the face of the gambler,––</p> +<p>Dark and lustful and fierce and full of merciless cunning.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span></p> +<p>Something was spoken so low that I could not hear what the words were;</p> +<p>Only the woman started, and looked from one to the other,</p> +<p>With imploring eyes, bewildered hands, and a tremor</p> +<p>All through her frame: I saw her from where I was standing, she shook so.</p> +<p>‘Say! is it so?’ she cried. On the weak, white lips of her master</p> +<p>Died a sickly smile, and he said, ‘Louise, I have sold you.’</p> +<p>God is my judge! May I never see such a look of despairing,</p> +<p>Desolate anguish, as that which the woman cast on her master,</p> +<p>Griping her breast with her little hands, as if he had stabbed her,</p> +<p>Standing in silence a space, as fixed as the Indian woman</p> +<p>Carved out of wood, on the pilot-house of the old Pocahontas!</p> +<p>Then, with a gurgling moan, like the sound in the throat of the dying,</p> +<p>Came back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, through wild incoherence,</p> +<p>Into a terrible shriek that stopped my heart while she answered:––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span></p> +<p>‘Sold me? sold me? sold––And you promised to give me my freedom!––</p> +<p>Promised me, for the sake of our little boy in Saint Louis!</p> +<p>What will you say to our boy, when he cries for me there in Saint Louis?</p> +<p>What will you say to our God?––Ah, you have been joking! I see it!––</p> +<p>No? God! God! He shall hear it,––and all of the angels in heaven,––</p> +<p>Even the devils in hell!––and none will believe when they hear it!</p> +<p>Sold me!’––Her voice died away with a wail, and in silence</p> +<p>Down she sank on the deck, and covered her face with her fingers.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In his story a moment the pilot paused, while we listened</p> +<p>To the salute of a boat, that, rounding the point of an island,</p> +<p>Flamed toward us with fires that seemed to burn from the waters,––</p> +<p>Stately and vast and swift, and borne on the heart of the current.</p> +<p>Then, with the mighty voice of a giant challenged to battle,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span></p> +<p>Rose the responsive whistle, and all the echoes of island,</p> +<p>Swamp-land, glade, and brake replied with a myriad clamor,</p> +<p>Like wild birds that are suddenly startled from slumber at midnight,</p> +<p>Then were at peace once more; and we heard the harsh cries of the peacocks</p> +<p>Perched on a tree by a cabin-door, where the white-headed settler’s</p> +<p>White-headed children stood to look at the boat as it passed them,</p> +<p>Passed them so near that we heard their happy talk and their laughter.</p> +<p>Softly the sunset had faded, and now on the eastern horizon</p> +<p>Hung, like a tear in the sky, the beautiful star of the evening.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Still with his back to us standing, the pilot went on with his story:––</p> +<p>“All of us flocked round the woman. The children cried, and their mothers</p> +<p>Hugged them tight to their breasts; but the gambler said to the captain,––</p> +<p>‘Put me off there at the town that lies round the bend of the river.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span></p> +<p>Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.’</p> +<p>Roughly he seized the woman’s arm and strove to uplift her.</p> +<p>She––she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is dreaming,</p> +<p>Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway,</p> +<p>Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation.</p> +<p>Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and the people</p> +<p>Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment,</p> +<p>Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler.</p> +<p>Not one to save her,––not one of all the compassionate people!</p> +<p>Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven!</p> +<p>Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her!</p> +<p>Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and horror.</p> +<p>Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion</p> +<p>Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the night-time.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span></p> +<p>White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to secure her;</p> +<p>Then she turned and leaped,––in mid-air fluttered a moment,––</p> +<p>Down then, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from a tree-top,</p> +<p>Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and crushed her,</p> +<p>And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him</p> +<p>Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope for stopping. Then, turning,––</p> +<p>“This is the place where it happened,” brokenly whispered the pilot.</p> +<p>“Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the night-time.”</p> +<p>Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the starlight,</p> +<p>Cheerful with lamps. Below we could hear them reversing the engines,</p> +<p>And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant exhausted.</p> +<p>Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the eastward</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span></p> +<p>Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into silver.</p> +<p>All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the willows</p> +<p>Smote with a mystical sense of infinite sorrow upon us.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span> +<a name='FORLORN' id='FORLORN'></a> +<h2>FORLORN.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Red roses, in the slender vases burning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Breathed all upon the air,––</p> +<p>The passion and the tenderness and yearning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The waiting and the doubting and despair.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Still with the music of her voice was haunted,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Through all its charméd rhymes,</p> +<p>The open book of such a one as chanted</p> +<p class='indent2'>The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The silvern chords of the piano trembled</p> +<p class='indent2'>Still with the music wrung</p> +<p>From them; the silence of the room dissembled</p> +<p class='indent2'>The closes of the songs that she had sung.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The languor of the crimson shawl’s abasement,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lying without a stir</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span></p> +<p>Upon the floor,––the absence at the casement,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The solitude and hush were full of her.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Without, and going from the room, and never</p> +<p class='indent2'>Departing, did depart</p> +<p>Her steps; and one that came too late forever</p> +<p class='indent2'>Felt them go heavy o’er his broken heart.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And, sitting in the house’s desolation,</p> +<p class='indent2'>He could not bear the gloom,</p> +<p>The vanishing encounter and evasion</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of things that were and were not in the room.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of faces and of forms;</p> +<p>He heard old tendernesses and derisions</p> +<p class='indent2'>Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under</p> +<p class='indent2'>That lamps made at their feet,</p> +<p>He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And sadly follow after him down the street.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span></p> +<p class='center'>IX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded</p> +<p class='indent2'>Between him and his quest;</p> +<p>At unseen corners jostled and eluded,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Against his hand her silken robes were pressed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>X.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Doors closed upon her; out of garret casements</p> +<p class='indent2'>He knew she looked at him;</p> +<p>In splendid mansions and in squalid basements,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Whirling away from sight;</p> +<p>From all the hopelessness of search she won him</p> +<p class='indent2'>Back to the dull and lonesome house at night.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Full early into dark the twilights saddened</p> +<p class='indent2'>Within its closéd doors;</p> +<p>The echoes, with the clock’s monotony maddened,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter</p> +<p class='indent2'>From wide-mouthed chimney-places,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span></p> +<p>And the strange noises between roof and rafter,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wainscot clamor, and the scampering races</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XIV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Of mice that chased each other through the chambers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And up and down the stair,</p> +<p>And rioted among the ashen embers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And left their frolic footprints everywhere,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending</p> +<p class='indent2'>The broad steps, one by one,</p> +<p>And toward the solitary chamber tending,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where the dim phantom of his hope alone</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XVI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Rose up to meet him, with his growing nearer,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Eager for his embrace,</p> +<p>And moved, and melted into the white mirror,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And stared at him with his own haggard face.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XVII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But, turning, he was ’ware <i>her</i> looks beheld him</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the mirror white;</p> +<p>And at the window yearning arms she held him,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the vague and sombre fold of night.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span></p> +<p class='center'>XVIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sometimes she stood behind him, looking over</p> +<p class='indent2'>His shoulder as he read;</p> +<p>Sometimes he felt her shadowy presence hover</p> +<p class='indent2'>Above his dreamful sleep, beside his bed;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XIX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And rising from his sleep, her shadowy presence</p> +<p class='indent2'>Followed his light descent</p> +<p>Of the long stair; her shadowy evanescence</p> +<p class='indent2'>Through all the whispering rooms before him went.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Upon the earthy draught of cellars blowing</p> +<p class='indent2'>His shivering lamp-flame blue,</p> +<p>Amid the damp and chill, he felt her flowing</p> +<p class='indent2'>Around him from the doors he entered through.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The spiders wove their webs upon the ceiling;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bat clung to the wall;</p> +<p>The dry leaves through the open transom stealing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Skated and danced adown the empty hall.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>About him closed the utter desolation,</p> +<p class='indent2'>About him closed the gloom;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span></p> +<p>The vanishing encounter and evasion</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of things that were and were not in the room</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Vexed him forever; and his life forever</p> +<p class='indent2'>Immured and desolate,</p> +<p>Beating itself, with desperate endeavor,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But bruised itself, against the round of fate.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXIV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The roses, in their slender vases burning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Were quenchéd long before;</p> +<p>A dust was on the rhymes of love and yearning;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The shawl was like a shroud upon the floor.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her music from the thrilling chords had perished;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The stillness was not moved</p> +<p>With memories of cadences long cherished,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The closes of the songs that she had loved.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXVI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But not the less he felt her presence never</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the room depart;</p> +<p>Over the threshold, not the less, forever</p> +<p class='indent2'>He felt her going on his broken heart.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span> +<a name='PLEASUREPAIN' id='PLEASUREPAIN'></a> +<h2>PLEASURE-PAIN.</h2> +</div> +<blockquote> +<p class='center'>“Das Vergnügen ist Nichts als ein höchst angenehmer +Schmerz.”––<span class='smcap'>Heinrich Heine</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Full of beautiful blossoms</p> +<p class='indent2'>Stood the tree in early May:</p> +<p>Came a chilly gale from the sunset,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And blew the blossoms away;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Scattered them through the garden,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Tossed them into the mere:</p> +<p>The sad tree moaned and shuddered,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“Alas! the Fall is here.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But all through the glowing summer</p> +<p class='indent2'>The blossomless tree throve fair,</p> +<p>And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With sunny rain and air;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And when the dim October</p> +<p class='indent2'>With golden death was crowned,</p> +<p>Under its heavy branches</p> +<p class='indent2'>The tree stooped to the ground.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span></p> +<p>In youth there comes a west-wind</p> +<p class='indent2'>Blowing our bloom away,––</p> +<p>A chilly breath of Autumn</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the lips of May.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We bear the ripe fruit after,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>Ah, me! for the thought of pain!––</p> +<p>We know the sweetness and beauty</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the heart-bloom never again.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>One sails away to sea,</p> +<p class='indent2'>One stands on the shore and cries;</p> +<p>The ship goes down the world, and the light</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the sullen water dies.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The whispering shell is mute,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And after is evil cheer:</p> +<p>She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Many and many a year.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But the stately, wide-winged ship</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lies wrecked on the unknown deep;</p> +<p>Far under, dead in his coral bed,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The lover lies asleep.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span></p> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through the silent streets of the city,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the night’s unbusy noon,</p> +<p>Up and down in the pallor</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the languid summer moon,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I wander, and think of the village,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the house in the maple-gloom,</p> +<p>And the porch with the honeysuckles</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the sweet-brier all abloom.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>My soul is sick with the fragrance</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the dewy sweet-brier’s breath:</p> +<p>O darling! the house is empty,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And lonesomer than death!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>If I call, no one will answer;</p> +<p class='indent2'>If I knock, no one will come:</p> +<p>The feet are at rest forever,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the lips are cold and dumb.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The summer moon is shining</p> +<p class='indent2'>So wan and large and still,</p> +<p>And the weary dead are sleeping</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the graveyard under the hill.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span></p> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We looked at the wide, white circle</p> +<p class='indent2'>Around the Autumn moon,</p> +<p>And talked of the change of weather:</p> +<p class='indent2'>It would rain, to-morrow, or soon.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the rain came on the morrow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And beat the dying leaves</p> +<p>From the shuddering boughs of the maples</p> +<p class='indent2'>Into the flooded eaves.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The clouds wept out their sorrow;</p> +<p class='indent2'>But in my heart the tears</p> +<p>Are bitter for want of weeping,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In all these Autumn years.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The bobolink sings in the meadow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wren in the cherry-tree:</p> +<p>Come hither, thou little maiden,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And sit upon my knee;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And I will tell thee a story</p> +<p class='indent2'>I read in a book of rhyme;</p> +<p>I will but fain that it happened</p> +<p class='indent2'>To me, one summer-time,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span></p> +<p>When we walked through the meadow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And she and I were young.</p> +<p>The story is old and weary</p> +<p class='indent2'>With being said and sung.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The story is old and weary:</p> +<p class='indent2'>Ah, child! it is known to thee.</p> +<p>Who was it that last night kissed thee</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under the cherry-tree?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Like a bird of evil presage,</p> +<p class='indent2'>To the lonely house on the shore</p> +<p>Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And shrieked at the bolted door,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And flapped its wings in the gables,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And shouted the well-known names,</p> +<p>And buffeted the windows</p> +<p class='indent2'>Afeard in their shuddering frames.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It was night, and it is morning,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The summer sun is bland,</p> +<p>The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In to the summer land.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the sun so soft and bright,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span></p> +<p>And toss and play with the dead man</p> +<p class='indent2'>Drowned in the storm last night.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I remember the burning brushwood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Glimmering all day long</p> +<p>Yellow and weak in the sunlight,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Now leaped up red and strong,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And fired the old dead chestnut,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That all our years had stood,</p> +<p>Gaunt and gray and ghostly,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Apart from the sombre wood;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And, flushed with sudden summer,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The leafless boughs on high</p> +<p>Blossomed in dreadful beauty</p> +<p class='indent2'>Against the darkened sky.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We children sat telling stories,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And boasting what we should be,</p> +<p>When we were men like our fathers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And watched the blazing tree,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>That showered its fiery blossoms,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like a rain of stars, we said,</p> +<p>Of crimson and azure and purple.</p> +<p class='indent2'>That night, when I lay in bed,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span></p> +<p>I could not sleep for seeing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Whenever I closed my eyes,</p> +<p>The tree in its dazzling splendor</p> +<p class='indent2'>Against the darkened skies.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I cannot sleep for seeing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With closéd eyes to-night,</p> +<p>The tree in its dazzling splendor</p> +<p class='indent2'>Dropping its blossoms bright;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And old, old dreams of childhood</p> +<p class='indent2'>Come thronging my weary brain,</p> +<p>Dear, foolish beliefs and longings:</p> +<p class='indent2'>I doubt, are they real again?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That I either think or see:</p> +<p>The phantoms of dead illusions</p> +<p class='indent2'>To-night are haunting me.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span> +<a name='IN_AUGUST' id='IN_AUGUST'></a> +<h2>IN AUGUST.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>All the long August afternoon,</p> +<p class='indent4'>The little drowsy stream</p> +<p>Whispers a melancholy tune,</p> +<p>As if it dreamed of June</p> +<p class='indent4'>And whispered in its dream.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The thistles show beyond the brook</p> +<p class='indent4'>Dust on their down and bloom,</p> +<p>And out of many a weed-grown nook</p> +<p>The aster-flowérs look</p> +<p class='indent4'>With eyes of tender gloom.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The silent orchard aisles are sweet</p> +<p class='indent4'>With smell of ripening fruit.</p> +<p>Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,</p> +<p>Flutter, at coming feet,</p> +<p class='indent4'>The robins strange and mute.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>There is no wind to stir the leaves,</p> +<p class='indent4'>The harsh leaves overhead;</p> +<p>Only the querulous cricket grieves,</p> +<p>And shrilling locust weaves</p> +<p class='indent4'>A song of Summer dead.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span> +<a name='THE_EMPTY_HOUSE' id='THE_EMPTY_HOUSE'></a> +<h2>THE EMPTY HOUSE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The wet trees hang above the walks</p> +<p class='indent2'>Purple with damps and earthish stains,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And strewn by moody, absent rains</p> +<p>With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The ripe June-grass is wanton blown;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone;</p> +<p>Along the sills hang drowsy moths.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Down the blank visage of the wall,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where many a wavering trace appears,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like a forgotten trace of tears,</p> +<p>From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Where everything was wide before,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The curious wind, that comes and goes,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Finds all the latticed windows close,</p> +<p>Secret and close the bolted door.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And with the shrewd and curious wind,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That in the archéd doorway cries,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span></p> +<p class='indent2'>And at the bolted portal tries,</p> +<p>And harks and listens at the blind,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Forever lurks my thought about,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And in the ghostly middle-night</p> +<p class='indent2'>Finds all the hidden windows bright,</p> +<p>And sees the guests go in and out,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And lingers till the pallid dawn,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And feels the mystery deeper there</p> +<p class='indent2'>In silent, gust-swept chambers, bare,</p> +<p>With all the midnight revel gone;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But wanders through the lonesome rooms,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where harsh the astonished cricket calls,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And, from the hollows of the walls</p> +<p>Vanishing, start unshapen glooms;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And lingers yet, and cannot come</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the drear and desolate place,</p> +<p class='indent2'>So full of ruin’s solemn grace,</p> +<p>And haunted with the ghost of home.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span> +<a name='BUBBLES' id='BUBBLES'></a> +<h2>BUBBLES.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I stood on the brink in childhood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And watched the bubbles go</p> +<p>From the rock-fretted, sunny ripple</p> +<p class='indent2'>To the smoother tide below;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And over the white creek-bottom,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under them every one,</p> +<p>Went golden stars in the water,</p> +<p class='indent2'>All luminous with the sun.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But the bubbles broke on the surface,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And under, the stars of gold</p> +<p>Broke; and the hurrying water</p> +<p class='indent2'>Flowed onward, swift and cold.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I stood on the brink in manhood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And it came to my weary brain,</p> +<p>And my heart, so dull and heavy</p> +<p class='indent2'>After the years of pain,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span></p> +<p>That every hollowest bubble</p> +<p class='indent2'>Which over my life had passed</p> +<p>Still into its deeper current</p> +<p class='indent2'>Some heavenly gleam had cast;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>That, however I mocked it gayly,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And guessed at its hollowness,</p> +<p>Still shone, with each bursting bubble,</p> +<p class='indent2'>One star in my soul the less.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span> +<a name='LOST_BELIEFS' id='LOST_BELIEFS'></a> +<h2>LOST BELIEFS.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>One after one they left us;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The sweet birds out of our breasts</p> +<p>Went flying away in the morning:</p> +<p class='indent2'>Will they come again to their nests?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Will they come again at nightfall,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With God’s breath in their song?</p> +<p>Noon is fierce with the heats of summer,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And summer days are long!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O my Life, with thy upward liftings,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thy downward-striking roots,</p> +<p>Ripening out of thy tender blossoms</p> +<p class='indent2'>But hard and bitter fruits!––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In thy boughs there is no shelter</p> +<p class='indent2'>For the birds to seek again.</p> +<p>The desolate nest is broken</p> +<p class='indent2'>And torn with storms and rain!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span> +<a name='LOUIS_LEBEAUS_CONVERSION' id='LOUIS_LEBEAUS_CONVERSION'></a> +<h2>LOUIS LEBEAU’S CONVERSION.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva,</p> +<p>Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands,</p> +<p>And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance,</p> +<p>Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer,</p> +<p>Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,––</p> +<p>While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather,</p> +<p>Breathing air that was full of Old World sadness and beauty</p> +<p>Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio,</p> +<p>When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River</p> +<p>Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span></p> +<p class='indent2'>Pealed from the campanili, responding from island to island,</p> +<p>Bells of that ancient faith whose incense and solemn devotions</p> +<p>Rise from a hundred shrines in the broken heart of the city;</p> +<p>But in my revery heard I only the passionate voices</p> +<p>Of the people that sang in the virgin heart of the forest.</p> +<p>Autumn was in the land, and the trees were golden and crimson,</p> +<p>And from the luminous boughs of the over-elms and the maples</p> +<p>Tender and beautiful fell the light in the worshippers’ faces,</p> +<p>Softer than lights that stream through the saints on the windows of churches,</p> +<p>While the balsamy breath of the hemlocks and pines by the river</p> +<p>Stole on the winds through the woodland aisles like the breath of a censer.</p> +<p>Loud the people sang old camp-meeting anthems that quaver</p> +<p>Quaintly yet from lips forgetful of lips that have kissed them;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span></p> +<p>Loud they sang the songs of the Sacrifice and Atonement,</p> +<p>And of the end of the world, and the infinite terrors of Judgment:––</p> +<p>Songs of ineffable sorrow, and wailing, compassionate warning</p> +<p>Unto the generations that hardened their hearts to their Savior;</p> +<p>Songs of exultant rapture for them that confessed him and followed,</p> +<p>Bearing his burden and yoke, enduring and entering with him</p> +<p>Into the rest of his saints, and the endless reward of the blessed.</p> +<p>Loud the people sang; but through the sound of their singing</p> +<p>Broke inarticulate cries and moans and sobs from the mourners,</p> +<p>As the glory of God, that smote the apostle of Tarsus,</p> +<p>Smote them and strewed them to earth like leaves in the breath of the whirlwind.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Hushed at last was the sound of the lamentation and singing;</p> +<p>But from the distant hill the throbbing drum of the pheasant</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span></p> +<p>Shook with its heavy pulses the depths of the listening silence,</p> +<p>When from his place arose a white-haired exhorter, and faltered:</p> +<p>“Brethren and sisters in Jesus! the Lord hath heard our petitions,</p> +<p>So that the hearts of his servants are awed and melted within them,––</p> +<p>Even the hearts of the wicked are touched by his infinite mercy.</p> +<p>All my days in this vale of tears the Lord hath been with me,</p> +<p>He hath been good to me, he hath granted me trials and patience;</p> +<p>But this hour hath crowned my knowledge of him and his goodness.</p> +<p>Truly, but that it is well this day for me to be with you,</p> +<p>Now might I say to the Lord,––‘I know thee, my God, in all fulness;</p> +<p>Now let thy servant depart in peace to the rest thou hast promised!’”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Faltered and ceased. And now the wild and jubilant music</p> +<p>Of the singing burst from the solemn profound of the silence,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span></p> +<p>Surged in triumph, and fell, and ebbed again into silence.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Then from the group of the preachers arose the greatest among them,––</p> +<p>He whose days were given in youth to the praise of the Savior,</p> +<p>He whose lips seemed touched, like the prophet’s of old, from the altar,</p> +<p>So that his words were flame, and burned to the hearts of his hearers,</p> +<p>Quickening the dead among them, reviving the cold and the doubting.</p> +<p>There he charged them pray, and rest not from prayer while a sinner</p> +<p>In the sound of their voices denied the Friend of the sinner:</p> +<p>“Pray till the night shall fall,––till the stars are faint in the morning,––</p> +<p>Yea, till the sun himself be faint in that glory and brightness,</p> +<p>Faint in the light which shall dawn in mercy for penitent sinners.”</p> +<p>Kneeling, he led them in prayer; and the quick and sobbing responses</p> +<p>Spake how their souls were moved with the might and the grace of the Spirit.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span></p> +<p>Then while the converts recounted how God had chastened and saved them,––</p> +<p>Children, whose golden locks yet shone with the lingering effulgence</p> +<p>Of the touches of Him who blessed little children forever;</p> +<p>Old men, whose yearning eyes were dimmed with the far-streaming brightness</p> +<p>Seen through the opening gates in the heart of the heavenly city,––</p> +<p>Stealthily through the harking woods the lengthening shadows</p> +<p>Chased the wild things to their nests, and the twilight died into darkness.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Now the four great pyres that were placed there to light the encampment,</p> +<p>High on platforms raised above the people, were kindled.</p> +<p>Flaming aloof, as it were the pillar by night in the Desert</p> +<p>Fell their crimson light on the lifted orbs of the preachers,</p> +<p>Fell on the withered brows of the old men, and Israel’s mothers,</p> +<p>Fell on the bloom of youth, and the earnest devotion of manhood,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p> +<p>Fell on the anguish and hope in the tearful eyes of the mourners.</p> +<p>Flaming aloof, it stirred the sleep of the luminous maples</p> +<p>With warm summer-dreams, and faint, luxurious languor.</p> +<p>Near the four great pyres the people closed in a circle,</p> +<p>In their midst the mourners, and, praying with them, the exhorters,</p> +<p>And on the skirts of the circle the unrepentant and scorners,––</p> +<p>Ever fewer and sadder, and drawn to the place of the mourners,</p> +<p>One after one, by the prayers and tears of the brethren and sisters,</p> +<p>And by the Spirit of God, that was mightily striving within them,</p> +<p>Till at the last alone stood Louis Lebeau, unconverted.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Louis Lebeau, the boatman, the trapper, the hunter, the fighter,</p> +<p>From the unlucky French of Gallipolis he descended,</p> +<p>Heir to Old World want and New World love of adventure.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span></p> +<p>Vague was the life he led, and vague and grotesque were the rumors</p> +<p>Through which he loomed on the people,––the hero of mythical hearsay,</p> +<p>Quick of hand and of heart, impatient, generous, Western,</p> +<p>Taking the thought of the young in secret love and in envy.</p> +<p>Not less the elders shook their heads and held him for outcast,</p> +<p>Reprobate, roving, ungodly, infidel, worse than a Papist,</p> +<p>With his whispered fame of lawless exploits at St. Louis,</p> +<p>Wild affrays and loves with the half-breeds out on the Osage,</p> +<p>Brawls at New Orleans, and all the towns on the rivers,</p> +<p>All the godless towns of the many-ruffianed rivers.</p> +<p>Only she who loved him the best of all, in her loving</p> +<p>Knew him the best of all, and other than that of the rumors.</p> +<p>Daily she prayed for him, with conscious and tender effusion,</p> +<p>That the Lord would convert him. But when her father forbade him</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span></p> +<p>Unto her thought, she denied him, and likewise held him for outcast,</p> +<p>Turned her eyes when they met, and would not speak, though her heart broke.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Bitter and brief his logic that reasoned from wrong unto error:</p> +<p>“This is their praying and singing,” he said, “that makes you reject me,––</p> +<p>You that were kind to me once. But I think my fathers’ religion,</p> +<p>With a light heart in the breast and a friendly priest to absolve one,</p> +<p>Better than all these conversions that only bewilder and vex me,</p> +<p>And that have made men so hard and women fickle and cruel.</p> +<p>Well, then, pray for my soul, since you would not have spoken to save me,––</p> +<p>Yes; for I go from these saints to my brethren and sisters, the sinners.”</p> +<p>Spoke and went, while her faint lips fashioned unuttered entreaties,––</p> +<p>Went, and came again in a year at the time of the meeting,</p> +<p>Haggard and wan of face, and wasted with passion and sorrow.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span></p> +<p>Dead in his eyes was the careless smile of old, and its phantom</p> +<p>Haunted his lips in a sneer of restless, incredulous mocking.</p> +<p>Day by day he came to the outer skirts of the circle,</p> +<p>Dwelling on her, where she knelt by the white-haired exhorter, her father,</p> +<p>With his hollow looks, and never moved from his silence.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Now, where he stood alone, the last of impenitent sinners,</p> +<p>Weeping, old friends and comrades came to him out of the circle,</p> +<p>And with their tears besought him to hear what the Lord had done for them.</p> +<p>Ever he shook them off, not roughly, nor smiled at their transports.</p> +<p>Then the preachers spoke and painted the terrors of Judgment,</p> +<p>And of the bottomless pit, and the flames of hell everlasting.</p> +<p>Still and dark he stood, and neither listened nor heeded;</p> +<p>But when the fervent voice of the white-haired exhorter was lifted,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span></p> +<p>Fell his brows in a scowl of fierce and scornful rejection.</p> +<p>“Lord, let this soul be saved!” cried the fervent voice of the old man;</p> +<p>“For that the Shepherd rejoiceth more truly for one that hath wandered,</p> +<p>And hath been found again, than for all the others that strayed not.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the midst of the people, a woman old and decrepit,</p> +<p>Tremulous through the light, and tremulous into the shadow,</p> +<p>Wavered toward him with slow, uncertain paces of palsy,</p> +<p>Laid her quivering hand on his arm and brokenly prayed him:</p> +<p>“Louis Lebeau, I closed in death the eyes of your mother.</p> +<p>On my breast she died, in prayer for her fatherless children,</p> +<p>That they might know the Lord, and follow him always, and serve him.</p> +<p>O, I conjure you, my son, by the name of your mother in glory,</p> +<p>Scorn not the grace of the Lord!” As when a summer-noon’s tempest</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span></p> +<p>Breaks in one swift gush of rain, then ceases and gathers</p> +<p>Darker and gloomier yet on the lowering front of the heavens,</p> +<p>So broke his mood in tears, as he soothed her, and stilled her entreaties,</p> +<p>And so he turned again with his clouded looks to the people.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Vibrated then from the hush the accents of mournfullest pity,––</p> +<p>His who was gifted in speech, and the glow of the fires illumined</p> +<p>All his pallid aspect with sudden and marvellous splendor:</p> +<p>“Louis Lebeau,” he spake, “I have known you and loved you from childhood;</p> +<p>Still, when the others blamed you, I took your part, for I knew you.</p> +<p>Louis Lebeau, my brother, I thought to meet you in heaven,</p> +<p>Hand in hand with her who is gone to heaven before us,</p> +<p>Brothers through her dear love! I trusted to greet you and lead you</p> +<p>Up from the brink of the River unto the gates of the City.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span></p> +<p>Lo! my years shall be few on the earth. O my brother,</p> +<p>If I should die before you had known the mercy of Jesus,</p> +<p>Yea, I think it would sadden the hope of glory within me!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Neither yet had the will of the sinner yielded an answer;</p> +<p>But from his lips there broke a cry of unspeakable anguish,</p> +<p>Wild and fierce and shrill, as if some demon within him</p> +<p>Bent his soul with the ultimate pangs of fiendish possession;</p> +<p>And with the outstretched arms of bewildered imploring toward them,</p> +<p>Death-white unto the people he turned his face from the darkness.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the sedge by the creek a flight of clamorous killdees</p> +<p>Rose from their timorous sleep with piercing and iterant challenge,</p> +<p>Wheeled in the starlight, and fled away into distance and silence.</p> +<p>White in the vale lay the tents, and beyond them glided the river,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span></p> +<p>Where the broadhorn<a name='FNanchor_0001' id='FNanchor_0001'></a><a href='#Footnote_0001' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> drifted slow at the will of the current,</p> +<p>And where the boatman listened, and knew not how, as he listened,</p> +<p>Something touched through the years the old lost hopes of his childhood,––</p> +<p>Only his sense was filled with low, monotonous murmurs,</p> +<p>As of a faint-heard prayer, that was chorused with deeper responses.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Not with the rest was lifted her voice in the fervent responses,</p> +<p>But in her soul she prayed to Him that heareth in secret,</p> +<p>Asking for light and for strength to learn his will and to do it:</p> +<p>“O, make me clear to know if the hope that rises within me</p> +<p>Be not part of a love unmeet for me here, and forbidden!</p> +<p>So, if it be not that, make me strong for the evil entreaty</p> +<p>Of the days that shall bring me question of self and reproaches,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span></p> +<p>When the unrighteous shall mock, and my brethren and sisters shall doubt me!</p> +<p>Make me worthy to know thy will, my Savior, and do it!”</p> +<p>In her pain she prayed, and at last, through her mute adoration,</p> +<p>Rapt from all mortal presence, and in her rapture uplifted,</p> +<p>Glorified she rose, and stood in the midst of the people,</p> +<p>Looking on all with the still, unseeing eyes of devotion,––</p> +<p>Vague, and tender, and sweet, as the eyes of the dead, when we dream them</p> +<p>Living and looking on us, but they cannot speak, and we cannot,––</p> +<p>Knowing only the peril that threatened his soul’s unrepentance,</p> +<p>Knowing only the fear and error and wrong that withheld him,</p> +<p>Thinking, “In doubt of me, his soul had perished forever!”</p> +<p>Touched with no feeble shame, but trusting her power to save him,</p> +<p>Through the circle she passed, and straight to the side of her lover,</p> +<p>Took his hand in her own, and mutely implored him an instant,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span></p> +<p>Answering, giving, forgiving, confessing, beseeching him all things;</p> +<p>Drew him then with her, and passed once more through the circle</p> +<p>Unto her place, and knelt with him there by the side of her father,</p> +<p>Trembling as women tremble who greatly venture and triumph,––</p> +<p>But in her innocent breast was the saint’s sublime exultation.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>So was Louis converted; and though the lips of the scorners</p> +<p>Spared not in after years the subtle taunt and derision</p> +<p>(What time, meeker grown, his heart held his hand from its answer),</p> +<p>Not the less lofty and pure her love and her faith that had saved him,</p> +<p>Not the less now discerned was her inspiration from heaven</p> +<p>By the people, that rose, and embracing and weeping together,</p> +<p>Poured forth their jubilant songs of victory and of thanksgiving,</p> +<p>Till from the embers leaped the dying flame to behold them,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span></p> +<p>And the hills of the river were filled with reverberant echoes,––</p> +<p>Echoes that out of the years and the distance stole to me hither,</p> +<p>While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather;</p> +<p>Echoes that mingled and fainted and fell with the fluttering murmurs</p> +<p>In the hearts of the hushing bells, as from island to island</p> +<p>Swooned the sound on the wide lagoons into palpitant silence.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='fn' /> +<p>FOOTNOTE:</p> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0001' id='Footnote_0001'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0001'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p>The old-fashioned flatboats were so called.</p> +</div> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span> +<a name='CAPRICE' id='CAPRICE'></a> +<h2>CAPRICE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She hung the cage at the window:</p> +<p class='indent2'>“If he goes by,” she said,</p> +<p>“He will hear my robin singing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And when he lifts his head,</p> +<p>I shall be sitting here to sew,</p> +<p>And he will bow to me, I know.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The robin sang a love-sweet song,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The young man raised his head;</p> +<p>The maiden turned away and blushed:</p> +<p class='indent2'>“I am a fool!” she said,</p> +<p>And went on broidering in silk</p> +<p>A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The young man loitered slowly</p> +<p class='indent2'>By the house three times that day;</p> +<p>She took her bird from the window:</p> +<p class='indent2'>“He need not look this way.”</p> +<p>She sat at her piano long,</p> +<p>And sighed, and played a death-sad song.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span></p> +<p>But when the day was done, she said,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“I wish that he would come!</p> +<p>Remember, Mary, if he calls</p> +<p class='indent2'>To-night––I’m not at home.”</p> +<p>So when he rang, she went––the elf!––</p> +<p>She went and let him in herself.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>They sang full long together</p> +<p class='indent2'>Their songs love-sweet, death-sad;</p> +<p>The robin woke from his slumber,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And rang out, clear and glad.</p> +<p>“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late;”</p> +<p>And followed him––to latch the gate.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He took the rosebud from her hair,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While, “You shall not!” she said;</p> +<p>He closed her hand within his own,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And, while her tongue forbade,</p> +<p>Her will was darkened in the eclipse</p> +<p>Of blinding love upon his lips.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span> +<a name='SWEET_CLOVER' id='SWEET_CLOVER'></a> +<h2>SWEET CLOVER.</h2> +</div> +<blockquote> +<p class='center'>“... My letters back to me.”</p> +</blockquote> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I know they won the faint perfume,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That to their faded pages clings,</p> +<p class='indent2'>From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and things</p> +<p>Kept in the soft and scented gloom</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Of some mysterious box––poor leaves</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of summer, now as sere and dead</p> +<p class='indent2'>As any leaves of summer shed</p> +<p>From crimson boughs when autumn grieves!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrill</p> +<p class='indent2'>All through with such delicious pain</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of soul and sense, to breathe again</p> +<p>The sweet that haunted memory still.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And under these December skies,</p> +<p class='indent2'>As bland as May’s in other climes,</p> +<p class='indent2'>I move, and muse my idle rhymes</p> +<p>And subtly sentimentalize.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span></p> +<p>I hear the music that was played,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The songs that silence knows by heart!––</p> +<p class='indent2'>I see sweet burlesque feigning art,</p> +<p>The careless grace that curved and swayed</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through dances and through breezy walks;</p> +<p class='indent2'>I feel once more the eyes that smiled,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And that dear presence that beguiled</p> +<p>The pauses of the foolish talks,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>When this poor phantom of perfume</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was the Sweet Clover’s living soul,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And breathed from her as if it stole,</p> +<p>Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We have not many ways with pain:</p> +<p class='indent2'>We weep weak tears, or else we laugh;</p> +<p class='indent2'>I doubt, not less the cup we quaff,</p> +<p>And tears and scorn alike are vain.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But let me live my quiet life;</p> +<p class='indent2'>I will not vex my calm with grief,</p> +<p class='indent2'>I only know the pang was brief,</p> +<p>And there an end of hope and strife.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span></p> +<p>And thou? I put the letters by:</p> +<p class='indent2'>In years the sweetness shall not pass;</p> +<p class='indent2'>More than the perfect blossom was</p> +<p>I count its lingering memory.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Alas! with Time dear Love is dead,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And not with Fate. And who can guess</p> +<p class='indent2'>How weary of our happiness</p> +<p>We might have been if we were wed?</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='pinfo'>Venice.</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span> +<a name='THE_ROYAL_PORTRAITS_AT_LUDWIGSHOF' id='THE_ROYAL_PORTRAITS_AT_LUDWIGSHOF'></a> +<h2>THE ROYAL PORTRAITS.</h2> +<h3>(AT LUDWIGSHOF.)</h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Confronting each other the pictures stare</p> +<p class='indent2'>Into each other’s sleepless eyes;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the daylight into the darkness dies,</p> +<p>From year to year in the palace there:</p> +<p class='indent2'>But they watch and guard that no device</p> +<p>Take either one of them unaware.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Their majesties the king and the queen,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The parents of the reigning prince:</p> +<p class='indent2'>Both put off royalty many years since,</p> +<p>With life and the gifts that have always been</p> +<p class='indent2'>Given to kings from God, to evince</p> +<p>His sense of the mighty over the mean.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I cannot say that I like the face</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the king; it is something fat and red;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the neck that lifts the royal head</p> +<p>Is thick and coarse; and a scanty grace</p> +<p class='indent2'>Dwells in the dull blue eyes that are laid</p> +<p>Sullenly on the queen in her place.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span></p> +<p>He must have been a king in his day</p> +<p class='indent2'>’Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:</p> +<p class='indent2'>One of the heaven-anointed sort</p> +<p>Who ruled his people with iron sway,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And knew that, through good and evil report,</p> +<p>God meant him to rule and them to obey.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>There are many other likenesses</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the king in his royal palace there;</p> +<p class='indent2'>You find him depicted everywhere,––</p> +<p>In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,––</p> +<p>A king in all of them, none the less;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But most himself in this on the wall</p> +<p class='indent2'>Over against his consort, whose</p> +<p class='indent2'>Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes</p> +<p>Make her the finest lady of all</p> +<p class='indent2'>The queens or courtly dames you choose,</p> +<p>In the ancestral portrait hall.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A glorious blonde: a luxury</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of luring blue and wanton gold,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,</p> +<p>Of lines that flow voluptuously</p> +<p class='indent2'>In tender, languorous curves to fold</p> +<p>Her form in perfect symmetry.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span></p> +<p>She might have been false. Of her withered dust</p> +<p class='indent2'>There scarcely would be enough to write</p> +<p class='indent2'>Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right</p> +<p>To our lenient doubt if not to our trust:</p> +<p class='indent2'>So if the truth cannot make her white,</p> +<p>Let us be as merciful as we––must.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The queen died first, the queen died young,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But the king was very old when he died,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;</p> +<p>And the usual Virtues came and hung</p> +<p class='indent2'>Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide</p> +<p>Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>How the queen died is not certainly known,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And faithful subjects are all forbid</p> +<p class='indent2'>To speak of the murder which some one did</p> +<p>One night while she slept in the dark alone:</p> +<p class='indent2'>History keeps the story hid,</p> +<p>And Fear only tells it in undertone.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Up from your startled feet aloof,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound</p> +<p class='indent2'>Leaps the echo, and round and round</p> +<p>Beating itself against the roof,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,––</p> +<p>Dies ere its terror can utter proof</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span></p> +<p>Of that it knows. A door is fast,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And none is suffered to enter there.</p> +<p class='indent2'>His sacred majesty could not bear</p> +<p>To look at it toward the last,</p> +<p class='indent2'>As he grew very old. It opened where</p> +<p>The queen died young so many years past.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>How the queen died is not certainly known;</p> +<p class='indent2'>But in the palace’s solitude</p> +<p class='indent2'>A harking dread and horror brood,</p> +<p>And a silence, as if a mortal groan</p> +<p class='indent2'>Had been hushed the moment before, and would</p> +<p>Break forth again when you were gone.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The present king has never dwelt</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the desolate palace. From year to year</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the wide and stately garden drear</p> +<p>The snows and the snowy blossoms melt</p> +<p class='indent2'>Unheeded, and a ghastly fear</p> +<p>Through all the shivering leaves is felt.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>By night the gathering shadows creep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Along the dusk and hollow halls,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the slumber-broken palace calls</p> +<p>With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And then the ghostly moonlight falls</p> +<p>Athwart the darkness brown and deep.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span></p> +<p>At early dawn the light wind sighs,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And through the desert garden blows</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wasted sweetness of the rose;</p> +<p>At noon the feverish sunshine lies</p> +<p class='indent2'>Sick in the walks. But at evening’s close,</p> +<p>When the last, long rays to the windows rise,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak</p> +<p class='indent2'>Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur</p> +<p class='indent2'>His cruel vigilance and her</p> +<p>Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak</p> +<p class='indent2'>A hopeless hate that cannot stir,</p> +<p>A voiceless hate that cannot speak</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And as if she saw her murderer glare</p> +<p class='indent2'>On her face, and he the white despair</p> +<p>Of his victim kindle in wild surmise,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Confronted the conscious pictures stare,––</p> +<p>And their secret back into darkness dies.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span> +<a name='THE_FAITHFUL_OF_THE_GONZAGA' id='THE_FAITHFUL_OF_THE_GONZAGA'></a> +<h2>THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.<a name='FNanchor_0002' id='FNanchor_0002'></a><a href='#Footnote_0002' class='fnanchor'>[2]</a></h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Federigo, the son of the Marquis,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Downcast, through the garden goes:</p> +<p>He is hurt with the grace of the lily,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the beauty of the rose.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For what is the grace of the lily</p> +<p class='indent2'>But her own slender grace?</p> +<p>And what is the rose’s beauty</p> +<p class='indent2'>But the beauty of her face?––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Who sits beside her window</p> +<p class='indent2'>Waiting to welcome him,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span></p> +<p>That comes so lothly toward her</p> +<p class='indent2'>With his visage sick and dim.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!</p> +<p class='indent2'>Ah! rose, a bitter rain</p> +<p>Of tears shall beat thy light out</p> +<p class='indent2'>That thou never burn again!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Federigo, the son of the Marquis,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Takes the lady by the hand:</p> +<p>“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,</p> +<p class='indent2'>For I leave my native land.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“From Mantua to-morrow</p> +<p class='indent2'>I go, a banished man;</p> +<p>Make me glad for truth and love’s sake</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of my father’s curse and ban.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Our quarrel has left my mother</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like death upon the floor;</p> +<p>And I come from a furious presence</p> +<p class='indent2'>I never shall enter more.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“I would not wed the woman</p> +<p class='indent2'>He had chosen for my bride,</p> +<p>For my heart had been before him,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With his statecraft and his pride.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span></p> +<p>“I swore to him by my princehood</p> +<p class='indent2'>In my love I would be free;</p> +<p>And I swear to thee by my manhood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>I love no one but thee.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Let the Duke of Bavaria marry</p> +<p class='indent2'>His daughter to whom he will:</p> +<p>There where my love was given</p> +<p class='indent2'>My word shall be faithful still.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“There are six true hearts will follow</p> +<p class='indent2'>My truth wherever I go,</p> +<p>And thou equal truth wilt keep me</p> +<p class='indent2'>In welfare and in woe.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The maiden answered him nothing</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of herself, but his words again</p> +<p>Came back through her lips like an echo</p> +<p class='indent2'>From an abyss of pain;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And vacantly repeating</p> +<p class='indent2'>“In welfare and in woe,”</p> +<p>Like a dream from the heart of fever</p> +<p class='indent2'>From her arms she felt him go.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Out of Mantua’s gate at daybreak</p> +<p class='indent2'>Seven comrades wander forth</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span></p> +<p>On a path that leads at their humor,</p> +<p class='indent2'>East, west, or south, or north.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The prince’s laugh rings lightly,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“What road shall we take from home?”</p> +<p>And they answer, “We never shall lose it</p> +<p class='indent2'>If we take the road to Rome.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And with many a jest and banter</p> +<p class='indent2'>The comrades keep their way,</p> +<p>Journeying out of the twilight</p> +<p class='indent2'>Forward into the day,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>When they are aware beside them</p> +<p class='indent2'>Goes a pretty minstrel lad,</p> +<p>With a shy and downward aspect,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That is neither sad nor glad.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Over his slender shoulder,</p> +<p class='indent2'>His mandolin was slung,</p> +<p>And around its chords the treasure</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of his golden tresses hung.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Spoke one of the seven companions,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“Little minstrel, whither away?”––</p> +<p>“With seven true-hearted comrades</p> +<p class='indent2'>On their journey, if I may.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span></p> +<p>Spoke one of the seven companions,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“If our way be hard and long?”––</p> +<p>“I will lighten it with my music</p> +<p class='indent2'>And shorten it with my song.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Spoke one of the seven companions,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“But what are the songs thou know’st?”––</p> +<p>“O, I know many a ditty,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But this I sing the most:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“How once was an humble maiden</p> +<p class='indent2'>Beloved of a great lord’s son,</p> +<p>That for her sake and his troth’s sake</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was banished and undone.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“And forth of his father’s city</p> +<p class='indent2'>He went at break of day,</p> +<p>And the maiden softly followed</p> +<p class='indent2'>Behind him on the way</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“In the figure of a minstrel,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And prayed him of his love,</p> +<p>‘Let me go with thee and serve thee</p> +<p class='indent2'>Wherever thou may’st rove.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“‘For if thou goest in exile</p> +<p class='indent2'>I rest banished at home,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span></p> +<p>And where thou wanderest with thee</p> +<p class='indent2'>My fears in anguish roam,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“‘Besetting thy path with perils,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Making thee hungry and cold,</p> +<p>Filling thy heart with trouble</p> +<p class='indent2'>And heaviness untold.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“‘But let me go beside thee,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And banishment shall be</p> +<p>Honor, and riches, and country,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And home to thee and me!’”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Down falls the minstrel-maiden</p> +<p class='indent2'>Before the Marquis’ son,</p> +<p>And the six true-hearted comrades</p> +<p class='indent2'>Bow round them every one.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Federigo, the son of the Marquis,</p> +<p class='indent2'>From its scabbard draws his sword:</p> +<p>“Now swear by the honor and fealty</p> +<p class='indent2'>Ye bear your friend and lord,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“That whenever, and wherever,</p> +<p class='indent2'>As long as ye have life,</p> +<p>Ye will honor and serve this lady</p> +<p class='indent2'>As ye would your prince’s wife!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span></p> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Over the broad expanses</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of garlanded Lombardy,</p> +<p>Where the gentle vines are swinging</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the orchards from tree to tree;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through Padua from Verona,</p> +<p class='indent2'>From the sculptured gothic town,</p> +<p>Carved from ruin upon ruin,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And ancienter than renown;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through Padua from Verona</p> +<p class='indent2'>To fair Venice, where she stands</p> +<p>With her feet on subject waters,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lady of many lands;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From Venice by sea to Ancona;</p> +<p class='indent2'>From Ancona to the west;</p> +<p>Climbing many a gardened hillside</p> +<p class='indent2'>And many a castled crest;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through valleys dim with the twilight</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of their gray olive trees;</p> +<p>Over plains that swim with harvests</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like golden noonday seas;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Whence the lofty campanili</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like the masts of ships arise,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span></p> +<p>And like a fleet at anchor</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under them, the village lies;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To Florence beside her Arno,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In her many-marbled pride,</p> +<p>Crowned with infamy and glory</p> +<p class='indent2'>By the sons she has denied;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To pitiless Pisa, where never</p> +<p class='indent2'>Since the anguish of Ugolin</p> +<p>The moon in the Tower of Famine<a name='FNanchor_0003' id='FNanchor_0003'></a><a href='#Footnote_0003' class='fnanchor'>[3]</a></p> +<p class='indent2'>Fate so dread as his hath seen;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Out through the gates of Pisa</p> +<p class='indent2'>To Livorno on her bay,</p> +<p>To Genoa and to Naples</p> +<p class='indent2'>The comrades hold their way,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Past the fortressed Ghibelline,</p> +<p>Through lands that reek with slaughter,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Treason, and shame, and sin;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span></p> +<p>By desert, by sea, by city,</p> +<p class='indent2'>High hill-cope and temple-dome,</p> +<p>Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Upon the road to Rome;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>While every land behind them</p> +<p class='indent2'>Forgets them as they go,</p> +<p>And in Mantua they are remembered</p> +<p class='indent2'>As is the last year’s snow;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But the Marchioness goes to her chamber</p> +<p class='indent2'>Day after day to weep,––</p> +<p>For the changeless heart of a mother</p> +<p class='indent2'>The love of a son must keep.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The Marchioness weeps in her chamber</p> +<p class='indent2'>Over tidings that come to her</p> +<p>Of the exiles she seeks, by letter</p> +<p class='indent2'>And by lips of messenger,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Comfortless, vague, and slight,––</p> +<p>Like feathers wafted backwards</p> +<p class='indent2'>From passage birds in flight.<a name='FNanchor_0004' id='FNanchor_0004'></a><a href='#Footnote_0004' class='fnanchor'>[4]</a></p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span></p> +<p>The tale of a drunken sailor,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In whose ship they went to sea;</p> +<p>A traveller’s evening story</p> +<p class='indent2'>At a village hostelry,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Of certain comrades sent him</p> +<p class='indent2'>By our Lady, of her grace,</p> +<p>To save his life from robbers</p> +<p class='indent2'>In a lonely desert place;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Word from the monks of a convent</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of gentle comrades that lay</p> +<p>One stormy night at their convent,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And passed with the storm at day;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The long parley of a peasant</p> +<p class='indent2'>That sold them wine and food,</p> +<p>The gossip of a shepherd</p> +<p class='indent2'>That guided them through a wood;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A boatman’s talk at the ferry</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of a river where they crossed,</p> +<p>And as if they had sunk in the current</p> +<p class='indent2'>All trace of them was lost;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And so is an end of tidings</p> +<p class='indent2'>But never an end of tears,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span></p> +<p>Of secret and friendless sorrow</p> +<p class='indent2'>Through blank and silent years.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To the Marchioness in her chamber</p> +<p class='indent2'>Sends word a messenger,</p> +<p>Newly come from the land of Naples,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Praying for speech with her.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The messenger stands before her,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A minstrel slender and wan:</p> +<p>“In a village of my country</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lies a Mantuan gentleman,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Sick of a smouldering fever,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of sorrow and poverty;</p> +<p>And no one in all that country</p> +<p class='indent2'>Knows his title or degree.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“But six true Mantuan peasants,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Or nobles, as some men say,</p> +<p>Watch by the sick man’s bedside,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And toil for him, night and day,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Bearing burdens, and far and nigh</p> +<p>Begging for him on the highway</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the strangers that pass by;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span></p> +<p>“And they look whenever you meet them</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like broken-hearted men,</p> +<p>And I heard that the sick man would not</p> +<p class='indent2'>If he could, be well again;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“For they say that he for love’s sake</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was gladly banishèd,</p> +<p>But she for whom he was banished</p> +<p class='indent2'>Is worse to him, now, than dead,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“A recreant to his sorrow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A traitress to his woe.”</p> +<p>From her place the Marchioness rises,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The minstrel turns to go.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But fast by the hand she takes him,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>His hand in her clasp is cold,––</p> +<p>“If gold may be thy guerdon</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thou shalt not lack for gold;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“And if the love of a mother</p> +<p class='indent2'>Can bless thee for that thou hast done,</p> +<p>Thou shalt stay and be his brother,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thou shalt stay and be my son.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And his face is deadly pale,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span></p> +<p>“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But let my words prevail.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Let me go now from your presence,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And I will come again,</p> +<p>When you stand with your son beside you,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And be your servant then.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga</p> +<p class='indent2'>Kneels his lady on the floor;</p> +<p>“Lord, grant me before I ask it</p> +<p class='indent2'>The thing that I implore.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“So it be not of that ingrate.”––</p> +<p class='indent2'>“Nay, lord, it is of him.”</p> +<p>’Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis</p> +<p class='indent2'>His eyes are tender and dim.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Near unto death, as they tell,</p> +<p>In his need and pain forsaken</p> +<p class='indent2'>By the wanton he loved so well.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Now send for him and forgive him,</p> +<p class='indent2'>If ever thou loved’st me,</p> +<p>Now send for him and forgive him</p> +<p class='indent2'>As God shall be good to thee.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span></p> +<p>“Well so,––if he turn in repentance</p> +<p class='indent2'>And bow himself to my will;</p> +<p>That the high-born lady I chose him</p> +<p class='indent2'>May be my daughter still.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In Mantua there is feasting</p> +<p class='indent2'>For the Marquis’ grace to his son;</p> +<p>In Mantua there is rejoicing</p> +<p class='indent2'>For the prince come back to his own.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The pomp of a wedding procession</p> +<p class='indent2'>Pauses under the pillared porch,</p> +<p>With silken rustle and whisper,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Before the door of the church.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom</p> +<p class='indent2'>Stands with his high-born bride;</p> +<p>The six true-hearted comrades</p> +<p class='indent2'>Are three on either side.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The bridegroom is gray as his father,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where they stand face to face,</p> +<p>And the six true-hearted comrades</p> +<p class='indent2'>Are like old men in their place.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The Marquis takes the comrades</p> +<p class='indent2'>And kisses them one by one:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span></p> +<p>“That ye were fast and faithful</p> +<p class='indent2'>And better than I to my son,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Ye shall be called forever,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the sign that ye were so true,</p> +<p>The Faithful of the Gonzaga,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And your sons after you.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To the Marchioness comes a courtier:</p> +<p class='indent2'>“I am prayed to bring you word</p> +<p>That the minstrel keeps his promise</p> +<p class='indent2'>Who brought you news of my lord;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“And he waits without the circle</p> +<p class='indent2'>To kiss your highness’ hand;</p> +<p>And he asks no gold for guerdon,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But before he leaves the land</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“He craves of your love once proffered</p> +<p class='indent2'>That you suffer him for reward,</p> +<p>In this crowning hour of his glory,</p> +<p class='indent2'>To look on your son, my lord.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Through the silken press of the courtiers</p> +<p class='indent2'>The minstrel faltered in.</p> +<p>His claspèd hands were bloodless,</p> +<p class='indent2'>His face was white and thin;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span></p> +<p>And he bent his knee to the lady,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But of her love and grace</p> +<p>To her heart she raised him and kissed him</p> +<p class='indent2'>Upon his gentle face.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Turned to her son the bridegroom,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Turned to his high-born wife,</p> +<p>“I give you here for your brother</p> +<p class='indent2'>Who gave back my son to life.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“For this youth brought me news from Naples</p> +<p class='indent2'>How thou layest sick and poor,</p> +<p>By true comrades kept, and forsaken</p> +<p class='indent2'>By a false paramour.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Wherefore I charge you love him</p> +<p class='indent2'>For a brother that is my son.”</p> +<p>The comrades turned to the bridegroom</p> +<p class='indent2'>In silence every one.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel</p> +<p class='indent2'>With a visage blank and changed,</p> +<p>As his whom the sight of a spectre</p> +<p class='indent2'>From his reason hath estranged;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the smiling courtiers near them</p> +<p class='indent2'>On a sudden were still as death;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span></p> +<p>And, subtly-stricken, the people</p> +<p class='indent2'>Hearkened and held their breath</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>With an awe uncomprehended</p> +<p class='indent2'>For an unseen agony:––</p> +<p>Who is this that lies a-dying,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With her head on the prince’s knee?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A light of anguish and wonder</p> +<p class='indent2'>Is in the prince’s eye,</p> +<p>“O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Or I cannot let thee die!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“For now I see thy hardness</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was softer than mortal ruth,</p> +<p>And thy heavenly guile was whiter,</p> +<p class='indent2'>My saint, than martyr’s truth.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She speaks not and she moves not,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But a blessed brightness lies</p> +<p>On her lips in their silent rapture</p> +<p class='indent2'>And her tender closèd eyes.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Federigo, the son of the Marquis,</p> +<p class='indent2'>He rises from his knee:</p> +<p>“Aye, you have been good, my father,</p> +<p class='indent2'>To them that were good to me.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span></p> +<p>“You have given them honors and titles,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But here lies one unknown––</p> +<p>Ah, God reward her in heaven</p> +<p class='indent2'>With the peace he gives his own!”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='fn' /> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0002' id='Footnote_0002'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0002'><span class='label'>[2]</span></a> +<p>The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident +love-story to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, +which occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident +so nearly as he found it in the <i>Cronache Montovane</i>, that +he is ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed +in it. The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis +of Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored +by his subjects.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0003' id='Footnote_0003'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0003'><span class='label'>[3]</span></a> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda,</p> +<p class='indent2'>La qual per me ha il titol della fame</p> +<p class='indent2'>E in che conviene ancor ch’altri si chiuda,</p> +<p>M’avea mostrato per lo suo forame</p> +<p class='indent2'>Piu lune gia.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='ralign'><span class='smcap'>Dante</span>, <i>L’Inferno</i>.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +</div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0004' id='Footnote_0004'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0004'><span class='label'>[4]</span></a> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>“As a feather is wafted downward</p> +<p class='indent2'>From an eagle in its flight.”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +</div> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span> +<a name='THE_FIRST_CRICKET' id='THE_FIRST_CRICKET'></a> +<h2>THE FIRST CRICKET.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,––</p> +<p>Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining,</p> +<p class='indent2'>All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,</p> +<p>Yet with th’ unconscious earth’s boded evil my soul thou dost cumber,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And in the year’s lost youth makest me still lose my own.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span></p> +<p>And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thou wilt again give me all,––dew and fragrance and bloom?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,</p> +<p>Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and––himself:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.</p> +<p>Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span> +<a name='THE_MULBERRIES' id='THE_MULBERRIES'></a> +<h2>THE MULBERRIES.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On the Rialto Bridge we stand;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The street ebbs under and makes no sound;</p> +<p>But, with bargains shrieked on every hand,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The noisy market rings around.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“<i>Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!</i>”</p> +<p class='indent2'>A tuneful voice,––and light, light measure;</p> +<p>Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,</p> +<p class='indent2'>If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves</p> +<p>Hiding the berries beneath them;––good!</p> +<p class='indent2'>Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For you know, old friend, I haven’t eaten</p> +<p class='indent2'>A mulberry since the ignorant joy</p> +<p>Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten</p> +<p class='indent2'>All this bitter world for a boy.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span></p> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood</p> +<p class='indent2'>By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof</p> +<p>On its branches, this side of the girdled wood,</p> +<p class='indent2'>I could see the top of our cabin roof.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And, looking westward, could sweep the shores</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the river where we used to swim</p> +<p>Under the ghostly sycamores,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Haunting the waters smooth and dim;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And eastward athwart the pasture-lot</p> +<p class='indent2'>And over the milk-white buckwheat field</p> +<p>I could see the stately elm, where I shot</p> +<p class='indent2'>The first black squirrel I ever killed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And southward over the bottom-land</p> +<p class='indent2'>I could see the mellow breadths of farm</p> +<p>From the river-shores to the hills expand,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Clasped in the curving river’s arm.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the fields we set our guileless snares</p> +<p class='indent2'>For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,</p> +<p>Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs</p> +<p class='indent2'>From doubtful wings and vanished tails.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And in the blue summer afternoon</p> +<p class='indent2'>We used to sit in the mulberry-tree:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span></p> +<p>The breaths of wind that remembered June</p> +<p class='indent2'>Shook the leaves and glittering berries free;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And while we watched the wagons go</p> +<p class='indent2'>Across the river, along the road,</p> +<p>To the mill above, or the mill below,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With horses that stooped to the heavy load,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We told old stories and made new plans,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And felt our hearts gladden within us again,</p> +<p>For we did not dream that this life of a man’s</p> +<p class='indent2'>Could ever be what we know as men.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We sat so still that the woodpeckers came</p> +<p class='indent2'>And pillaged the berries overhead;</p> +<p>From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Peered, and listened to what we said.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>One of us long ago was carried</p> +<p class='indent2'>To his grave on the hill above the tree;</p> +<p>One is a farmer there, and married;</p> +<p class='indent2'>One has wandered over the sea.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And, if you ask me, I hardly know</p> +<p class='indent2'>Whether I’d be the dead or the clown,––</p> +<p>The clod above or the clay below,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>Or this listless dust by fortune blown</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span></p> +<p>To alien lands. For, however it is,</p> +<p class='indent2'>So little we keep with us in life:</p> +<p>At best we win only victories,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But if I could turn from the long defeat</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the little successes once more, and be</p> +<p>A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the will that cannot itself awaken,</p> +<p>From the promise the future can never keep,</p> +<p class='indent2'>From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrill</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the grass beneath the blanching thistle,</p> +<p>And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Harked to the quail’s complaining whistle,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah me! should I paint the morrows again</p> +<p class='indent2'>In quite the colors so faint to-day,</p> +<p>And with the imperial mulberry’s stain</p> +<p class='indent2'>Re-purple life’s doublet of hodden-gray?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Know again the losses of disillusion?</p> +<p class='indent2'>For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span></p> +<p>In spite of the question’s bitter infusion,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Don’t you find these mulberries over-sweet?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>All our atoms are changed, they say;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the taste is so different since then;</p> +<p>We live, but a world has passed away</p> +<p class='indent2'>With the years that perished to make us men.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span> +<a name='BEFORE_THE_GATE' id='BEFORE_THE_GATE'></a> +<h2>BEFORE THE GATE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>They gave the whole long day to idle laughter,</p> +<p class='indent2'>To fitful song and jest,</p> +<p>To moods of soberness as idle, after,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And silences, as idle too as the rest.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But when at last upon their way returning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Taciturn, late, and loath,</p> +<p>Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish</p> +<p class='indent2'>Such as but women know</p> +<p>That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And what they would, would rather they would not so;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Till he said,––man-like nothing comprehending</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of all the wondrous guile</p> +<p>That women won win themselves with, and bending</p> +<p class='indent2'>Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span></p> +<p>“Ah, if beyond this gate the path united</p> +<p class='indent2'>Our steps as far as death,</p> +<p>And I might open it!––” His voice, affrighted</p> +<p class='indent2'>At its own daring, faltered under his breath.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then she––whom both his faith and fear enchanted</p> +<p class='indent2'>Far beyond words to tell,</p> +<p>Feeling her woman’s finest wit had wanted</p> +<p class='indent2'>The art he had that knew to blunder so well––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“Shall we not be too late</p> +<p>For tea?” she said. “I’m quite worn out with walking:</p> +<p class='indent2'>Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you––open the gate?”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span> +<a name='CLEMENT' id='CLEMENT'></a> +<h2>CLEMENT.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,</p> +<p>Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,</p> +<p>Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying</p> +<p>All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;</p> +<p>Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,</p> +<p>But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,</p> +<p>Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;</p> +<p>And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,</p> +<p>And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;</p> +<p>When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,</p> +<p>Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span></p> +<p>When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,</p> +<p>And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;</p> +<p>When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,</p> +<p>And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,––</p> +<p>Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!</p> +<p>That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,</p> +<p>Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor</p> +<p>Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,</p> +<p>Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,</p> +<p>Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.</p> +<p>Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded</p> +<p>Hands, that held a few sad asters: “I sigh for this idyl</p> +<p>Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,”</p> +<p>With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span></p> +<p>“Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened</p> +<p>Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together</p> +<p>Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;</p> +<p>All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit</p> +<p>Village,––so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,</p> +<p>Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.</p> +<p>Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to <i>him</i> for his kindness,</p> +<p>Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin Clement;</p> +<p>Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.</p> +<p>––No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:</p> +<p>Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?</p> +<p>Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,––just as you like it;––</p> +<p>Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.</p> +<p>Then I’ll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young person</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span></p> +<p>Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius</p> +<p>Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.</p> +<p>O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?</p> +<p>Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband.”</p> +<p class='indent2'>Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,</p> +<p>Dark’ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,</p> +<p>Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,––</p> +<p>All her mocking face transfigured,––with mournful effusion:</p> +<p>“Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,––</p> +<p>Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,</p> +<p>Fame, and your art,––you have all these things to console you.</p> +<p>I––what have I in this world? Since my child is dead––a bereavement.”</p> +<p class='indent2'>Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him</p> +<p>Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span></p> +<p>(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),</p> +<p>“Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,</p> +<p>With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!</p> +<p>Yes, you might play it, I think,––that <i>rôle</i> of remorseful young person,</p> +<p>That, or the old man’s darling, or anything else you attempted.</p> +<p>Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,</p> +<p>Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you––</p> +<p>Not, indeed, for your word––that is light––but I wish to believe you.</p> +<p>Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!</p> +<p>I––I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.</p> +<p>Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,––</p> +<p>Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!”</p> +<p>There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,</p> +<p>Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span></p> +<p>Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:</p> +<p>“You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,––</p> +<p>Sensible, almost. So! I’ll try to forget and remember.”</p> +<p>Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,</p> +<p>Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;</p> +<p>Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-tree</p> +<p>Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished.</p> +<p>Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together,</p> +<p>Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor;</p> +<p>Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,</p> +<p>Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.</p> +<p>(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span></p> +<p>Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners,</p> +<p>Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment,</p> +<p>In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,––</p> +<p>Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.</p> +<p class='indent2'>Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,</p> +<p>Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols,</p> +<p>By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clambered</p> +<p>Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,</p> +<p>Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.</p> +<p>Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another</p> +<p>Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household,</p> +<p>Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance,</p> +<p>Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;</p> +<p>Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span></p> +<p>Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together</p> +<p>Over his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, “Who is it?”</p> +<p>Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,</p> +<p>Calling his sister’s children around her, and stilling their clamor,</p> +<p>Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,</p> +<p>Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visage</p> +<p>With the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion</p> +<p>Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,</p> +<p>Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.</p> +<p>Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;</p> +<p>Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,</p> +<p>Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,</p> +<p>Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.</p> +<p class='indent2'>But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone together</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94' name='page_94'></a>94</span></p> +<p>Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket</p> +<p>Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the pendule</p> +<p>Sighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,––</p> +<p>It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.</p> +<p>“Read it to-night,” she said, “that I may not seem to be going.”</p> +<p>Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him.</p> +<p>From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,––</p> +<p>All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing,</p> +<p>Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,––</p> +<p>Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,</p> +<p>Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,</p> +<p>But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,</p> +<p>Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love’s sake.</p> +<p class='indent2'>Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95' name='page_95'></a>95</span></p> +<p>Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another,</p> +<p>Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,</p> +<p>Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion</p> +<p>With their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict,</p> +<p>Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,</p> +<p>Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving.</p> +<p class='indent2'>So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,</p> +<p>Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,––</p> +<p>Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder.</p> +<p>Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silence</p> +<p>Shrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistle</p> +<p>Out of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her:</p> +<p>“Perish the thorns and splendor,––the bloom and the sweetness are perished.</p> +<p>Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one’s Duty,––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96' name='page_96'></a>96</span></p> +<p>These and the world, for dead Love!––The end of these modern romances!</p> +<p>Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement.”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97' name='page_97'></a>97</span> +<a name='BY_THE_SEA' id='BY_THE_SEA'></a> +<h2>BY THE SEA.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>I walked with her I love by the sea,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The deep came up with its chanting waves,</p> +<p>Making a music so great and free</p> +<p class='indent2'>That the will and the faith, which were dead in me,</p> +<p class='indent8'>Awoke and rose from their graves.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Chanting, and with a regal sweep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of their ’broidered garments up and down</p> +<p>The strand, came the mighty waves of the deep,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Dragging the wave-worn drift from its sleep</p> +<p class='indent8'>Along the sea-sands bare and brown.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O my soul, make the song of the sea!” I cried.</p> +<p class='indent2'>“How it comes, with its stately tread,</p> +<p>And its dreadful voice, and the splendid pride</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of its regal garments flowing wide</p> +<p class='indent8'>Over the land!” to my soul I said.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>My soul was still; the deep went down.</p> +<p class='indent2'>“What hast thou, my soul,” I cried,</p> +<p>“In thy song?” “The sea-sands bare and brown,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With broken shells and sea-weed strown,</p> +<p class='indent8'>And stranded drift,” my soul replied.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98' name='page_98'></a>98</span> +<a name='SAINT_CHRISTOPHER' id='SAINT_CHRISTOPHER'></a> +<h2>SAINT CHRISTOPHER.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the narrow Venetian street,</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the wall above the garden gate</p> +<p>(Within, the breath of the rose is sweet,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the nightingale sings there, soon and late),</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With the little child in his huge caress,</p> +<p>And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown</p> +<p class='indent2'>About his gigantic tenderness;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And over the wall a wandering growth</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of darkest and greenest ivy clings,</p> +<p>And climbs around them, and holds them both</p> +<p class='indent2'>In its netted clasp of knots and rings,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Clothing the saint from foot to beard</p> +<p class='indent2'>In glittering leaves that whisper and dance</p> +<p>To the child, on his mighty arm upreared,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With a lusty summer exuberance.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To the child on his arm the faithful saint</p> +<p class='indent2'>Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span></p> +<p>His brows and his heavy beard aslant</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under the dimpled chin of the boy,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Who plays with the world upon his palm,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And bends his smiling looks divine</p> +<p>On the face of the giant mild and calm,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the glittering frolic of the vine.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He smiles on either with equal grace,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the simple ivy’s unconscious life,</p> +<p>And the soul in the giant’s lifted face,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Strong from the peril of the strife:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For both are his own,––the innocence</p> +<p class='indent2'>That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven,</p> +<p>And the virtue that gently rises thence</p> +<p class='indent2'>Through trial sent and victory given.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Grow, ivy, up to his countenance,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But it cannot smile on my life as on thine;</p> +<p>Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='pinfo'>Venice, 1863.</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span> +<a name='ELEGY_ON_JOHN_BUTLER_HOWELLS' id='ELEGY_ON_JOHN_BUTLER_HOWELLS'></a> +<h2>ELEGY ON JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS,</h2> +</div> +<blockquote> +<p class='center'>Who died, “with the first song of the birds,” Wednesday +morning, April 27, 1864.</p> +</blockquote> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the early morning when I wake</p> +<p>At the hour that is sacred for his sake,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And hear the happy birds of spring</p> +<p>In the garden under my window sing,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And through my window the daybreak blows</p> +<p>The sweetness of the lily and rose,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A dormant anguish wakes with day,</p> +<p>And my heart is smitten with strange dismay:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Distance wider than thine, O sea,</p> +<p>Darkens between my brother and me!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A scrap of print, a few brief lines,</p> +<p>The fatal word that swims and shines</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span></p> +<p>On my tears, with a meaning new and dread,</p> +<p>Make faltering reason know him dead,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And I would that my heart might feel it too,</p> +<p>And unto its own regret be true;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For this is the hardest of all to bear,</p> +<p>That his life was so generous and fair,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So full of love, so full of hope,</p> +<p>Broadening out with ample scope,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And so far from death, that his dying seems</p> +<p>The idle agony of dreams</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To my heart, that feels him living yet,––</p> +<p>And I forget, and I forget.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He was almost grown a man when he passed</p> +<p>Away, but when I kissed him last</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He was still a child, and I had crept</p> +<p>Up to the little room where he slept,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And thought to kiss him good-by in his sleep;</p> +<p>But he was awake to make me weep</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span></p> +<p>With terrible homesickness, before</p> +<p>My wayward feet had passed the door.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Round about me clung his embrace,</p> +<p>And he pressed against my face his face,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>As if some prescience whispered him then</p> +<p>That it never, never should be again.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Out of far-off days of boyhood dim,</p> +<p>When he was a babe and I played with him,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I remember his looks and all his ways;</p> +<p>And how he grew through childhood’s grace,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To the hopes, and strifes, and sports, and joys,</p> +<p>And innocent vanity of boys;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I hear his whistle at the door,</p> +<p>His careless step upon the floor,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>His song, his jest, his laughter yet,––</p> +<p>And I forget, and I forget.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,</p> +<p>Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span></p> +<p>They have laid him; and his sisters set</p> +<p>On his grave the flowers their tears have wet;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And above his grave, while I write, the song</p> +<p>Of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From the leafy dark of the chestnut-tree;</p> +<p>And many a murmuring honey-bee</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On the strawberry blossoms in the grass</p> +<p>Stoops by his grave and will not pass;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And in the little hollow beneath</p> +<p>The slope of the silent field of death,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet,</p> +<p>And the cattle go by with homeward feet,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb,</p> +<p>At the harmless noises not meant for him;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And Nature, unto her loving heart</p> +<p>Has taken our darling’s mortal part,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Tenderly, that he may be,</p> +<p>Like the song of the robin in the tree,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore,</p> +<p>A part of Summer evermore.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span></p> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I write, and the words with my tears are wet,––</p> +<p>But I forget, O, I forget!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Teach me, Thou that sendest this pain,</p> +<p>To know and feel my loss and gain!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Let me not falter in belief</p> +<p>On his death, for that is sorest grief:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O, lift me above this wearing strife,</p> +<p>Till I discern his deathless life,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Shining beyond this misty shore,</p> +<p>A part of Heaven evermore.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='pinfo'>Venice, Wednesday Morning, at Dawn,<br /> +May 16, 1864.</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span> +<a name='THANKSGIVING' id='THANKSGIVING'></a> +<h2>THANKSGIVING.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Lord, for the erring thought</p> +<p>Not into evil wrought:</p> +<p>Lord, for the wicked will</p> +<p>Betrayed and baffled still:</p> +<p>For the heart from itself kept,</p> +<p>Our thanksgiving accept.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For ignorant hopes that were</p> +<p>Broken to our blind prayer:</p> +<p>For pain, death, sorrow, sent</p> +<p>Unto our chastisement:</p> +<p>For all loss of seeming good,</p> +<p>Quicken our gratitude.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span> +<a name='A_SPRINGTIME' id='A_SPRINGTIME'></a> +<h2>A SPRINGTIME.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>One knows the spring is coming:</p> +<p class='indent2'>There are birds; the fields are green;</p> +<p>There is balm in the sunlight and moonlight,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And dew in the twilights between.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But over there is a silence,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A rapture great and dumb,</p> +<p>That day when the doubt is ended,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And at last the spring is come.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Behold the wonder, O silence!</p> +<p class='indent2'>Strange as if wrought in a night,––</p> +<p>The waited and lingering glory,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The world-old, fresh delight!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O blossoms that hang like winter,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Drifted upon the trees,</p> +<p>O birds that sing in the blossoms,</p> +<p class='indent2'>O blossom-haunting bees,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O green, green leaves on the branches,</p> +<p class='indent2'>O shadowy dark below,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span></p> +<p>O cool of the aisles of orchards,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Woods that the wild flowers know,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O air of gold and perfume,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Wind, breathing sweet and sun,</p> +<p>O sky of perfect azure––</p> +<p class='indent2'>Day, Heaven and Earth in one!––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Let me draw near thy secret,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And in thy deep heart see</p> +<p>How fared, in doubt and dreaming,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The spring that is come in me.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For my soul is held in silence,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A rapture, great and dumb,––</p> +<p>For the mystery that lingered,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The glory that is come!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='pinfo'>1861.</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span> +<a name='IN_EARLIEST_SPRING' id='IN_EARLIEST_SPRING'></a> +<h2>IN EARLIEST SPRING.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,</p> +<p>Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart all the hollows and angles</p> +<p class='indent2'>Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift</p> +<p>Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire</p> +<p class='indent2'>(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes,––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span></p> +<p>Rapture of life ineffable, perfect,––as if in the brier,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span> +<a name='THE_BOBOLINKS_ARE_SINGING' id='THE_BOBOLINKS_ARE_SINGING'></a> +<h2>THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>Out of its fragrant heart of bloom</p> +<p>The apple-tree whispers to the room,</p> +<p>“Why art thou but a nest of gloom,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing?”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The two wan ghosts of the chamber there,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>The two wan ghosts of the chamber there</p> +<p>Cease in the breath of the honeyed air,</p> +<p>Sweep from the room and leave it bare,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then with a breath so chill and slow,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>Then with a breath so chill and slow,</p> +<p>It freezes the blossoms into snow,</p> +<p>The haunted room makes answer low,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span></p> +<p>“I know that in the meadow-land,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>I know that in the meadow-land</p> +<p>The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand,</p> +<p>And the brook goes by on the other hand,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“But ever I see, in the brawling stream,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>But ever I see in the brawling stream</p> +<p>A maiden drowned and floating dim,</p> +<p>Under the water, like a dream,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>Buried, she lies in the meadow-land,</p> +<p>Under the sorrowful elms where they stand.</p> +<p>Wind, blow over her soft and bland,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing</p> +<p>The farmer saw so heavily swing</p> +<p>From the elm, one merry morn of spring,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks were singing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span></p> +<p>“O blow, and blow away the bloom,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The bobolinks are singing!</p> +<p>O blow, and blow away the bloom</p> +<p>That sickens me in my heart of gloom,</p> +<p>That sweetly sickens the haunted room,</p> +<p class='indent2'>While the bobolinks are singing!”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span> +<a name='PRELUDE_TO_AN_EARLY_BOOK_OF_VERSE' id='PRELUDE_TO_AN_EARLY_BOOK_OF_VERSE'></a> +<h2>PRELUDE.</h2> +<h3>(TO AN EARLY BOOK OF VERSE.)</h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>In March the earliest bluebird came</p> +<p class='indent2'>And caroled from the orchard-tree</p> +<p class='indent2'>His little tremulous songs to me,</p> +<p>And called upon the summer’s name,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And made old summers in my heart</p> +<p class='indent2'>All sweet with flower and sun again;</p> +<p class='indent2'>So that I said, “O, not in vain</p> +<p>Shall be thy lay of little art,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Though never summer sun may glow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Nor summer flower for thee may bloom;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Though winter turn in sudden gloom,</p> +<p>And drowse the stirring spring with snow”;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And learned to trust, if I should call</p> +<p class='indent2'>Upon the sacred name of Song,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Though chill through March I languish long,</p> +<p>And never feel the May at all,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span></p> +<p>Yet may I touch, in some who hear,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The hearts, wherein old songs asleep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Wait but the feeblest touch to leap</p> +<p>In music sweet as summer air!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I sing in March brief bluebird lays,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And hope a May, and do not know:</p> +<p class='indent2'>May be, the heaven is full of snow,––</p> +<p>May be, there open summer days.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span> +<a name='THE_MOVERS_SKETCH' id='THE_MOVERS_SKETCH'></a> +<h2>THE MOVERS.</h2> +<h3>SKETCH.</h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Parting was over at last, and all the good-bys had been spoken.</p> +<p>Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly,</p> +<p>Bearing the mother and children, while onward before them the father</p> +<p>Trudged with his gun on his arm, and the faithful house-dog beside him,</p> +<p>Grave and sedate, as if knowing the sorrowful thoughts of his master.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>April was in her prime, and the day in its dewy awaking:</p> +<p>Like a great flower, afar on the crest of the eastern woodland,</p> +<p>Goldenly bloomed the sun, and over the beautiful valley,</p> +<p>Dim with its dew and shadow, and bright with its dream of a river,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span></p> +<p>Looked to the western hills, and shone on the humble procession,</p> +<p>Paining with splendor the children’s eyes, and the heart of the mother.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the air like a palpable presence.</p> +<p>Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves and the flowers in the wild-wood,</p> +<p>Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in the aisles of the forest.</p> +<p>Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning, the wild birds were singing:</p> +<p>Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together;</p> +<p>Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage;</p> +<p>Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings unfrequent,</p> +<p>While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music,</p> +<p>Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing;</p> +<p>Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher</p> +<p>Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span></p> +<p>Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows;</p> +<p>And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the blackbirds.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward,</p> +<p>Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly.</p> +<p>Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley,</p> +<p>Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden;</p> +<p>Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her children,</p> +<p>Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them;</p> +<p>Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the woodlands,</p> +<p>Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of the dogwood,</p> +<p>Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span></p> +<p>Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily grazing,––</p> +<p>Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the cow-bells,––</p> +<p>Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry borders,</p> +<p>Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms.</p> +<p>Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar,</p> +<p>As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been spoken.</p> +<p>Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin––</p> +<p>Home for so many years, now home no longer forever––</p> +<p>Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish.</p> +<p>Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney</p> +<p>Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever;</p> +<p>Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were playing;</p> +<p>Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly.</p> +<p>Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span></p> +<p>Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies,</p> +<p>Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the winter,</p> +<p>Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer evening,</p> +<p>Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber,</p> +<p>Still the father beheld her weep o’er the child that was dying,</p> +<p>Still the place was haunted by all the Past’s sorrow and gladness!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Neither of them might speak for the thoughts that came crowding their hearts so,</p> +<p>Till, in their ignorant trouble aloud the children lamented;</p> +<p>Then was the spell of silence dissolved, and the father and mother</p> +<p>Burst into tears and embraced, and turned their dim eyes to the Westward.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='pinfo'>Ohio, 1859.</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span> +<a name='THROUGH_THE_MEADOW' id='THROUGH_THE_MEADOW'></a> +<h2>THROUGH THE MEADOW.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The summer sun was soft and bland,</p> +<p>As they went through the meadow land.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The little wind that hardly shook</p> +<p>The silver of the sleeping brook</p> +<p>Blew the gold hair about her eyes,––</p> +<p>A mystery of mysteries!</p> +<p>So he must often pause, and stoop,</p> +<p>And all the wanton ringlets loop</p> +<p>Behind her dainty ear––emprise</p> +<p>Of slow event and many sighs.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Across the stream was scarce a step,––</p> +<p>And yet she feared to try the leap;</p> +<p>And he, to still her sweet alarm,</p> +<p>Must lift her over on his arm.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She could not keep the narrow way,</p> +<p>For still the little feet would stray,</p> +<p>And ever must he bend t’ undo</p> +<p>The tangled grasses from her shoe,––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span></p> +<p>From dainty rosebud lips in pout,</p> +<p>Must kiss the perfect flowér out!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit!</p> +<p>Some things are bitter that were sweet.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span> +<a name='GONE' id='GONE'></a> +<h2>GONE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Is it the shrewd October wind</p> +<p class='indent2'>Brings the tears into her eyes?</p> +<p>Does it blow so strong that she must fetch</p> +<p class='indent2'>Her breath in sudden sighs?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The sound of his horse’s feet grows faint,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The Rider has passed from sight;</p> +<p>The day dies out of the crimson west,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And coldly falls the night.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She presses her tremulous fingers tight</p> +<p class='indent2'>Against her closéd eyes,</p> +<p>And on the lonesome threshold there,</p> +<p class='indent2'>She cowers down and cries.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span> +<a name='THE_SARCASTIC_FAIR' id='THE_SARCASTIC_FAIR'></a> +<h2>THE SARCASTIC FAIR.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her mouth is a honey-blossom,</p> +<p class='indent2'>No doubt, as the poet sings;</p> +<p>But within her lips, the petals,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lurks a cruel bee, that stings.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span> +<a name='RAPTURE' id='RAPTURE'></a> +<h2>RAPTURE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>In my rhyme I fable anguish,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Feigning that my love is dead,</p> +<p>Playing at a game of sadness,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Singing hope forever fled,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Trailing the slow robes of mourning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Grieving with the player’s art,</p> +<p>With the languid palms of sorrow</p> +<p class='indent2'>Folded on a dancing heart.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I must mix my love with death-dust,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lest the draught should make me mad;</p> +<p>I must make believe at sorrow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lest I perish, over-glad.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span> +<a name='DEAD' id='DEAD'></a> +<h2>DEAD.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Something lies in the room</p> +<p class='indent2'>Over against my own;</p> +<p>The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of candles, burning alone,––</p> +<p>Untrimmed, and all aflare</p> +<p>In the ghastly silence there!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>People go by the door,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Tiptoe, holding their breath,</p> +<p>And hush the talk that they held before,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lest they should waken Death,</p> +<p>That is awake all night</p> +<p>There in the candlelight!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The cat upon the stairs</p> +<p class='indent2'>Watches with flamy eye</p> +<p>For the sleepy one who shall unawares</p> +<p class='indent2'>Let her go stealing by.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span></p> +<p>She softly, softly purrs,</p> +<p>And claws at the banisters.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The bird from out its dream</p> +<p class='indent2'>Breaks with a sudden song,</p> +<p>That stabs the sense like a sudden scream;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The hound the whole night long</p> +<p>Howls to the moonless sky,</p> +<p>So far, and starry, and high.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span> +<a name='THE_DOUBT' id='THE_DOUBT'></a> +<h2>THE DOUBT.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>She sits beside the low window,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the pleasant evening-time,</p> +<p>With her face turned to the sunset,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Reading a book of rhyme.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the wine-light of the sunset,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Stolen into the dainty nook,</p> +<p>Where she sits in her sacred beauty,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lies crimson on the book.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O beautiful eyes so tender,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Brown eyes so tender and dear,</p> +<p>Did you leave your reading a moment</p> +<p class='indent2'>Just now, as I passed near?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Maybe, ’tis the sunset flushes</p> +<p class='indent2'>Her features, so lily-pale;</p> +<p>Maybe, ’tis the lover’s passion,</p> +<p class='indent2'>She reads of in the tale.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O darling, and darling, and darling,</p> +<p class='indent2'>If I dared to trust my thought;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span></p> +<p>If I dared to believe what I must not,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Believe what no one ought,––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>We would read together the poem</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of the Love that never died,</p> +<p>The passionate, world-old story</p> +<p class='indent2'>Come true, and glorified.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span> +<a name='THE_THORN' id='THE_THORN'></a> +<h2>THE THORN.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But this has none, I know.”</p> +<p>She clasped my rival’s Rose</p> +<p class='indent2'>Over her breast of snow.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I bowed to hide my pain,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With a man’s unskilful art;</p> +<p>I moved my lips, and could not say</p> +<p class='indent2'>The Thorn was in my heart!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span> +<a name='THE_MYSTERIES' id='THE_MYSTERIES'></a> +<h2>THE MYSTERIES.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Once on my mother’s breast, a child, I crept,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Holding my breath;</p> +<p>There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept</p> +<p class='indent2'>At the dark mystery of Death.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Spent with the strife,––</p> +<p>O mother, let me weep upon thy breast</p> +<p class='indent2'>At the sad mystery of Life!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span> +<a name='THE_BATTLE_IN_THE_CLOUDS' id='THE_BATTLE_IN_THE_CLOUDS'></a> +<h2>THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS.</h2> +</div> +<blockquote> +<p>“The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much +of General Hooker’s battle was fought above the clouds, on the +top of Lookout Mountain.”––<span class='smcap'>General Meig’s</span> <i>Report of the +Battle before Chattanooga</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe,</p> +<p>Up above the clouds on Freedom’s Lookout Mountain</p> +<p class='indent2'>Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below.</p> +<p class='indent6'>O, green be the laurels that grow,</p> +<p class='indent6'>O sweet be the wild-buds that blow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Light of our hope and crown of our story,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deeds of daring glow,</p> +<p>While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span></p> +<p class='indent2'>On Freedom’s Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom’s foe.</p> +<p class='indent6'>O, soft be the gales when they go</p> +<p class='indent6'>Through the pines on the summit where they blow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span> +<a name='FOR_ONE_OF_THE_KILLED' id='FOR_ONE_OF_THE_KILLED'></a> +<h2>FOR ONE OF THE KILLED.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>There on the field of battle</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lies the young warrior dead:</p> +<p>Who shall speak in the soldier’s honor?</p> +<p class='indent2'>How shall his praise be said?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Cannon, there in the battle,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Thundered the soldier’s praise,</p> +<p>Hark! how the volumed volleys echo</p> +<p class='indent2'>Down through the far-off days!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Tears for the grief of a father,</p> +<p class='indent2'>For a mother’s anguish, tears;</p> +<p>But for him that died in his country’s battle,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Glory and endless years.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span> +<a name='THE_TWO_WIVES_TO_COLONEL_J_G_M_IN_MEMORY_OF_THE_EVENT_BEFORE_ATLANTA' id='THE_TWO_WIVES_TO_COLONEL_J_G_M_IN_MEMORY_OF_THE_EVENT_BEFORE_ATLANTA'></a> +<h2>THE TWO WIVES.</h2> +<h3>(TO COLONEL J. G. M., IN MEMORY OF THE EVENT BEFORE ATLANTA.)</h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The colonel rode by his picket-line</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the pleasant morning sun,</p> +<p>That glanced from him far off to shine</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the crouching rebel picket’s gun.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From his command the captain strode</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out with a grave salute,</p> +<p>And talked with the colonel as he rode;––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The picket levelled his piece to shoot.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The colonel rode and the captain walked,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>The arm of the picket tired;</p> +<p>Their faces almost touched as they talked,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The captain fell at the horse’s feet,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Wounded and hurt to death,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span></p> +<p>Calling upon a name that was sweet</p> +<p class='indent2'>As God is good, with his dying breath.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt</p> +<p class='indent2'>To close the eyes so dim,</p> +<p>A high remorse for God’s mercy felt,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Knowing the shot was meant for him.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The name of his own young wife:</p> +<p>For Love, that had made his friend’s peace with Death,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Alone could make his with life.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span> +<a name='BEREAVED' id='BEREAVED'></a> +<h2>BEREAVED.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The passionate humming-birds cling</p> +<p class='indent2'>To the honeysuckles’ hearts;</p> +<p>In and out at the open window</p> +<p class='indent2'>The twittering house-wren darts,</p> +<p class='indent14'>And the sun is bright.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>June is young, and warm, and sweet;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The morning is gay and new;</p> +<p>Glimmers yet the grass of the door-yard,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Pearl-gray with fragrant dew,</p> +<p class='indent14'>And the sun is bright.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From the mill, upon the stream,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A busy murmur swells;</p> +<p>On to the pasture go the cattle,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Lowing, with tinkling bells,</p> +<p class='indent14'>And the sun is bright.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She gathers his playthings up,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And dreamily puts them by;</p> +<p>Children are playing in the meadow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>She hears their joyous cry,</p> +<p class='indent14'>And the sun is bright.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span></p> +<p>She sits and clasps her brow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And looks with swollen eyes</p> +<p>On the landscape that reels and dances,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>To herself she softly cries,</p> +<p class='indent14'>And the sun is bright.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span> +<a name='THE_SNOWBIRDS' id='THE_SNOWBIRDS'></a> +<h2>THE SNOW-BIRDS.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The lonesome graveyard lieth,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A deep with silent waves</p> +<p>Of night-long snow, all white, and billowed</p> +<p class='indent2'>Over the hidden graves.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The snow-birds come in the morning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Flocking and fluttering low,</p> +<p>And light on the graveyard brambles,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And twitter there in the snow.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The Singer, old and weary,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Looks out from his narrow room:</p> +<p>“Ah, me! but my thoughts are snow-birds,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Haunting a graveyard gloom,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Where all the Past is buried</p> +<p class='indent2'>And dead, these many years,</p> +<p>Under the drifted whiteness</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of frozen falls of tears.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Poor birds! that know not summer,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Nor sun, nor flowèrs fair,––</p> +<p>Only the graveyard brambles,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And graves, and winter air!”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span> +<a name='VAGARY' id='VAGARY'></a> +<h2>VAGARY.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Up and down the dusty street,</p> +<p>I hurry with my burning feet;</p> +<p>Against my face the wind-waves beat,</p> +<p>Fierce from the city-sea of heat.</p> +<p class='indent4'>Deep in my heart the vision is,</p> +<p class='indent4'>Of meadow grass and meadow trees</p> +<p class='indent4'>Blown silver in the summer breeze,</p> +<p class='indent4'>And ripe, red, hillside strawberries.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>My sense the city tumult fills,––</p> +<p>The tumult that about me reels</p> +<p>Of strokes and cries, and feet and wheels.</p> +<p class='indent4'>Deep in my dream I list, and, hark!</p> +<p class='indent4'>From out the maple’s leafy dark,</p> +<p class='indent4'>The fluting of the meadow lark!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>About the throngéd street I go:</p> +<p>There is no face here that I know;</p> +<p>Of all that pass me to and fro</p> +<p>There is no face here that I know.</p> +<p class='indent4'>Deep in my soul’s most sacred place,</p> +<p class='indent4'>With a sweet pain I look and trace</p> +<p class='indent4'>The features of a tender face,</p> +<p class='indent4'>All lit with love and girlish grace.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span></p> +<p>Some spell is on me, for I seem</p> +<p>A memory of the past, a dream</p> +<p>Of happiness remembered dim,</p> +<p class='indent4'>Unto myself that walk the street</p> +<p class='indent4'>Scathed with the city’s noontide heat,</p> +<p class='indent4'>With puzzled brain and burning feet.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span> +<a name='FEUERBILDER' id='FEUERBILDER'></a> +<h2>FEUERBILDER.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The children sit by the fireside</p> +<p class='indent2'>With their little faces in bloom;</p> +<p>And behind, the lily-pale mother,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Looking out of the gloom,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Flushes in cheek and forehead</p> +<p class='indent2'>With a light and sudden start;</p> +<p>But the father sits there silent,</p> +<p class='indent2'>From the firelight apart.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Now, what dost thou see in the embers?</p> +<p class='indent2'>Tell it to me, my child,”</p> +<p>Whispers the lily-pale mother</p> +<p class='indent2'>To her daughter sweet and mild.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O, I see a sky and a moon</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the coals and ashes there,</p> +<p>And under, two are walking</p> +<p class='indent2'>In a garden of flowers so fair.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“A lady gay, and her lover,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Talking with low-voiced words,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span></p> +<p>Not to waken the dreaming flowers</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the sleepy little birds.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Back in the gloom the mother</p> +<p class='indent2'>Shrinks with a sudden sigh.</p> +<p>“Now, what dost thou see in the embers?”</p> +<p class='indent2'>Cries the father to the boy.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O, I see a wedding-procession</p> +<p class='indent2'>Go in at the church’s door,––</p> +<p>Ladies in silk and knights in steel,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>A hundred of them, and more.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“The bride’s face is as white as a lily,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the groom’s head is white as snow;</p> +<p>And without, with plumes and tapers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A funeral paces slow.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Loudly then laughed the father,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And shouted again for cheer,</p> +<p>And called to the drowsy housemaid</p> +<p class='indent2'>To fetch him a pipe and beer.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span> +<a name='AVERY_NIAGARA_1853' id='AVERY_NIAGARA_1853'></a> +<h2>AVERY.</h2> +<h3><span class='smcap'>[Niagara, 1853.]</span></h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>All night long they heard in the houses beside the shore,</p> +<p>Heard, or seemed to hear, through the multitudinous roar,</p> +<p>Out of the hell of the rapids as ’twere a lost soul’s cries,––</p> +<p>Heard and could not believe; and the morning mocked their eyes,</p> +<p>Showing, where wildest and fiercest the waters leaped up and ran</p> +<p>Raving round him and past, the visage of a man</p> +<p>Clinging, or seeming to cling, to the trunk of a tree that, caught</p> +<p>Fast in the rocks below, scarce out of the surges raught.</p> +<p>Was it a life, could it be, to yon slender hope that clung?</p> +<p>Shrill, above all the tumult the answering terror rung.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span></p> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is drowned,</p> +<p>Over the rocks the lines of another are tangled and wound;</p> +<p>And the long, fateful hours of the morning have wasted soon,</p> +<p>As it had been in some blessed trance, and now it is noon.</p> +<p>Hurry, now with the raft! But O, build it strong and stanch,</p> +<p>And to the lines and treacherous rocks look well as you launch!</p> +<p>Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent sides,</p> +<p>Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides,</p> +<p>Onward rushes the raft, with many a lurch and leap,––</p> +<p>Lord! if it strike him loose from the hold he scarce can keep!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harmless at last,</p> +<p>And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span></p> +<p>Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men, and slow;</p> +<p>Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go!</p> +<p>Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multitude;</p> +<p>Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood</p> +<p>Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all,</p> +<p>Save for the rapids’ plunge, and the thunder of the fall.</p> +<p>But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale,</p> +<p>Chorussing his unheard despair, a desperate wail:</p> +<p>Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings,</p> +<p>Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways;</p> +<p>And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and prays:</p> +<p>Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to save,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span></p> +<p>Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and the wave</p> +<p>Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their strife,</p> +<p>Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his life,––</p> +<p>Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and women swoon.</p> +<p>Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon,</p> +<p>And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last</p> +<p>Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay,</p> +<p>Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his way.</p> +<p>“No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him. You,</p> +<p>Tell us, who are you?” “His brother!” “God help you both! Pass through.”</p> +<p>Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to him,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span></p> +<p>Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim;</p> +<p>But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are lost</p> +<p>As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are tossed.</p> +<p>And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope</p> +<p>Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope;</p> +<p>Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry,––</p> +<p>Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying free;</p> +<p>Sees, then, the form,––that, spent with effort and fasting and fear,</p> +<p>Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying so near,––</p> +<p>Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and hurled</p> +<p>Headlong on to the cataract’s brink, and out of the world.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span> +<a name='BOPEEP_A_PASTORAL' id='BOPEEP_A_PASTORAL'></a> +<h2>BOPEEP: A PASTORAL.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O, to what uses shall we put</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wildweed flower that simply blows?</p> +<p>And is there any moral shut</p> +<p class='indent2'>Within the bosom of the rose?”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='ralign'><span class='smcap'>Tennyson.</span></p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She lies upon the soft, enamoured grass,</p> +<p class='indent2'>I’ the wooing shelter of an apple-tree,</p> +<p>And at her feet the trancéd brook is glass,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And in the blossoms over her the bee</p> +<p class='indent2'>Hangs charméd of his sordid industry;</p> +<p>For love of her the light wind will not pass.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her golden hair, blown over her red lips,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That seem two rose-leaves softly breathed apart,</p> +<p>Athwart her rounded throat like sunshine slips;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Her small hand, resting on her beating heart,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The crook that tells her peaceful shepherd-art</p> +<p>Scarce keeps with light and tremulous finger-tips.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She is as fair as any shepherdess</p> +<p class='indent2'>That ever was in mask or Christmas scene:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span></p> +<p>Bright silver spangles hath she on her dress,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And of her red-heeled shoes appears the sheen;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And she hath ribbons of such blue or green</p> +<p>As best suits pastoral people’s comeliness.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She sleeps, and it is in the month of May,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And the whole land is full of the delight</p> +<p>Of music and sweet scents; and all the day</p> +<p class='indent2'>The sun is gold; the moon is pearl all night,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And like a paradise the world is bright,</p> +<p>And like a young girl’s hopes the world is gay.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So waned the hours; and while her beauteous sleep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was blest with many a happy dream of Love,</p> +<p>Untended still, her silly, vagrant sheep</p> +<p class='indent2'>Afar from that young shepherdess did rove,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Along the vales and through the gossip grove,</p> +<p>O’er daisied meads and up the thymy steep.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then (for it happens oft when harm is nigh,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Our dreams grow haggard till at last we wake)</p> +<p>She thought that from the little runnel by</p> +<p class='indent2'>There crept upon a sudden forth a snake,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And stung her hand, and fled into the brake;</p> +<p>Whereat she sprang up with a bitter cry,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span></p> +<p class='center'>VII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And wildly over all that place did look,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And could not spy her ingrate, wanton flock,––</p> +<p>Not there among tall grasses by the brook,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Not there behind the mossy-bearded rock;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And pitiless Echo answered with a mock</p> +<p>When she did sorrow that she was forsook.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Alas! the scattered sheep might not be found,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And long and loud that gentle maid did weep,</p> +<p>Till in her blurréd sight the hills went round,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And, circling far, field, wood, and stream did sweep;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And on the ground the miserable Bopeep</p> +<p>Fell and forgot her troubles in a swound.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>When she awoke, the sun long time had set,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And all the land was sleeping in the moon,</p> +<p>And all the flowers with dim, sad dews were wet,</p> +<p class='indent2'>As they had wept to see her in that swoon.</p> +<p class='indent2'>It was about the night’s low-breathing noon;</p> +<p>Only the larger stars were waking yet.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>X.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Bopeep, the fair and hapless shepherdess,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Rose from her swooning in a sore dismay,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span></p> +<p>And tried to smooth her damp and rumpled dress,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That showed in truth a grievous disarray;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Then where the brook the wan moon’s mirror lay,</p> +<p>She laved her eyes, and curled each golden tress.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And looking to her ribbons, if they were</p> +<p class='indent2'>As ribbons of a shepherdess should be,</p> +<p>She took the hat that she was wont to wear</p> +<p class='indent2'>(Bedecked it was with ribbons flying free</p> +<p class='indent2'>As ever man in opera might see),</p> +<p>And set it on her curls of yellow hair.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“And I will go and seek my sheep,” she said,</p> +<p class='indent2'>“Through every distant land until I die;</p> +<p>But when they bring me hither, cold and dead,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Let me beneath these apple-blossoms lie,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With this dear, faithful, lovely runnel nigh,</p> +<p>Here, where my cru––cru––cruel sheep have fed.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Thus sorrow and despair make bold Bopeep,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And forth she springs, and hurries on her way:</p> +<p>Across the lurking rivulet she can leap,</p> +<p class='indent2'>No sombre forest shall her quest delay,</p> +<p class='indent2'>No crooked vale her eager steps bewray:</p> +<p>What dreadeth she that seeketh her lost sheep?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span></p> +<p class='center'>XIV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>By many a pond, where timorous water-birds,</p> +<p class='indent2'>With clattering cries and throbbing wings, arose,</p> +<p>By many a pasture, where the soft-eyed herds</p> +<p class='indent2'>Looked shadow-huge in their unmoved repose,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Long through the lonesome night that sad one goes</p> +<p>And fills the solitude with wailing words;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So that the little field-mouse dreams of harm,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Snuggled away from harm beneath the weeds;</p> +<p>The violet, sleeping on the clover’s arm,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Wakes, and is cold with thoughts of dreadful deeds;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The pensive people of the water-reeds</p> +<p>Hark with a mute and dolorous alarm.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XVI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And the fond hearts of all the turtle-doves</p> +<p class='indent2'>Are broken in compassion of her woe,</p> +<p>And every tender little bird that loves</p> +<p class='indent2'>Feels in his breast a sympathetic throe;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And flowers are sad wherever she may go,</p> +<p>And hoarse with sighs the waterfalls and groves.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span></p> +<p class='center'>XVII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The pale moon droppeth low; star after star</p> +<p class='indent2'>Grows faint and slumbers in the gray of dawn;</p> +<p>And still she lingers not, but hurries far,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Till in a dreary wilderness withdrawn</p> +<p class='indent2'>Through tangled woods she lorn and lost moves on,</p> +<p>Where griffins dire and dreadful dragons are.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XVIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her ribbons all are dripping with the dew,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Her red-heeled shoes are torn, and stained with mire,</p> +<p>Her tender arms the angry sharpness rue</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of many a scraggy thorn and envious brier;</p> +<p class='indent2'>And poor Bopeep, with no sweet pity nigh her,</p> +<p>Wrings her small hands, and knows not what to do.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XIX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And on that crude and rugged ground she sinks,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And soon her seeking had been ended there,</p> +<p>But through the trees a fearful glimmer shrinks,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And of a hermit’s dwelling she is ’ware:</p> +<p class='indent2'>At the dull pane a dull-eyed taper blinks,</p> +<p>Drowsed with long vigils and the morning air.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span></p> +<p class='center'>XX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Thither she trembling moves, and at the door</p> +<p class='indent2'>Falls down, and cannot either speak or stir:</p> +<p>The hermit comes,––with no white beard before,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Nor coat of skins, nor cap of shaggy fur:</p> +<p class='indent2'>It was a comely youth that lifted her,</p> +<p>And to his hearth, and to his breakfast, bore.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Arrayed he was in princeliest attire,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And of as goodly presence sooth was he</p> +<p>As any little maiden might admire,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Or any king-beholding cat might see</p> +<p class='indent2'>“My poor Bopeep,” he sigheth piteously,</p> +<p>“Rest here, and warm you at a hermit’s fire.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She looked so beautiful, there, mute and white,</p> +<p class='indent2'>He kissed her on the lips and on the eyes</p> +<p>(The most a prince could do in such a plight);</p> +<p class='indent2'>But chiefly gazed on her in still surprise,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And when he saw her lily eyelids rise,</p> +<p>For him the whole world had no fairer sight.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Rude is my fare: a bit of venison steak,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A dish of honey and a glass of wine,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span></p> +<p>With clean white bread, is the poor feast I make.</p> +<p class='indent2'>Be served, I pray: I think this flask is fine,”</p> +<p class='indent2'>He said. “Hard is this hermit life of mine:</p> +<p>This day I will its weariness forsake.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXIV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And then he told her how it chanced that he,</p> +<p class='indent2'>King Cole’s son, in that forest held his court,</p> +<p>And the sole reason that there seemed to be</p> +<p class='indent2'>Was, he was being hermit there for sport;</p> +<p class='indent2'>But he confessed the life was not his forte,</p> +<p>And therewith both laughed out right jollily.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And sly Bopeep forgot her sheep again</p> +<p class='indent2'>In gay discourse with that engaging youth:</p> +<p>Love hath such sovran remedies for pain!</p> +<p class='indent2'>But then he was a handsome prince, in truth,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And both were young, and both were silly, sooth,</p> +<p>And everything to Love but love seems vain.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXVI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>They took them down the silver-claspéd book</p> +<p class='indent2'>That this young anchorite’s predecessor kept,––</p> +<p>A holy seer,––and through it they did look;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span></p> +<p class='indent2'>Sometimes their idle eyes together crept,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Sometimes their lips; but still the leaves they swept,</p> +<p>Until they found a shepherd’s pictured crook.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXVII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And underneath was writ it should befall</p> +<p class='indent2'>On such a day, in such a month and year,</p> +<p>A maiden fair, a young prince brave and tall,</p> +<p class='indent2'>By such a chance should come together here.</p> +<p class='indent2'>They were the people, that was very clear:</p> +<p>“O love,” the prince said, “let us read it all!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXVIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And thus the hermit’s prophecy ran on:</p> +<p class='indent2'>Though she her lost sheep wist not where to find,</p> +<p>Yet should she bid her weary care begone,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And banish every doubt from her sweet mind:</p> +<p class='indent2'>They, with their little snow-white tails behind,</p> +<p>Homeward would go, if they were left alone.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXIX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>They closed the book, and in her happy eyes</p> +<p class='indent2'>The prince read truth and love forevermore,––</p> +<p>Better than any hermit’s prophecies!</p> +<p class='indent2'>They passed together from the cavern’s door;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Embraced, they turned to look at it once more,</p> +<p>And over it beheld the glad sun rise,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span></p> +<p class='center'>XXX.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>That streamed before them aisles of dusk and gold</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under the song-swept arches of the wood,</p> +<p>And forth they went, tranced in each other’s hold,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Down through that rare and luminous solitude,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Their happy hearts enchanted in the mood</p> +<p>Of morning, and of May, and romance old.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sometimes the saucy leaves would kiss her cheeks,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And he must kiss their wanton kiss away;</p> +<p>To die beneath her feet the wood-flower seeks,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The quivering aspen feels a fine dismay,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And many a scented blossom on the spray</p> +<p>In odorous sighs its passionate longing speaks.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And forth they went down to that stately stream,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Bowed over by the ghostly sycamores</p> +<p>(Awearily, as if some heavy dream</p> +<p class='indent2'>Held them in languor), but whose opulent shores</p> +<p class='indent2'>With pearléd shells and dusts of precious ores</p> +<p>Were tremulous brilliance in the morning beam;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Where waited them, beside the lustrous sand,</p> +<p class='indent2'>A silk-winged shallop, sleeping on the flood;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span></p> +<p>And smoothly wafted from the hither strand,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Across the calm, broad stream they lightly rode,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under them still the silver fishes stood;</p> +<p>The eager lilies, on the other land,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXIV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Beckonéd them; but where the castle shone</p> +<p class='indent2'>With diamonded turrets and a wall</p> +<p>Of gold-embedded pearl and costly stone,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Their vision to its peerless splendor thrall</p> +<p class='indent2'>The maiden fair, the young prince brave and tall,</p> +<p>Thither with light, unlingering feet pressed on.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A gallant train to meet this loving pair,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In silk and steel, moves from the castle door,</p> +<p>And up the broad and ringing castle stair</p> +<p class='indent2'>They go with gleeful minstrelsy before,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And “Hail our prince and princess evermore!”</p> +<p>From all the happy throng is greeting there.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXVI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And in the hall the prince’s sire, King Cole,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Sitting with crown and royal ermine on,</p> +<p>His fiddlers three behind with pipe and bowl,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Rises and moves to lift his kneeling son,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Greeting his bride with kisses many a one,</p> +<p>And tears and laughter from his jolly soul;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span></p> +<p class='center'>XXXVII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then both his children to a window leads</p> +<p class='indent2'>That over daisied pasture-land looks out,</p> +<p>And shows Bopeep where her lost flock wide feeds,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And every frolic lambkin leaps about.</p> +<p class='indent2'>She hears Boy-Blue, that lazy shepherd, shout,</p> +<p>Slow pausing from his pipe of mellow reeds;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>XXXVIII.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And, turning, peers into her prince’s eyes;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Then, caught and clasped against her prince’s heart,</p> +<p>Upon her breath her answer wordless dies,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And leaves her gratitude to sweeter art,––</p> +<p class='indent2'>To lips from which the bloom shall never part,</p> +<p>To looks wherein the summer never dies!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span> +<a name='WHILE_SHE_SANG' id='WHILE_SHE_SANG'></a> +<h2>WHILE SHE SANG.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She sang, and I heard the singing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Far out of the wretched past,</p> +<p>Of meadow-larks in the meadow,</p> +<p class='indent2'>In a breathing of the blast.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Cold through the clouds of sunset</p> +<p class='indent2'>The thin red sunlight shone,</p> +<p>Staining the gloom of the woodland</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where I walked and dreamed alone;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And glinting with chilly splendor</p> +<p class='indent2'>The meadow under the hill,</p> +<p>Where the lingering larks were lurking</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the sere grass hid and still.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Out they burst with their singing,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Their singing so loud and gay;</p> +<p>They made in the heart of October</p> +<p class='indent2'>A sudden ghastly May,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>That faded and ceased with their singing.</p> +<p class='indent2'>The thin red sunlight paled,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span></p> +<p>And through the boughs above me</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wind of evening wailed;––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Wailed, and the light of evening</p> +<p class='indent2'>Out of the heaven died;</p> +<p>And from the marsh by the river</p> +<p class='indent2'>The lonesome killdee cried.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The song is done, but a phantom</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of music haunts the chords,</p> +<p>That thrill with its subtile presence,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And grieve for the dying words.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And in the years that are perished,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Far back in the wretched past,</p> +<p>I see on the May-green meadows</p> +<p class='indent2'>The white snow falling fast;––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Falling, and falling, and falling,</p> +<p class='indent2'>As still and cold as death,</p> +<p>On the bloom of the odorous orchard,</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the small, meek flowers beneath;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On the roofs of the village-houses,</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the long, silent street,</p> +<p>Where its plumes are soiled and broken</p> +<p class='indent2'>Under the passing feet;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span></p> +<p>On the green crest of the woodland,</p> +<p class='indent2'>On the cornfields far apart;</p> +<p>On the cowering birds in the gable,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And on my desolate heart.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span> +<a name='A_POET' id='A_POET'></a> +<h2>A POET.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>From wells where Truth in secret lay</p> +<p>He saw the midnight stars by day.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“O marvellous gift!” the many cried,</p> +<p>“O cruel gift!” his voice replied.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The stars were far, and cold, and high,</p> +<p>That glimmered in the noonday sky;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He yearned toward the sun in vain,</p> +<p>That warmed the lives of other men.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span> +<a name='CONVENTION' id='CONVENTION'></a> +<h2>CONVENTION.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>He falters on the threshold,</p> +<p class='indent2'>She lingers on the stair:</p> +<p>Can it be that was his footstep?</p> +<p class='indent2'>Can it be that she is there?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Without is tender yearning,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And tender love is within;</p> +<p>They can hear each other’s heart-beats,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But a wooden door is between.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span> +<a name='THE_POETS_FRIENDS' id='THE_POETS_FRIENDS'></a> +<h2>THE POET’S FRIENDS.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The robin sings in the elm;</p> +<p class='indent2'>The cattle stand beneath,</p> +<p>Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes</p> +<p class='indent2'>And fragrant meadow-breath.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>They listen to the flattered bird,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The wise-looking, stupid things;</p> +<p>And they never understand a word</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of all the robin sings.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span> +<a name='NO_LOVE_LOST_A_ROMANCE_OF_TRAVEL' id='NO_LOVE_LOST_A_ROMANCE_OF_TRAVEL'></a> +<h2>NO LOVE LOST.</h2> +<h3>A ROMANCE OF TRAVEL.</h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>1862.</p> +<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>Bertha</span>––<i>Writing from Venice</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On your heart I feign myself fallen––ah, heavier burden,</p> +<p>Darling, of sorrow and pain than ever shall rest there! I take you</p> +<p>Into these friendless arms of mine, that you cannot escape me;</p> +<p>Closer and closer I fold you, and tell you all, and you listen</p> +<p>Just as you used at home, and you let my sobs and my silence</p> +<p>Speak, when the words will not come––and you understand and forgive me.</p> +<p>––Ah! no, no! but I write, with the wretched bravado of distance,</p> +<p>What you must read unmoved by the pity too far for entreaty.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span></p> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Well, I could never have loved him, but when he sought me and asked me,––</p> +<p>When to the men that offered their lives, the love of a woman</p> +<p>Seemed so little to give!––I promised the love that he asked me,</p> +<p>Sent him to war with my kiss on his lips, and thought him my hero.</p> +<p>Afterward came the doubt, and out of long question, self-knowledge,––</p> +<p>Came that great defeat, and the heart of the nation was withered;</p> +<p>Mine leaped high with the awful relief won of death. But the horror,</p> +<p>Then, of the crime that was wrought in that guilty moment of rapture,––</p> +<p>Guilty as if my will had winged the bullet that struck him,––</p> +<p>Clung to me day and night, and dreaming I saw him forever,</p> +<p>Looking through battle-smoke with sorrowful eyes of upbraiding,</p> +<p>Or, in the moonlight lying gray, or dimly approaching,</p> +<p>Holding toward me his arms, that still held nearer and nearer,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span></p> +<p>Folded about me at last ... and I would I had died in the fever!––</p> +<p>Better then than now, and better than ever hereafter!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Weary as some illusion of fever to me was the ocean––</p> +<p>Storm-swept, scourged with bitter rains, and wandering always</p> +<p>Onward from sky to sky with endless processions of surges,</p> +<p>Knowing not life nor death, but since the light was, the first day,</p> +<p>Only enduring unrest till the darkness possess it, the last day.</p> +<p>Over its desolate depths we voyaged away from all living:</p> +<p>All the world behind us waned into vaguest remoteness;</p> +<p>Names, and faces, and scenes recurred like that broken remembrance</p> +<p>Of the anterior, bodiless life of the spirit,––the trouble</p> +<p>Of a bewildered brain, or the touch of the Hand that created,––</p> +<p>And when the ocean ceased at last like a faded illusion,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span></p> +<p>Europe itself seemed only a vision of eld and of sadness.</p> +<p>Naught but the dark in my soul remained to me constant and real,</p> +<p>Growing and taking the thoughts bereft of happier uses,</p> +<p>Blotting all sense of lapse from the days that with swift iteration</p> +<p>Were and were not. They fable the bright days the fleetest:</p> +<p>These that had nothing to give, that had nothing to bring or to promise,</p> +<p>Went as one day alone. For me was no alternation</p> +<p>Save from my dull despair to wild and reckless rebellion,</p> +<p>When the regret for my sin was turned to ruthless self-pity––</p> +<p>When I hated him whose love had made me its victim,</p> +<p>Through his faith and my falsehood yet claiming me. Then I was smitten</p> +<p>With so great remorse, such grief for him, and compassion,</p> +<p>That, if he could have come back to me, I had welcomed and loved him</p> +<p>More than man ever was loved. Alas, for me that another</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span></p> +<p>Holds his place in my heart evermore! Alas, that I listened</p> +<p>When the words, whose daring lured my spirit and lulled it,</p> +<p>Seemed to take my blame away with my will of resistance!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Do not make haste to condemn me: my will was the will of a woman,––</p> +<p>Fain to be broken by love. Yet unto the last I endeavored</p> +<p>What I could to be faithful still to the past and my penance;</p> +<p>And as we stood that night in the old Roman garden together––</p> +<p>By the fountain whose passionate tears but now had implored me</p> +<p>In his pleading voice––and he waited my answer, I told him</p> +<p>All that had been before of delusion and guilt, and conjured him</p> +<p>Not to darken his fate with mine. The costly endeavor</p> +<p>Only was subtler betrayal. O me, from the pang of confession,</p> +<p>Sprang what strange delight, as I tore from its lurking that horror––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span></p> +<p>Brooded upon so long––with the hope that at last I might see it</p> +<p>Through his eyes, unblurred by the tears that disordered my vision!</p> +<p>Oh, with what rapturous triumph I humbled my spirit before him,</p> +<p>That he might lift me and soothe me, and make that dreary remembrance,</p> +<p>All this confused present, seem only some sickness of fancy,</p> +<p>Only a morbid folly, no certain and actual trouble!</p> +<p>If from that refuge I fled with words of too feeble denial––</p> +<p>Bade him hate me, with sobs that entreated his tenderest pity,</p> +<p>Moved mute lips and left the meaningless farewell unuttered––</p> +<p>She that never has loved, alone can wholly condemn me.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>How could he other than follow? My heart had bidden him follow,</p> +<p>Nor had my lips forbidden; and Rome yet glimmered behind me,</p> +<p>When my soul yearned towards his from the sudden forlornness of absence.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span></p> +<p>Everywhere his face looked from vanishing glimpses of faces,</p> +<p>Everywhere his voice reached my senses in fugitive cadence.</p> +<p>Sick, through the storied cities, with wretched hopes, and upbraidings</p> +<p>Of my own heart for its hopes, I went from wonder to wonder,</p> +<p>Blind to them all, or only beholding them wronged, and related,</p> +<p>Through some trick of wayward thought, to myself and my trouble.</p> +<p>Not surprise nor regret, but a fierce, precipitate gladness</p> +<p>Sent the blood to my throbbing heart when I found him in Venice.</p> +<p>“Waiting for you,” he whispered; “you would so.” I answered him nothing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Father, whose humor grows more silent and ever more absent</p> +<p>(Changed in all but love for me since the death of my mother),</p> +<p>Willing to see me contented at last, and trusting us wholly,</p> +<p>Left us together alone in our world of love and of beauty.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span></p> +<p>So, by noon and by night, we two have wandered in Venice,</p> +<p>Where the beautiful lives in vivid and constant caprices,</p> +<p>Yet, where the charm is so perfect that nothing fantastic surprises</p> +<p>More than in dreams, and one’s life with the life of the city is blended</p> +<p>In a luxurious calm, and the tumult without and beyond it</p> +<p>Seems but the emptiest fable of vain aspiration and labor.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Yes, from all that makes this Venice sole among cities,</p> +<p>Peerless forever,––the still lagoons that sleep in the sunlight,</p> +<p>Lulled by their island-bells; the night’s mysterious waters</p> +<p>Lit through their shadowy depths by stems of splendor, that blossom</p> +<p>Into the lamps that float, like flamy lotuses, over;</p> +<p>Narrow and secret canals, that dimly gleaming and glooming</p> +<p>Under palace-walls and numberless arches of bridges,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span></p> +<p>List no sound but the dip of the gondolier’s oar and his warning</p> +<p>Cried from corner to corner; the sad, superb Canalazzo</p> +<p>Mirroring marvellous grandeur and beauty, and dreaming of glory</p> +<p>Out of the empty homes of her lords departed; the footways</p> +<p>Wandering sunless between the walls of the houses, and stealing</p> +<p>Glimpses, through rusted cancelli, of lurking greenness of gardens,</p> +<p>Wild-grown flowers and broken statues and mouldering frescos;</p> +<p>Thoroughfares filled with traffic, and throngs ever ebbing and flowing</p> +<p>To and from the heart of the city, whose pride and devotion,</p> +<p>Lifting high the bells of St. Mark’s like prayers unto heaven,</p> +<p>Stretch a marble embrace of palaces toward the cathedral</p> +<p>Orient, gorgeous, and flushed with color and light, like the morning!––</p> +<p>From the lingering waste that is not yet ruin in Venice,</p> +<p>And her phantasmal show, through all, of being and doing––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span></p> +<p>Came a strange joy to us, untouched by regret for the idle</p> +<p>Days without yesterdays that died into nights without morrows.</p> +<p>Here, in our paradise of love we reigned, new-created,</p> +<p>As in the youth of the world, in the days before evil and conscience.</p> +<p>Ah! in our fair, lost world was neither fearing nor doubting,</p> +<p>Neither the sickness of old remorse nor the gloom of foreboding,––</p> +<p>Only the glad surrender of all individual being</p> +<p>Unto him whom I loved, and in whose tender possession,</p> +<p>Fate-free, my soul reposed from its anguish.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent8'>––Of these things I write you</p> +<p>As of another’s experience; part of my own they no longer</p> +<p>Seem to me now, through the doom that darkens the past like the future.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>VI.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Golden the sunset gleamed, above the city behind us,</p> +<p>Out of a city of clouds as fairy and lovely as Venice,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span></p> +<p>While we looked at the fishing-tails of purple and yellow</p> +<p>Far on the rim of the sea, whose light and musical surges</p> +<p>Broke along the sands with a faint, reiterant sadness.</p> +<p>But, when the sails had darkened into black wings, through the twilight</p> +<p>Sweeping away into night––past the broken tombs of the Hebrews</p> +<p>Homeward we sauntered slowly, through dew-sweet, blossomy alleys;</p> +<p>So drew near the boat by errant and careless approaches,</p> +<p>Entered, and left with indolent pulses the Lido behind us.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>All the sunset had paled, and the campanili of Venice</p> +<p>Rose like the masts of a mighty fleet moored there in the water.</p> +<p>Lights flashed furtively to and fro through the deepening twilight.</p> +<p>Massed in one thick shade lay the Gardens; the numberless islands</p> +<p>Lay like shadows upon the lagoons. And on us as we loitered</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span></p> +<p>By their enchanted coasts, a spell of ineffable sweetness</p> +<p>Fell and made us at one with them; and silent and blissful</p> +<p>Shadows we seemed, that drifted on through a being of shadow,</p> +<p>Vague, indistinct to ourselves, unbounded by hope or remembrance.</p> +<p>Yet we knew the beautiful night, as it grew from the evening:</p> +<p>Far beneath us and far above us the vault of the heavens</p> +<p>Glittered and darkened; and now the moon, that had haunted the daylight</p> +<p>Thin and pallid, dimmed the stars with her fulness of splendor,</p> +<p>And over all the lagoons fell the silvery rain of the moonbeams,</p> +<p>As in the song the young girls sang while their gondolas passed us,––</p> +<p>Sang in the joy of love, or youth’s desire of loving.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Balmy night of the South! O perfect night of the Summer!</p> +<p>Night of the distant dark, of the near and tender effulgence!––</p> +<p>How from my despair are thy peace and loveliness frightened!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span></p> +<p>For, while our boat lay there at the will of the light undulations,</p> +<p>Idle as if our mood imbued and controlled it, yet ever</p> +<p>Seeming to bear us on athwart those shining expanses</p> +<p>Out to shining seas beyond pursuit or returning––</p> +<p>There, while we lingered, and lingered, and would not break from our rapture,</p> +<p>Down the mirrored night another gondola drifted</p> +<p>Nearer and slowly nearer our own, and moonlighted faces</p> +<p>Stared. And that sweet trance grew a rigid and dreadful possession,</p> +<p>Which, if no dream indeed, yet mocked with such semblance of dreaming,</p> +<p>That, as it happens in dreams, when a dear face, stooping to kiss us,</p> +<p>Takes, ere the lips have touched, some malign and horrible aspect,</p> +<p><i>His</i> face faded away, and the face of the Dead––of that other––</p> +<p>Flashed on mine, and writhing, through every change of emotion,––</p> +<p>Wild amaze and scorn, accusation and pitiless mocking,––</p> +<p>Vanished into the swoon whose blackness encompassed and hid me.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span></p> +<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>Philip</span>––<i>To Bertha</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>I am not sure, I own, that if first I had seen my delusion</p> +<p>When I saw <i>you</i>, last night, I should be so ready to give you</p> +<p>Now your promises back, and hold myself nothing above you,</p> +<p>That it is mine to offer a freedom you never could ask for.</p> +<p>Yet, believe me, indeed, from no bitter heart I release you:</p> +<p>You are as free of me now as though I had died in the battle,</p> +<p>Or as I never had lived. Nay, if it is mine to forgive you,</p> +<p>Go without share of the blame that could hardly be all upon your side.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Ghosts are not sensitive things; yet, after my death in the papers,</p> +<p>Sometimes a harrowing doubt assailed this impalpable essence:</p> +<p>Had I done so well to plead my cause at that moment,</p> +<p>When your consent must be yielded less to the lover than soldier?</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span></p> +<p>“Not so well,” I was answered by that ethereal conscience</p> +<p>Ghosts have about them, “and not so nobly or wisely as might be.”</p> +<p>––Truly, I loved you, then, as now I love you no longer.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>I was a prisoner then, and this doubt in the languor of sickness</p> +<p>Came; and it clung to my convalescence, and grew to the purpose,</p> +<p>After my days of captivity ended, to seek you and solve it,</p> +<p>And, if I haply had erred, to undo the wrong, and release you.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Well, you have solved me the doubt. I dare to trust that you wept me,</p> +<p>Just a little, at first, when you heard of me dead in the battle?</p> +<p>For we were plighted, you know, and even in this saintly humor,</p> +<p>I would scarce like to believe that my loss had merely relieved you.</p> +<p>Yet, I say, it was prudent and well not to wait for my coming</p> +<p>Back from the dead. If it may be I sometimes had cherished a fancy</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span></p> +<p>That I had won some right to the palm with the pang of the martyr,––</p> +<p>Fondly intended, perhaps, some splendor of self-abnegation,––</p> +<p>Doubtless all that was a folly which merciful chances have spared me.</p> +<p>No, I am far from complaining that Circumstance coolly has ordered</p> +<p>Matters of tragic fate in such a commonplace fashion.</p> +<p>How do I know, indeed, that the easiest isn’t the best way?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Friendly adieux end this note, and our little comedy with it.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>Fanny</span>––<i>To Clara</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Yes, I promised to write, but how shall I write to you, darling?</p> +<p>Venice we reached last Monday, wild for canals and for color,</p> +<p>Palaces, prisons, lagoons, and gondolas, bravoes, and moonlight,</p> +<p>All the mysterious, dreadful, beautiful things in existence.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span></p> +<p>Fred had joined us at Naples, insuff’rably knowing and travelled,</p> +<p>Wise in the prices of things and great at tempestuous bargains,</p> +<p>Rich in the costly nothing our youthful travellers buy here,</p> +<p>At a prodigious outlay of time and money and trouble;</p> +<p>Utter confusion of facts, and talking the wildest of pictures,––</p> +<p>Pyramids, battle-fields, bills, and examinations of luggage,</p> +<p>Passports, policemen, porters, and how he got through his tobacco,––</p> +<p>Ignorant, handsome, full-bearded, brown, and good-natured as ever:</p> +<p>Annie thinks him perfect, and I well enough for a brother.</p> +<p>Also, a friend of Fred’s came with us from Naples to Venice;</p> +<p>And, altogether, I think, we are rather agreeable people,</p> +<p>For we’ve been taking our pleasure at all times in perfect good-humor;</p> +<p>Which is an excellent thing that you’ll understand when you’ve travelled,</p> +<p>Seen Recreation dead-beat and cross, and learnt what a burden</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span></p> +<p>Frescos, for instance, can be, and, in general, what an affliction</p> +<p>Life is apt to become among the antiques and old masters.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Venice we’ve thoroughly done, and it’s perfectly true of the pictures––</p> +<p>Titians and Tintorettos, and Palmas and Paul Veroneses;</p> +<p>Neither are gondolas fictions, but verities, hearse-like and swan-like,</p> +<p>Quite as the heart could wish. And one finds, to one’s infinite comfort,</p> +<p>Venice just as unique as one’s fondest visions have made it:</p> +<p>Palaces and mosquitoes rise from the water together,</p> +<p>And, in the city’s streets, the salt-sea is ebbing and flowing</p> +<p>Several inches or more.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>––Ah! let me not wrong thee, O Venice!</p> +<p>Fairest, forlornest, and saddest of all the cities, and dearest!</p> +<p>Dear, for my heart has won here deep peace from cruel confusion;</p> +<p>And in this lucent air, whose night is but tenderer noon-day,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span></p> +<p>Fear is forever dead, and hope has put on the immortal!</p> +<p>––There! and you need not laugh. I’m coming to something directly.</p> +<p>One thing: I’ve bought you a chain of the famous fabric of Venice––</p> +<p>Something peculiar and quaint, and of such a delicate texture</p> +<p>That you must wear it embroidered upon a riband of velvet,</p> +<p>If you would have the effect of its exquisite fineness and beauty.</p> +<p>“Isn’t it very frail?” I asked of the workman who made it.</p> +<p>“Strong enough, if you will, to bind a lover, signora,”––</p> +<p>With an expensive smile. ’Twas bought near the Bridge of Rialto.</p> +<p>(Shylock, you know.) In our shopping, Aunt May and Fred do the talking:</p> +<p>Fred begins always in French, with the most delicious effront’ry,</p> +<p>Only to end in profoundest humiliation and English.</p> +<p>Aunt, however, scorns to speak any tongue but Italian:</p> +<p>“Quanto per these ones here?” and “What did you say was the prezzo?”</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span></p> +<p>“Ah! troppo caro! <i>Too much!</i> No, no! Don’t I <i>tell</i> you it’s troppo?”</p> +<p>All the while insists that the gondolieri shall show us</p> +<p>What she calls Titian’s palazzo, and pines for the house of Othello.</p> +<p>Annie, the dear little goose, believes in Fred and her mother</p> +<p>With an enchanting abandon. She doesn’t at all understand them,</p> +<p>But she has some twilight views of their cleverness. Father is quiet,</p> +<p>Now and then ventures some French when he fancies that nobody hears him,</p> +<p>In an aside to the valet-de-place––I never detect him––</p> +<p>Buys things for mother and me with a quite supernatural sweetness,</p> +<p>Tolerates all Fred’s airs, and is indispensably pleasant.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Prattling on of these things, which I think cannot interest deeply,</p> +<p>So I hold back in my heart its dear and wonderful secret</p> +<p>(Which I must tell you at last, however I falter to tell you),</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span></p> +<p>Fain to keep it all my own for a little while longer,––</p> +<p>Doubting but it shall lose some part of its strangeness and sweetness,</p> +<p>Shared with another, and fearful that even <i>you</i> may not find it</p> +<p>Just the marvel that I do––and thus turn our friendship to hatred.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Sometimes it seems to me that this love, which I feel is eternal,</p> +<p>Must have begun with my life, and that only an absence was ended</p> +<p>When we met and knew in our souls that we loved one another.</p> +<p>For from the first was no doubt. The earliest hints of the passion,</p> +<p>Whispered to girlhood’s tremulous dream, may be mixed with misgiving,</p> +<p>But, when the very love comes, it bears no vagueness of meaning;</p> +<p>Touched by its truth (too fine to be felt by the ignorant senses,</p> +<p>Knowing but looks and utterance) soul unto soul makes confession,</p> +<p>Silence to silence speaks. And I think that this subtile assurance,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span></p> +<p>Yet unconfirmed from without, is even sweeter and dearer</p> +<p>Than the perfected bliss that comes when the words have been spoken.</p> +<p>––Not that I’d have them unsaid, now! But ’t was delicious to ponder</p> +<p>All the miracle over, and clasp it, and keep it, and hide it,––</p> +<p>While I beheld him, you know, with looks of indifferent languor,</p> +<p>Talking of other things, and felt the divine contradiction</p> +<p>Trouble my heart below!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent8'>And yet, if no doubt touched our passion,</p> +<p>Do not believe for that, our love has been wholly unclouded.</p> +<p>All best things are ours when pain and patience have won them:</p> +<p>Peace itself would mean nothing but for the strife that preceded;</p> +<p>Triumph of love is greatest, when peril of love has been sorest.</p> +<p>(That’s to say, I dare say. I’m only repeating what <i>he</i> said.)</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span></p> +<p>Well, then, of all wretched things in the world, a mystery, Clara,</p> +<p>Lurked in this life dear to mine, and hopelessly held us asunder</p> +<p>When we drew nearest together, and all but his speech said, “I love you.”</p> +<p>Fred had known him at college, and then had found him at Naples,</p> +<p>After several years,––and called him a capital fellow.</p> +<p>Thus far his knowledge went, and beyond this began to run shallow</p> +<p>Over troubled ways, and to break into brilliant conjecture,</p> +<p>Harder by far to endure than the other’s reticent absence––</p> +<p>Absence wherein at times he seemed to walk like one troubled</p> +<p>By an uneasy dream, whose spell is not broken with waking,</p> +<p>But it returns all day with a vivid and sudden recurrence,</p> +<p>Like a remembered event. Of the past that was closest the present,</p> +<p>This we knew from himself: He went at the earliest summons,</p> +<p>When the Rebellion began, and falling, terribly wounded,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span></p> +<p>Into the enemy’s hands, after ages of sickness and prison,</p> +<p>Made his escape at last; and, returning, found all his virtues</p> +<p>Grown out of recognition and shining in posthumous splendor,––</p> +<p>Found all changed and estranged, and, he fancied, more wonder than welcome.</p> +<p>So, somewhat heavy of heart, and disabled for war, he had wandered</p> +<p>Hither to Europe for perfecter peace. Abruptly his silence,</p> +<p>Full of suggestion and sadness, made here a chasm between us;</p> +<p>But we spanned the chasm with conversational bridges,</p> +<p>Else talked all around it, and feigned an ignorance of it,</p> +<p>With that absurd pretence which is always so painful, or comic,</p> +<p>Just as you happen to make it or see it.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent14'>In spite of our fictions,</p> +<p>Severed from his by that silence, my heart grew ever more anxious,</p> +<p>Till last night when together we sat in Piazza San Marco</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span></p> +<p>(Then, when the morrow must bring us parting––forever, it might be),</p> +<p>Taking our ices al fresco. Some strolling minstrels were singing</p> +<p>Airs from the Trovatore. I noted with painful observance,</p> +<p>With the unwilling minuteness at such times absolute torture,</p> +<p>All that brilliant scene, for which I cared nothing, before me:</p> +<p>Dark-eyed Venetian leoni regarding the forestieri</p> +<p>With those compassionate looks of gentle and curious wonder</p> +<p>Home-keeping Italy’s nations bend on the voyaging races,––</p> +<p>Taciturn, indolent, sad, as their beautiful city itself is;</p> +<p>Groups of remotest English––not just the traditional English</p> +<p>(Lavish Milor is no more, and your travelling Briton is frugal)––</p> +<p>English, though, after all, with the Channel always between them,</p> +<p>Islanded in themselves, and the Continent’s sociable races;</p> +<p>Country-people of ours––the New World’s confident children,</p> +<p>Proud of America always, and even vain of the Troubles</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span></p> +<p>As of disaster laid out on a scale unequalled in Europe;</p> +<p>Polyglot Russians that spoke all languages better than natives;</p> +<p>White-coated Austrian officers, anglicized Austrian dandies;</p> +<p>Gorgeous Levantine figures of Greek, and Turk, and Albanian––</p> +<p>These, and the throngs that moved through the long arcades and Piazza,</p> +<p>Shone on by numberless lamps that flamed round the perfect Piazza,</p> +<p>Jewel-like set in the splendid frame of this beautiful picture,</p> +<p>Full of such motley life, and so altogether Venetian.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Then we rose and walked where the lamps were blanched by the moonlight</p> +<p>Flooding the Piazzetta with splendor, and throwing in shadow</p> +<p>All the façade of Saint Mark’s, with its pillars, and horses, and arches;</p> +<p>But the sculptured frondage, that blossoms over the arches</p> +<p>Into the forms of saints, was touched with tenderest lucence,</p> +<p>And the angel that stands on the crest of the vast campanile</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span></p> +<p>Bathed his golden vans in the liquid light of the moonbeams.</p> +<p>Black rose the granite pillars that lift the Saint and the Lion;</p> +<p>Black sank the island campanili from distance to distance;</p> +<p>Over the charmèd scene there brooded a presence of music,</p> +<p>Subtler than sound, and felt, unheard, in the depth of the spirit.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>How can I gather and show you the airy threads of enchantment</p> +<p>Woven that night round my life and forever wrought into my being,</p> +<p>As in our boat we glided away from the glittering city?</p> +<p>Dull at heart I felt, and I looked at the lights in the water,</p> +<p>Blurring their brilliance with tears, while the tresses of eddying seaweed,</p> +<p>Whirled in the ebbing tide, like the tresses of sea-maidens drifting</p> +<p>Seaward from palace-haunts, in the moonshine glistened and darkened.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Sad and vague were my thoughts, and full of fear was the silence;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span></p> +<p>And, when he turned to speak at last, I trembled to hear him,</p> +<p>Feeling he now must speak of his love, and his life and its secret,––</p> +<p>Now that the narrowing chances had left but that cruel conclusion,</p> +<p>Else the life-long ache of a love and a trouble unuttered.</p> +<p>Better, my feebleness pleaded, the dreariest doubt that had vexed me,</p> +<p>Than my life left nothing, not even a doubt to console it;</p> +<p>But, while I trembled and listened, his broken words crumbled to silence,</p> +<p>And, as though some touch of fate had thrilled him with warning,</p> +<p>Suddenly from me he turned. Our gondola slipped from the shadow</p> +<p>Under a ship lying near, and glided into the moonlight,</p> +<p>Where, in its brightest lustre, another gondola rested.</p> +<p><i>I</i> saw two lovers there, and he, in the face of the woman,</p> +<p>Saw what has made him mine, my own belovèd, forever!</p> +<p>Mine!––but through <i>what</i> tribulation, and awful confusion of spirit!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span></p> +<p>Tears that I think of with smiles, and sighs I remember with laughter,</p> +<p>Agonies full of absurdity, keen, ridiculous anguish,</p> +<p>Ending in depths of blissful shame, and heavenly transports!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>White, and estranged as a man who has looked on a spectre, he mutely</p> +<p>Sank to the place at my side, nor while we returned to the city</p> +<p>Uttered a word of explaining, or comment, or comfort, but only,</p> +<p>With his good-night, incoherently craved my forgiveness and patience,</p> +<p>Parted, and left me to spend the night in hysterical vigils,</p> +<p>Tending to Annie’s supreme dismay, and postponing our journey</p> +<p>One day longer at least; for I went to bed in the morning,</p> +<p>Firmly rejecting the pity of friends, and the pleasures of travel,</p> +<p>Fixed in a dreadful purpose never to get any better.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Later, however, I rallied, when Fred, with a maddening prologue</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span></p> +<p>Touching the cause of my sickness, including his fever at Jaffa,</p> +<p>Told me that some one was waiting; and could he see me a moment?</p> +<p>See me? Certainly not. Or,––yes. But why did he want to?</p> +<p>So, in the dishabille of a morning-gown and an arm-chair,</p> +<p>Languid, with eloquent wanness of eye and of cheek, I received him––</p> +<p>Willing to touch and reproach, and half-melted myself by my pathos,</p> +<p>Which, with a reprobate joy, I wholly forgot the next instant,</p> +<p>When, with electric words, few, swift, and vivid, he brought me,</p> +<p>Through a brief tempest of tears, to this heaven of sunshine and sweetness.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Yes, he had looked on a ghost––the phantom of love that was perished!––</p> +<p>When, last night, he beheld the scene of which I have told you.</p> +<p>For to the woman he saw there, his troth had been solemnly plighted</p> +<p>Ere he went to the war. His return from the dead found her absent</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span></p> +<p>In the belief of his death; and hither to Europe he followed,––</p> +<p>Followed to seek her, and keep, if she would, the promise between them,</p> +<p>Or, were a haunting doubt confirmed, to break it and free her.</p> +<p>Then, at Naples we met, and the love that, before he was conscious,</p> +<p>Turned his life toward mine, laid torturing stress to the purpose</p> +<p>Whither it drove him forever, and whence forever it swerved him.</p> +<p>How could he tell me his love, with this terrible burden upon him?</p> +<p>How could he linger near me, and still withhold the avowal?</p> +<p>And what ruin were that, if the other were doubted unjustly,</p> +<p>And should prove fatally true! With shame, he confessed he had faltered,</p> +<p>Clinging to guilty delays, and to hopes that were bitter with treason,</p> +<p>Up to the eve of our parting. And then the last anguish was spared him.</p> +<p><i>Her</i> love for him was dead. But the heart that leaped in his bosom</p> +<p>With a great, dumb throb of joy and wonder and doubting,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span></p> +<p>Still must yield to the spell of his silencing will till that phantom</p> +<p>Proved an actual ghost by common-place tests of the daylight,</p> +<p>Such as speech with the lady’s father.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent14'>And now, could I pardon––</p> +<p>Nay, did I think I could love him? I sobbingly answered, I thought so.</p> +<p>And we are all of us going to Lago di Como to-morrow,</p> +<p>With an ulterior view at the first convenient Legation.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Patientest darling, good-by! Poor Fred, whose sense of what’s proper</p> +<p>Never was touched till now, is shocked at my glad self-betrayals,</p> +<p>And I am pointed out as an awful example to Annie,</p> +<p>Figuring all she must never be. But, oh, if <i>he</i> loves me!––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span></p> +<p class='center'>POSTSCRIPT.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent2'>Since, he has shown me a letter in which he absolves and forgives her</p> +<p>(Philip, of course, not Fred; and the <i>other</i>, of course, and not Annie).</p> +<p>Don’t you think him generous, noble, unselfish, heroic?</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>L’Envoy.</span>––<i>Clara’s Comment</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Well, I’m glad, I am sure, if Fanny supposes she’s happy.</p> +<p>I’ve no doubt her lover is good and noble––as men go.</p> +<p>But, as regards his release of a woman who’d wholly forgot him,</p> +<p>And whom he loved no longer, for one whom he loves, and who loves him,</p> +<p><i>I</i> don’t exactly see where the <i>heroism</i> commences.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span> +<a name='THE_SONG_THE_ORIOLE_SINGS' id='THE_SONG_THE_ORIOLE_SINGS'></a> +<h2>THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>There is a bird that comes and sings</p> +<p class='indent2'>In the Professor’s garden-trees;</p> +<p>Upon the English oak he swings,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And tilts and tosses in the breeze.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I know his name, I know his note,</p> +<p class='indent2'>That so with rapture takes my soul;</p> +<p>Like flame the gold beneath his throat,</p> +<p class='indent2'>His glossy cope is black as coal.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O oriole, it is the song</p> +<p class='indent2'>You sang me from the cottonwood,</p> +<p>Too young to feel that I was young,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Too glad to guess if life were good.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And while I hark, before my door,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Adown the dusty Concord Road,</p> +<p>The blue Miami flows once more</p> +<p class='indent2'>As by the cottonwood it flowed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And on the bank that rises steep,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And pours a thousand tiny rills,</p> +<p>From death and absence laugh and leap</p> +<p class='indent2'>My school-mates to their flutter-mills.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span></p> +<p>The blackbirds jangle in the tops</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of hoary-antlered sycamores;</p> +<p>The timorous killdee starts and stops</p> +<p class='indent2'>Among the drift-wood on the shores.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Below, the bridge––a noonday fear</p> +<p class='indent2'>Of dust and shadow shot with sun––</p> +<p>Stretches its gloom from pier to pier,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Far unto alien coasts unknown.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And on those alien coasts, above,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Where silver ripples break the stream’s</p> +<p>Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove</p> +<p class='indent2'>A hidden parrot scolds and screams.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things:</p> +<p class='indent2'>A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath––</p> +<p>It is a song the oriole sings––</p> +<p class='indent2'>And all the rest belongs to death.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But oriole, my oriole,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Were some bright seraph sent from bliss</p> +<p>With songs of heaven to win my soul</p> +<p class='indent2'>From simple memories such as this,</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>What could he tell to tempt my ear</p> +<p class='indent2'>From you? What high thing could there be,</p> +<p>So tenderly and sweetly dear</p> +<p class='indent2'>As my lost boyhood is to me?</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span> +<a name='PORDENONE' id='PORDENONE'></a> +<h2>PORDENONE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>I.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Hard by the Church of Saint Stephen, in sole and beautiful Venice,</p> +<p>Under the colonnade of the Augustinian Convent,</p> +<p>Every day, as I passed, I paused to look at the frescos</p> +<p>Painted upon the ancient walls of the court of the Convent</p> +<p>By a great master of old, who wore his sword and his dagger</p> +<p>While he wrought the figures of patriarchs, martyrs, and virgins</p> +<p>Into the sacred and famous scenes of Scriptural story.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>II.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Long ago the monks from their snug self-devotion were driven,</p> +<p>Wistful and fat and slow: looking backward, I fancied them going</p> +<p>Out through the sculptured doorway, and down the Ponte de’Frati,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span></p> +<p>Cowled and sandalled and beaded, a plump and pensive procession;</p> +<p>And in my day their cells were barracks for Austrian soldiers,</p> +<p>Who in their turn have followed the Augustinian Friars.</p> +<p>As to the frescos, little remained of work once so perfect.</p> +<p>Summer and winter weather of some three cycles had wasted;</p> +<p>Plaster had fallen, and left unsightly blotches of ruin;</p> +<p>Wanton and stupid neglect had done its worst to the pictures:</p> +<p>Yet to the sympathetic and reverent eye was apparent––</p> +<p>Where the careless glance but found, in expanses of plaster,</p> +<p>Touches of incoherent color and lines interrupted––</p> +<p>Somewhat still of the life of surpassing splendor and glory</p> +<p>Filling the frescos once; and here and there was a figure,</p> +<p>Standing apart, and out from the common decay and confusion,</p> +<p>Flushed with immortal youth and ineffaceable beauty,</p> +<p>Such as that figure of Eve in pathetic expulsion from Eden,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span></p> +<p>Taking––the tourist remembers––the wrath of Heaven al fresco,</p> +<p>As is her well-known custom in thousands of acres of canvas.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>III.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I could make out the much-bepainted Biblical subjects,</p> +<p>When I had patience enough: The Temptation, of course, and Expulsion;</p> +<p>Cain killing Abel, his Brother––the merest fragment of murder;</p> +<p>Noah’s Debauch––the trunk of the sea-faring patriarch naked,</p> +<p>And the garment, borne backward to cover it, fearfully tattered;</p> +<p>Abraham offering Isaac––no visible Isaac, and only</p> +<p>Abraham’s lifted knife held back by the hovering angel;</p> +<p>Martyrdom of Saint Stephen––a part of the figure of Stephen;</p> +<p>And the Conversion of Paul––the greaves on the leg of a soldier</p> +<p>Held across the back of a prostrate horse by the stirrup;</p> +<p>But when I looked at the face of that tearful and beauteous figure,––</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span></p> +<p>Eve in the fresco there, and, in Venice of old, Violante,</p> +<p>As I must fain believe (the lovely daughter of Palma,</p> +<p>Who was her father’s Saint Barbara, and was the Bella of Titian),––</p> +<p>Such a meaning and life shone forth from its animate presence</p> +<p>As could restore those vague and ineffectual pictures,</p> +<p>With their pristine colors, and fill them with light and with movement.</p> +<p>Nay, sometimes it could blind me to all the present about me,</p> +<p>Till I beheld no more the sausage-legged Austrian soldiers,</p> +<p>Where they stood on guard beside one door of the Convent,</p> +<p>Nor the sentinel beggars that watched the approach to the other;</p> +<p>Neither the bigolanti, the broad-backed Friulan maidens,</p> +<p>Drawing the water with clatter and splashing, and laughter and gossip,</p> +<p>Out of the carven well in the midst of the court of the Convent––</p> +<p>No, not even the one with the mole on her cheek and the sidelong</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span></p> +<p>Look, as she ambled forth with her buckets of bronze at her shoulder,</p> +<p>Swinging upon the yoke to and fro, a-drip and a-glimmer.</p> +<p>All in an instant was changed, and once more the cloister was peopled</p> +<p>By the serene monks of old, and against walls of the cloisters,</p> +<p>High on his scaffolding raised, Pordenone<a name='FNanchor_0005' id='FNanchor_0005'></a><a href='#Footnote_0005' class='fnanchor'>[5]</a> wrought at his frescos.</p> +<p>Armed with dagger and sword, as the legend tells, against Titian,</p> +<p>Who was his rival in art and in love.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>IV.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent18'>It seemed to be summer,</p> +<p>In the forenoon of the day; and the master’s diligent pencil</p> +<p>Laid its last light touches on Eve driven forth out of Eden,</p> +<p>Otherwise Violante, and while his pupils about him</p> +<p>Wrought and chattered, in silence ran the thought of the painter:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span></p> +<p>“She, and forever she! Is it come to be my perdition?</p> +<p>Shall I, then, never more make the face of a beautiful woman</p> +<p>But it must take her divine, accursèd beauty upon it,</p> +<p>And, when I finish my work, stand forth her visible presence?</p> +<p>Ah! I could take this sword and strike it into her bosom!</p> +<p>Though I believe my own heart’s blood would stream from the painting,</p> +<p>So much I love her! Yes, that look is marvellous like you,</p> +<p>Wandering, tender––such as I’d give my salvation to win you</p> +<p>Once to bend upon me! But I knew myself better than make you,</p> +<p>Lest I should play the fool about you here before people,</p> +<p>Helpless to turn away from your violet eyes, Violante,</p> +<p>That have turned all my life to a vision of madness.” The painter</p> +<p>Here unto speech betraying the thoughts he had silently pondered,</p> +<p>“Visions, visions, my son?” said a gray old friar who listened,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span></p> +<p>Seated there in the sun, with his eye on the work of the painter</p> +<p>Fishily fixed, while the master blasphemed behind his mustaches.</p> +<p>“Much have I envied your Art, who vouchsafeth to those who adore her</p> +<p>Visions of heavenly splendor denied to fastings and vigils.</p> +<p>I have spent days and nights of faint and painful devotion,</p> +<p>Scourged myself almost to death, without one glimpse of the glory</p> +<p>Which your touch has revealed in the face of that heavenly maiden.</p> +<p>Pleasure me to repeat what it was you were saying of visions:</p> +<p>Fain would I know how they come to you, though <i>I</i> never see them,</p> +<p>And in my thickness of hearing I fear some words have escaped me.”</p> +<p>Then, while the painter glared on the lifted face of the friar,</p> +<p>Baleful, breathless, bewildered, fiercer than noon in the dog-days,</p> +<p>Round the circle of pupils there ran a tittering murmur;</p> +<p>From the lips to the ears of those nameless Beppis and Gigis</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span></p> +<p>Buzzed the stinging whisper: “Let’s hear Pordenone’s confession.”</p> +<p>Well they knew the master’s luckless love, and whose portrait</p> +<p>He had unconsciously painted there, and guessed that his visions</p> +<p>Scarcely were those conceived by the friar, who constantly blundered</p> +<p>Round the painter at work, mistaking every subject––</p> +<p>Noah’s drunken Debauch for the Stoning of Stephen the Martyr,</p> +<p>And the Conversion of Paul for the Flight into Egypt; forever</p> +<p>Putting his hand to his ear and shouting, “Speak louder, I pray you!”</p> +<p>So they waited now, in silent, amused expectation,</p> +<p>Till Pordenone’s angry scorn should gather to bursting.</p> +<p>Long the painter gazed in furious silence, then slowly</p> +<p>Uttered a kind of moan, and turned again to his labor.</p> +<p>Tears gathered into his eyes, of mortification and pathos,</p> +<p>And when the dull old monk, who forgot, while he waited the answer,</p> +<p>Visions and painter, and all, had maundered away in his error,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span></p> +<p>Pordenone half envied the imbecile peace of his bosom;</p> +<p>“For in my own,” he mused, “is such a combat of devils,</p> +<p>That I believe torpid age or stupid youth would be better</p> +<p>Than this manhood of mine that has climbed aloft to discover</p> +<p>Heights which I never can reach, and bright on the pinnacle standing</p> +<p>In the unfading light, my rival crowned victor above me.</p> +<p>If I could hint what I feel, what forever escapes from my pencil,</p> +<p>All after-time should know my will was not less than my failure,</p> +<p>Nor should any one dare remember me merely in pity.</p> +<p>All should read my sorrows and do my discomfiture homage,</p> +<p>Saying: ‘Not meanly at any time this painter meant or endeavored;</p> +<p>His was the anguish of one who falls short of the highest achievement,</p> +<p>Conscious of doing his utmost, and knowing how vast his defeat is.</p> +<p>Life, if he would, might have had some second guerdon to give him,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span></p> +<p>But he would only the first; and behold! Let us honor</p> +<p>Grief such as his must have been; no other sorrow can match it!</p> +<p>There are certainly some things here that are nobly imagined:</p> +<p>Look! here is masterly power in this play of light, and these shadows</p> +<p>Boldly are massed; and what color! One can well understand Buonarotti</p> +<p>Saying the sight of his Curtius was worth the whole journey from Florence.</p> +<p>Here is a man at least never less than his work; you can feel it</p> +<p>As you can feel in Titian’s the painter’s inferior spirit.</p> +<p>He and this Pordenone, you know, were rivals; and Titian</p> +<p>Knew how to paint to the popular humor, and spared not</p> +<p>Foul means or fair (his way with rivals) to crush Pordenone,</p> +<p>Who with an equal chance’––</p> +<p class='indent18'>“Alas, if the whole world should tell me</p> +<p>I was his equal in art, and the lie could save me from torment,</p> +<p>So must I be lost, for my soul could never believe it!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span></p> +<p>Nay, let my envy snarl as fierce as it will at his glory,</p> +<p>Still, when I look on his work, my soul makes obeisance within me,</p> +<p>Humbling itself before the touch that shall never be equalled.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence,</p> +<p>And Pordenone was roused from these thoughts anon by the sudden</p> +<p>Hush that had fallen upon the garrulous group of his pupils;</p> +<p>And ere he turned half-way with instinctive looks of inquiry,</p> +<p>He was already warned, with a shock at the heart, of a presence</p> +<p>Long attended, not feared; and he laid one hand on his sword-hilt,</p> +<p>Seizing the sheath with the other hand, that the pallet had dropped from.</p> +<p>Then he fronted Titian, who stood with his arms lightly folded,</p> +<p>And with a curious smile, half of sarcasm, half of compassion,</p> +<p>Bent on th’ embattled painter, cried: “Your slave, Messere Antonio!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span></p> +<p>What good friend has played this bitter jest with your humor?</p> +<p>As I beheld you just now full-armed with your pencil and palette,</p> +<p>I was half awed by your might; but these sorry trappings of bravo</p> +<p>Make me believe you less fit to be the rival of Titian,</p> +<p>Here in the peaceful calm of our well-ordered city of Venice,</p> +<p>Than to take service under some Spanish lordling at Naples,</p> +<p>Needy in blades for work that can not wait for the poison.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Pordenone flushed with anger and shame to be taken</p> +<p>At an unguarded point; but he answered with scornful defiance:</p> +<p>“Oh, you are come, I see, with the favorite weapon of Titian,</p> +<p>And you would make a battle of words. If you care for my counsel,</p> +<p>Listen to me: I say you are skilfuller far in my absence,</p> +<p>And your tongue can inflict a keener and deadlier mischief</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span></p> +<p>When it is dipped in poisonous lies, and wielded in secret.”</p> +<p>“Nay, then,” Titian responded, “methinks that our friend Aretino<a name='FNanchor_0006' id='FNanchor_0006'></a><a href='#Footnote_0006' class='fnanchor'>[6]</a></p> +<p>Makes a much better effect than either of us in that tongue-play.</p> +<p>But since Messer Robusti has measured our wit for his portrait,</p> +<p>Even <i>he</i> has grown shyer of using his tongue than he once was.</p> +<p>Have you not heard the tale? Tintoretto was told Aretino</p> +<p>Meant to make him the subject of one of his merry effusions;</p> +<p>And with his naked dirk he went carefully over his person,</p> +<p>Promising, if the poet made free with him in his verses,</p> +<p>He would immortalize my satirical friend with that pencil.</p> +<p>Doubtless the tale is not true. Aretino says nothing about it;</p> +<p>Always speaks, in fact, with the highest respect of Robusti.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214' name='page_214'></a>214</span></p> +<p>True or not, ’tis well found.” Then looking around on the frescos:</p> +<p>“Good, very good indeed! Your breadth and richness and softness</p> +<p>No man living surpasses; those heads are truly majestic.</p> +<p>Yes, Buonarotti was right, when he said that to look at your Curtius</p> +<p>Richly repaid him the trouble and cost of a journey from Florence.</p> +<p>Surely the world shall know you the first of painters in fresco!</p> +<p>Well? You will not strike me unarmed? This was hardly expected</p> +<p>By the good people that taught you to think our rivalry blood-red.</p> +<p>Let us be friends, Pordenone!”</p> +<p class='indent18'>“Be patron and patronized, rather;</p> +<p>Nay, if you spoke your whole mind out, be assassin and victim.</p> +<p>Could the life beat again in the broken heart of Giorgione,</p> +<p>He might tell us, I think, something pleasant of friendship with Titian.”</p> +<p>Suddenly over the shoulder of Titian peered an ironical visage,</p> +<p>Smiling, malignly intent––the leer of the scurrilous poet:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215' name='page_215'></a>215</span></p> +<p>“You know––all the world knows––who dug the grave of Giorgione.<a name='FNanchor_0007' id='FNanchor_0007'></a><a href='#Footnote_0007' class='fnanchor'>[7]</a></p> +<p>Titian and he were no friends––our Lady of Sorrows forgive ’em!</p> +<p>But for all hurt that Titian did him he might have been living,</p> +<p>Greater than any living, and lord of renown and such glory</p> +<p>As would have left you both dull as yon withered moon in the sunshine.”</p> +<p>Loud laughed the listening group at the insolent gibe of the poet,</p> +<p>Stirring the gall to its depths in the bitter soul of their master,</p> +<p>Who with his tremulous fingers tapped the hilt of his poniard,</p> +<p>Answering naught as yet. Anon the glance of the ribald,</p> +<p>Carelessly ranging from Pordenone’s face to the picture,</p> +<p>Dwelt with an absent light on its marvellous beauty, and kindled</p> +<p>Into a slow recognition, with “Ha! Violante!” Then, erring</p> +<p>Wilfully as to the subject, he cackled his filthy derision:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216' name='page_216'></a>216</span></p> +<p>“What have we here! More Magdalens yet of the painter’s acquaintance?</p> +<p>Ah––!”</p> +<p class='indent6'>The words had scarce left his lips, when the painter</p> +<p>Rushed upon him, and clutching his throat, thrust him backward and held him</p> +<p>Over the scaffolding’s edge in air, and straightway had flung him</p> +<p>Crashing down on the pave of the cloister below, but for Titian,</p> +<p>Who around painter and poet alike wound his strong arms and stayed them</p> +<p>Solely, until the bewildered pupils could come to the rescue.</p> +<p>Then, as the foes relaxed that embrace of frenzy and murder––</p> +<p>White, one with rage and the other with terror, and either with hatred––</p> +<p>Grimly the great master smiled: “You were much nearer paradise, Piero,</p> +<p>Than you have been for some time. Be ruled now by me and get homeward</p> +<p>Fast as you may, and be thankful.” And then, as the poet,</p> +<p>Looking neither to right nor to left, amid the smiles of the pupils</p> +<p>Tottered along the platform, and trembling descended the ladder</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217' name='page_217'></a>217</span></p> +<p>Down to the cloister pave, and, still without upward or backward</p> +<p>Glance, disappeared beneath the outer door of the Convent,</p> +<p>Titian turned again to the painter: “Farewell, Pordenone!</p> +<p>Learn more fairly to know me. I envy you not; and no rival</p> +<p>Now, or at any time, have I held you, or ever shall hold you.</p> +<p>Prosper and triumph still, for all me: you shall but do me honor,</p> +<p>Seeing that I too serve the art that your triumphs illustrate.</p> +<p>I for my part find life too short for work and for pleasure;</p> +<p>If it should touch a century’s bound, I should think it too precious</p> +<p>Even to spare a moment for rage at another’s good fortune.</p> +<p>Do not be fooled by the purblind flatterers who would persuade you</p> +<p>Either of us shall have greater fame through the fall of the other.</p> +<p>We can thrive only in common. The tardily blossoming cycles,</p> +<p>Flowering at last in this glorious age of our art, had not waited,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218' name='page_218'></a>218</span></p> +<p>Folded calyxes still, for Pordenone or Titian.</p> +<p>Think you if we had not been, our pictures had never been painted?</p> +<p>Others had done them, or better, the same. We are only</p> +<p>Pencils God paints with. And think you that He had wanted for pencils</p> +<p>But for our being at hand? And yet––for some virtue creative</p> +<p>Dwells and divinely exists in the being of every creature,</p> +<p>So that the thing done through him is dear as if he had done it––</p> +<p>If I should see your power, a tint of this great efflorescence,</p> +<p>Fading, methinks I should feel myself beginning to wither.</p> +<p>They have abused your hate who told you that Titian was jealous.</p> +<p>Once, in my youth that is passed, I too had my hates and my envies.</p> +<p>’Sdeath! how it used to gall me––that power and depth of Giorgione!</p> +<p>I could have turned my knife in his heart when I looked at his portraits.</p> +<p>Ah! we learn somewhat still as the years go. Now, when I see you</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span></p> +<p>Doing this good work here, I am glad in my soul of its beauty.</p> +<p>Art is not ours, O friend! but if we are not hers, we are nothing.</p> +<p>Look at the face you painted last year––or yesterday, even:</p> +<p>Far, so far, it seems from you, so utterly, finally, parted,</p> +<p>Nothing is stranger to you than this child of your soul; and you wonder––</p> +<p>‘Did I indeed then do it?’ No thrill of the rapture of doing</p> +<p>Stirs in your breast at the sight. Nay, then, not even the beauty</p> +<p>Which we had seemed to create is our own: the frame universal</p> +<p>Is as much ours. And shall I hate you because you are doing</p> +<p>That which when done you cannot feel yours more than I mine can feel it?</p> +<p>It shall belong hereafter to all who perceive and enjoy it,</p> +<p>Rather than him who made it; he, least of all, shall enjoy it.</p> +<p>They of the Church conjure us to look on death and be humble;</p> +<p>I say, look upon life and keep your pride if you can, then:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span></p> +<p>See how to-day’s achievement is only to-morrow’s confusion;</p> +<p>See how possession always cheapens the thing that was precious</p> +<p>To our endeavor; how losses and gains are equally losses;</p> +<p>How in ourselves we are nothing, and how we are anything only</p> +<p>As indifferent parts of the whole, that still, on our ceasing,</p> +<p>Whole remains as before, no less without us than with us.</p> +<p>Were it not for the delight of doing, the wonderful instant</p> +<p>Ere the thing done is done and dead, life scarce were worth living.</p> +<p>Ah, but that makes life divine! We are gods, for that instant immortal,</p> +<p>Mortal for evermore, with a few days’ rumor––or ages’––</p> +<p>What does it matter? We, too, have our share of eating and drinking,</p> +<p>Love, and the liking of friends––mankind’s common portion and pleasure.</p> +<p>Come, Pordenone, with me; I would fain have you see my Assumption</p> +<p>While it is still unfinished, and stay with me for the evening:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span></p> +<p>You shall send home for your lute, and I’ll ask Sansovino to supper.<a name='FNanchor_0008' id='FNanchor_0008'></a><a href='#Footnote_0008' class='fnanchor'>[8]</a></p> +<p>After what happened just now I scarcely could ask Aretino;</p> +<p>Though, for the matter of that, the dog is not one to bear malice.</p> +<p>Will you not come?”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>V.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='indent6'>I listen with Titian, and wait for the answer.</p> +<p>But, whatever the answer that comes to Titian, I hear none.</p> +<p>Nay, while I linger, all those presences fade into nothing,</p> +<p>In the dead air of the past; and the old Augustinian Convent</p> +<p>Lapses to picturesque profanation again as a barrack;</p> +<p>Lapses and changes once more, and this time vanishes wholly,</p> +<p>Leaving me at the end with the broken, shadowy legend,</p> +<p>Broken and shadowy still, as in the beginning. I linger,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span></p> +<p>Teased with its vague unfathomed suggestion, and wonder,</p> +<p>As at first I wondered, what happened about Violante,</p> +<p>And am but ill content with those metaphysical phrases</p> +<p>Touching the strictly impersonal nature of personal effort,</p> +<p>Wherewithal Titian had fain avoided the matter at issue.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='fn' /> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0005' id='Footnote_0005'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0005'><span class='label'>[5]</span></a> +<p>Giovanni Antonio Licinio, called <i>Pordenone</i> from his +birth-place in the Friuli, was a contemporary of Titian’s, +whom he equalled in many qualities, and was one of the most +eminent Venetian painters in fresco.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0006' id='Footnote_0006'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0006'><span class='label'>[6]</span></a> +<p>Pietro Aretino, the satirical poet, was a friend of Titian, +whose house he frequented. The story of Tintoretto’s measuring +him for a portrait with his dagger is well known.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0007' id='Footnote_0007'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0007'><span class='label'>[7]</span></a> +<p>Giorgione (Giorgio Barbarelli) was Titian’s fellow-pupil +and rival in the school of Bellini. He died at thirty-four, after +a life of great triumphs and excesses.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0008' id='Footnote_0008'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0008'><span class='label'>[8]</span></a> +<p>Sansovino, the architect, was a familiar guest at Titian’s +table, in his house near the Fondamenta Nuove.</p> +</div> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span> +<a name='THE_LONG_DAYS' id='THE_LONG_DAYS'></a> +<h2>THE LONG DAYS.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Yes! they are here again, the long, long days,</p> +<p class='indent2'>After the days of winter, pinched and white;</p> +<p class='indent2'>Soon, with a thousand minstrels comes the light,</p> +<p>Late, the sweet robin-haunted dusk delays.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But the long days that bring us back the flowers,</p> +<p class='indent2'>The sunshine, and the quiet-dripping rain,</p> +<p class='indent2'>And all the things we knew of spring again,</p> +<p>The long days bring not the long-lost long hours.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The hours that now seem to have been each one</p> +<p class='indent2'>A summer in itself, a whole life’s bound,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Filled full of deathless joy––where in his round,</p> +<p>Have these forever faded from the sun?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The fret, the fever, the unrest endures,</p> +<p class='indent2'>But the time flies.... Oh, try, my little lad,</p> +<p class='indent2'>Coming so hot and play-worn, to be glad</p> +<p>And patient of the long hours that are yours!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div class="trnote"> +<p><b>Transcriber Notes</b></p> +<p>Archaic and variable spelling and hypenation preserved, including words like chorussing and chipmonk.</p> +<p>Author’s punctuation style is preserved, including some inconsistent quotes in "Pordenone".</p> +</div> + +<!-- generated by ppg.rb version: ppg0831 --> +<!-- timestamp: Mon Sep 14 18:32:49 -0400 2009 --> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by William D. 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Howells + +Release Date: September 15, 2009 [EBook #29993] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + POEMS + + + BY + WILLIAM D. HOWELLS + + + BOSTON + TICKNOR AND COMPANY + 211 TREMONT STREET + MDCCCLXXXVI + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1873, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY + AND 1885, BY WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. + + _All rights reserved._ + + University Press: + JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + The Pilot's Story 3 + Forlorn 13 + Pleasure-Pain 19 + In August 26 + The Empty House 27 + Bubbles 29 + Lost Beliefs 31 + Louis Lebeau's Conversion 32 + Caprice 49 + Sweet Clover 51 + The Royal Portraits 54 + The Faithful of the Gonzaga 59 + The First Cricket 77 + The Mulberries 79 + Before the Gate 84 + Clement 86 + By the Sea 97 + Saint Christopher 98 + Elegy on John Butler Howells 100 + Thanksgiving 105 + A Springtime 106 + In Earliest Spring 108 + The Bobolinks are Singing 110 + Prelude 113 + The Movers 115 + Through the Meadow 120 + Gone 122 + The Sarcastic Fair 123 + Rapture 124 + Dead 125 + The Doubt 127 + The Thorn 129 + The Mysteries 130 + The Battle in the Clouds 131 + For One of the Killed 133 + The Two Wives 134 + Bereaved 136 + The Snow-Birds 138 + Vagary 139 + Feuerbilder 141 + Avery 143 + Bopeep: A Pastoral 148 + While she sang 160 + A Poet 163 + Convention 164 + The Poet Friends 165 + No Love Lost 166 + The Song the Oriole sings 199 + Pordenone 201 + The Long Days 223 + + + + +THE PILOT'S STORY. + + + I. + + It was a story the pilot told, with his back to his hearers,-- + Keeping his hand on the wheel and his eye on the globe of the + jack-staff, + Holding the boat to the shore and out of the sweep of the current, + Lightly turning aside for the heavy logs of the drift-wood, + Widely shunning the snags that made us sardonic obeisance. + + II. + + All the soft, damp air was full of delicate perfume + From the young willows in bloom on either bank of the river,-- + Faint, delicious fragrance, trancing the indolent senses + In a luxurious dream of the river and land of the lotus. + Not yet out of the west the roses of sunset were withered; + In the deep blue above light clouds of gold and of crimson + Floated in slumber serene; and the restless river beneath them + Rushed away to the sea with a vision of rest in its bosom; + Far on the eastern shore lay dimly the swamps of the cypress; + Dimly before us the islands grew from the river's expanses,-- + Beautiful, wood-grown isles, with the gleam of the swart inundation + Seen through the swaying boughs and slender trunks of their + willows; + And on the shore beside us the cotton-trees rose in the evening, + Phantom-like, yearningly, wearily, with the inscrutable sadness + Of the mute races of trees. While hoarsely the steam from her + 'scape-pipes + Shouted, then whispered a moment, then shouted again to the + silence, + Trembling through all her frame with the mighty pulse of her + engines, + Slowly the boat ascended the swollen and broad Mississippi, + Bank-full, sweeping on, with tangled masses of drift-wood, + Daintily breathed about with whiffs of silvery vapor, + Where in his arrowy flight the twittering swallow alighted, + And the belated blackbird paused on the way to its nestlings. + + III. + + It was the pilot's story:--"They both came aboard there, at Cairo, + From a New Orleans boat, and took passage with us for Saint Louis. + She was a beautiful woman, with just enough blood from her mother + Darkening her eyes and her hair to make her race known to a trader: + You would have thought she was white. The man that was with + her,--you see such,-- + Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good-natured and vicious, + Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating. + I was a youngster then, and only learning the river,-- + Not over-fond of the wheel. I used to watch them at monte, + Down in the cabin at night, and learned to know all of the + gamblers. + So when I saw this weak one staking his money against them, + Betting upon the turn of the cards, I knew what was coming: + _They_ never left their pigeons a single feather to fly with. + Next day I saw them together,--the stranger and one of the + gamblers: + Picturesque rascal he was, with long black hair and moustaches, + Black slouch hat drawn down to his eyes from his villanous + forehead. + On together they moved, still earnestly talking in whispers, + On toward the forecastle, where sat the woman alone by the gangway. + Roused by the fall of feet, she turned, and, beholding her master, + Greeted him with a smile that was more like a wife's than + another's, + Rose to meet him fondly, and then, with the dread apprehension + Always haunting the slave, fell her eye on the face of the + gambler,-- + Dark and lustful and fierce and full of merciless cunning. + Something was spoken so low that I could not hear what the words + were; + Only the woman started, and looked from one to the other, + With imploring eyes, bewildered hands, and a tremor + All through her frame: I saw her from where I was standing, she + shook so. + 'Say! is it so?' she cried. On the weak, white lips of her master + Died a sickly smile, and he said, 'Louise, I have sold you.' + God is my judge! May I never see such a look of despairing, + Desolate anguish, as that which the woman cast on her master, + Griping her breast with her little hands, as if he had stabbed her, + Standing in silence a space, as fixed as the Indian woman + Carved out of wood, on the pilot-house of the old Pocahontas! + Then, with a gurgling moan, like the sound in the throat of the + dying, + Came back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, through wild + incoherence, + Into a terrible shriek that stopped my heart while she answered:-- + 'Sold me? sold me? sold--And you promised to give me my freedom!-- + Promised me, for the sake of our little boy in Saint Louis! + What will you say to our boy, when he cries for me there in Saint + Louis? + What will you say to our God?--Ah, you have been joking! I see + it!-- + No? God! God! He shall hear it,--and all of the angels in heaven,-- + Even the devils in hell!--and none will believe when they hear it! + Sold me!'--Her voice died away with a wail, and in silence + Down she sank on the deck, and covered her face with her fingers." + + IV. + + In his story a moment the pilot paused, while we listened + To the salute of a boat, that, rounding the point of an island, + Flamed toward us with fires that seemed to burn from the waters,-- + Stately and vast and swift, and borne on the heart of the current. + Then, with the mighty voice of a giant challenged to battle, + Rose the responsive whistle, and all the echoes of island, + Swamp-land, glade, and brake replied with a myriad clamor, + Like wild birds that are suddenly startled from slumber at + midnight, + Then were at peace once more; and we heard the harsh cries of the + peacocks + Perched on a tree by a cabin-door, where the white-headed settler's + White-headed children stood to look at the boat as it passed them, + Passed them so near that we heard their happy talk and their + laughter. + Softly the sunset had faded, and now on the eastern horizon + Hung, like a tear in the sky, the beautiful star of the evening. + + V. + + Still with his back to us standing, the pilot went on with his + story:-- + "All of us flocked round the woman. The children cried, and their + mothers + Hugged them tight to their breasts; but the gambler said to the + captain,-- + 'Put me off there at the town that lies round the bend of the + river. + Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.' + Roughly he seized the woman's arm and strove to uplift her. + She--she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is + dreaming, + Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway, + Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation. + Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and + the people + Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment, + Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler. + Not one to save her,--not one of all the compassionate people! + Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven! + Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her! + Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and horror. + Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion + Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the night-time. + White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to secure + her; + Then she turned and leaped,--in mid-air fluttered a moment,-- + Down then, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from a + tree-top, + Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and + crushed her, + And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever." + + VI. + + Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him + Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope for stopping. Then, + turning,-- + "This is the place where it happened," brokenly whispered the + pilot. + "Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the night-time." + Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the + starlight, + Cheerful with lamps. Below we could hear them reversing the + engines, + And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant exhausted. + Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the eastward + Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into silver. + All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the willows + Smote with a mystical sense of infinite sorrow upon us. + + + + +FORLORN. + + + I. + + Red roses, in the slender vases burning, + Breathed all upon the air,-- + The passion and the tenderness and yearning, + The waiting and the doubting and despair. + + II. + + Still with the music of her voice was haunted, + Through all its charmed rhymes, + The open book of such a one as chanted + The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times. + + III. + + The silvern chords of the piano trembled + Still with the music wrung + From them; the silence of the room dissembled + The closes of the songs that she had sung. + + IV. + + The languor of the crimson shawl's abasement,-- + Lying without a stir + Upon the floor,--the absence at the casement, + The solitude and hush were full of her. + + V. + + Without, and going from the room, and never + Departing, did depart + Her steps; and one that came too late forever + Felt them go heavy o'er his broken heart. + + VI. + + And, sitting in the house's desolation, + He could not bear the gloom, + The vanishing encounter and evasion + Of things that were and were not in the room. + + VII. + + Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions + Of faces and of forms; + He heard old tendernesses and derisions + Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms. + + VIII. + + By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under + That lamps made at their feet, + He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder, + And sadly follow after him down the street. + + IX. + + The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded + Between him and his quest; + At unseen corners jostled and eluded, + Against his hand her silken robes were pressed. + + X. + + Doors closed upon her; out of garret casements + He knew she looked at him; + In splendid mansions and in squalid basements, + Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim. + + XI. + + From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him, + Whirling away from sight; + From all the hopelessness of search she won him + Back to the dull and lonesome house at night. + + XII. + + Full early into dark the twilights saddened + Within its closed doors; + The echoes, with the clock's monotony maddened, + Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors; + + XIII. + + But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter + From wide-mouthed chimney-places, + And the strange noises between roof and rafter, + The wainscot clamor, and the scampering races + + XIV. + + Of mice that chased each other through the chambers, + And up and down the stair, + And rioted among the ashen embers, + And left their frolic footprints everywhere,-- + + XV. + + Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending + The broad steps, one by one, + And toward the solitary chamber tending, + Where the dim phantom of his hope alone + + XVI. + + Rose up to meet him, with his growing nearer, + Eager for his embrace, + And moved, and melted into the white mirror, + And stared at him with his own haggard face. + + XVII. + + But, turning, he was 'ware _her_ looks beheld him + Out of the mirror white; + And at the window yearning arms she held him, + Out of the vague and sombre fold of night. + + XVIII. + + Sometimes she stood behind him, looking over + His shoulder as he read; + Sometimes he felt her shadowy presence hover + Above his dreamful sleep, beside his bed; + + XIX. + + And rising from his sleep, her shadowy presence + Followed his light descent + Of the long stair; her shadowy evanescence + Through all the whispering rooms before him went. + + XX. + + Upon the earthy draught of cellars blowing + His shivering lamp-flame blue, + Amid the damp and chill, he felt her flowing + Around him from the doors he entered through. + + XXI. + + The spiders wove their webs upon the ceiling; + The bat clung to the wall; + The dry leaves through the open transom stealing, + Skated and danced adown the empty hall. + + XXII. + + About him closed the utter desolation, + About him closed the gloom; + The vanishing encounter and evasion + Of things that were and were not in the room + + XXIII. + + Vexed him forever; and his life forever + Immured and desolate, + Beating itself, with desperate endeavor, + But bruised itself, against the round of fate. + + XXIV. + + The roses, in their slender vases burning, + Were quenched long before; + A dust was on the rhymes of love and yearning; + The shawl was like a shroud upon the floor. + + XXV. + + Her music from the thrilling chords had perished; + The stillness was not moved + With memories of cadences long cherished, + The closes of the songs that she had loved. + + XXVI. + + But not the less he felt her presence never + Out of the room depart; + Over the threshold, not the less, forever + He felt her going on his broken heart. + + + + +PLEASURE-PAIN. + + "Das Vergnuegen ist Nichts als ein hoechst angenehmer + Schmerz."--HEINRICH HEINE. + + + I. + + Full of beautiful blossoms + Stood the tree in early May: + Came a chilly gale from the sunset, + And blew the blossoms away; + + Scattered them through the garden, + Tossed them into the mere: + The sad tree moaned and shuddered, + "Alas! the Fall is here." + + But all through the glowing summer + The blossomless tree throve fair, + And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow, + With sunny rain and air; + + And when the dim October + With golden death was crowned, + Under its heavy branches + The tree stooped to the ground. + + In youth there comes a west-wind + Blowing our bloom away,-- + A chilly breath of Autumn + Out of the lips of May. + + We bear the ripe fruit after,-- + Ah, me! for the thought of pain!-- + We know the sweetness and beauty + And the heart-bloom never again. + + II. + + One sails away to sea, + One stands on the shore and cries; + The ship goes down the world, and the light + On the sullen water dies. + + The whispering shell is mute, + And after is evil cheer: + She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain, + Many and many a year. + + But the stately, wide-winged ship + Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; + Far under, dead in his coral bed, + The lover lies asleep. + + III. + + Through the silent streets of the city, + In the night's unbusy noon, + Up and down in the pallor + Of the languid summer moon, + + I wander, and think of the village, + And the house in the maple-gloom, + And the porch with the honeysuckles + And the sweet-brier all abloom. + + My soul is sick with the fragrance + Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: + O darling! the house is empty, + And lonesomer than death! + + If I call, no one will answer; + If I knock, no one will come: + The feet are at rest forever, + And the lips are cold and dumb. + + The summer moon is shining + So wan and large and still, + And the weary dead are sleeping + In the graveyard under the hill. + + IV. + + We looked at the wide, white circle + Around the Autumn moon, + And talked of the change of weather: + It would rain, to-morrow, or soon. + + And the rain came on the morrow, + And beat the dying leaves + From the shuddering boughs of the maples + Into the flooded eaves. + + The clouds wept out their sorrow; + But in my heart the tears + Are bitter for want of weeping, + In all these Autumn years. + + V. + + The bobolink sings in the meadow, + The wren in the cherry-tree: + Come hither, thou little maiden, + And sit upon my knee; + + And I will tell thee a story + I read in a book of rhyme; + I will but fain that it happened + To me, one summer-time, + + When we walked through the meadow, + And she and I were young. + The story is old and weary + With being said and sung. + + The story is old and weary: + Ah, child! it is known to thee. + Who was it that last night kissed thee + Under the cherry-tree? + + VI. + + Like a bird of evil presage, + To the lonely house on the shore + Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, + And shrieked at the bolted door, + + And flapped its wings in the gables, + And shouted the well-known names, + And buffeted the windows + Afeard in their shuddering frames. + + It was night, and it is morning,-- + The summer sun is bland, + The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, + In to the summer land. + + The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, + In the sun so soft and bright, + And toss and play with the dead man + Drowned in the storm last night. + + VII. + + I remember the burning brushwood, + Glimmering all day long + Yellow and weak in the sunlight, + Now leaped up red and strong, + + And fired the old dead chestnut, + That all our years had stood, + Gaunt and gray and ghostly, + Apart from the sombre wood; + + And, flushed with sudden summer, + The leafless boughs on high + Blossomed in dreadful beauty + Against the darkened sky. + + We children sat telling stories, + And boasting what we should be, + When we were men like our fathers, + And watched the blazing tree, + + That showered its fiery blossoms, + Like a rain of stars, we said, + Of crimson and azure and purple. + That night, when I lay in bed, + + I could not sleep for seeing, + Whenever I closed my eyes, + The tree in its dazzling splendor + Against the darkened skies. + + I cannot sleep for seeing, + With closed eyes to-night, + The tree in its dazzling splendor + Dropping its blossoms bright; + + And old, old dreams of childhood + Come thronging my weary brain, + Dear, foolish beliefs and longings: + I doubt, are they real again? + + It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, + That I either think or see: + The phantoms of dead illusions + To-night are haunting me. + + + + +IN AUGUST. + + + All the long August afternoon, + The little drowsy stream + Whispers a melancholy tune, + As if it dreamed of June + And whispered in its dream. + + The thistles show beyond the brook + Dust on their down and bloom, + And out of many a weed-grown nook + The aster-flowers look + With eyes of tender gloom. + + The silent orchard aisles are sweet + With smell of ripening fruit. + Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, + Flutter, at coming feet, + The robins strange and mute. + + There is no wind to stir the leaves, + The harsh leaves overhead; + Only the querulous cricket grieves, + And shrilling locust weaves + A song of Summer dead. + + + + +THE EMPTY HOUSE. + + + The wet trees hang above the walks + Purple with damps and earthish stains, + And strewn by moody, absent rains + With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks. + + Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths, + The ripe June-grass is wanton blown; + Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone; + Along the sills hang drowsy moths. + + Down the blank visage of the wall, + Where many a wavering trace appears, + Like a forgotten trace of tears, + From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl. + + Where everything was wide before, + The curious wind, that comes and goes, + Finds all the latticed windows close, + Secret and close the bolted door. + + And with the shrewd and curious wind, + That in the arched doorway cries, + And at the bolted portal tries, + And harks and listens at the blind,-- + + Forever lurks my thought about, + And in the ghostly middle-night + Finds all the hidden windows bright, + And sees the guests go in and out, + + And lingers till the pallid dawn, + And feels the mystery deeper there + In silent, gust-swept chambers, bare, + With all the midnight revel gone; + + But wanders through the lonesome rooms, + Where harsh the astonished cricket calls, + And, from the hollows of the walls + Vanishing, start unshapen glooms; + + And lingers yet, and cannot come + Out of the drear and desolate place, + So full of ruin's solemn grace, + And haunted with the ghost of home. + + + + +BUBBLES. + + + I. + + I stood on the brink in childhood, + And watched the bubbles go + From the rock-fretted, sunny ripple + To the smoother tide below; + + And over the white creek-bottom, + Under them every one, + Went golden stars in the water, + All luminous with the sun. + + But the bubbles broke on the surface, + And under, the stars of gold + Broke; and the hurrying water + Flowed onward, swift and cold. + + II. + + I stood on the brink in manhood, + And it came to my weary brain, + And my heart, so dull and heavy + After the years of pain,-- + + That every hollowest bubble + Which over my life had passed + Still into its deeper current + Some heavenly gleam had cast; + + That, however I mocked it gayly, + And guessed at its hollowness, + Still shone, with each bursting bubble, + One star in my soul the less. + + + + +LOST BELIEFS. + + + One after one they left us; + The sweet birds out of our breasts + Went flying away in the morning: + Will they come again to their nests? + + Will they come again at nightfall, + With God's breath in their song? + Noon is fierce with the heats of summer, + And summer days are long! + + O my Life, with thy upward liftings, + Thy downward-striking roots, + Ripening out of thy tender blossoms + But hard and bitter fruits!-- + + In thy boughs there is no shelter + For the birds to seek again. + The desolate nest is broken + And torn with storms and rain! + + + + +LOUIS LEBEAU'S CONVERSION. + + + Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva, + Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands, + And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance, + Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer, + Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,-- + While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather, + Breathing air that was full of Old World sadness and beauty + Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio, + When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River + Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen. + + Pealed from the campanili, responding from island to island, + Bells of that ancient faith whose incense and solemn devotions + Rise from a hundred shrines in the broken heart of the city; + But in my revery heard I only the passionate voices + Of the people that sang in the virgin heart of the forest. + Autumn was in the land, and the trees were golden and crimson, + And from the luminous boughs of the over-elms and the maples + Tender and beautiful fell the light in the worshippers' faces, + Softer than lights that stream through the saints on the windows of + churches, + While the balsamy breath of the hemlocks and pines by the river + Stole on the winds through the woodland aisles like the breath of a + censer. + Loud the people sang old camp-meeting anthems that quaver + Quaintly yet from lips forgetful of lips that have kissed them; + Loud they sang the songs of the Sacrifice and Atonement, + And of the end of the world, and the infinite terrors of Judgment:-- + Songs of ineffable sorrow, and wailing, compassionate warning + Unto the generations that hardened their hearts to their Savior; + Songs of exultant rapture for them that confessed him and followed, + Bearing his burden and yoke, enduring and entering with him + Into the rest of his saints, and the endless reward of the blessed. + Loud the people sang; but through the sound of their singing + Broke inarticulate cries and moans and sobs from the mourners, + As the glory of God, that smote the apostle of Tarsus, + Smote them and strewed them to earth like leaves in the breath of + the whirlwind. + + Hushed at last was the sound of the lamentation and singing; + But from the distant hill the throbbing drum of the pheasant + Shook with its heavy pulses the depths of the listening silence, + When from his place arose a white-haired exhorter, and faltered: + "Brethren and sisters in Jesus! the Lord hath heard our petitions, + So that the hearts of his servants are awed and melted within + them,-- + Even the hearts of the wicked are touched by his infinite mercy. + All my days in this vale of tears the Lord hath been with me, + He hath been good to me, he hath granted me trials and patience; + But this hour hath crowned my knowledge of him and his goodness. + Truly, but that it is well this day for me to be with you, + Now might I say to the Lord,--'I know thee, my God, in all fulness; + Now let thy servant depart in peace to the rest thou hast + promised!'" + + Faltered and ceased. And now the wild and jubilant music + Of the singing burst from the solemn profound of the silence, + Surged in triumph, and fell, and ebbed again into silence. + + Then from the group of the preachers arose the greatest among + them,-- + He whose days were given in youth to the praise of the Savior, + He whose lips seemed touched, like the prophet's of old, from the + altar, + So that his words were flame, and burned to the hearts of his + hearers, + Quickening the dead among them, reviving the cold and the doubting. + There he charged them pray, and rest not from prayer while a sinner + In the sound of their voices denied the Friend of the sinner: + "Pray till the night shall fall,--till the stars are faint in the + morning,-- + Yea, till the sun himself be faint in that glory and brightness, + Faint in the light which shall dawn in mercy for penitent sinners." + Kneeling, he led them in prayer; and the quick and sobbing + responses + Spake how their souls were moved with the might and the grace of the + Spirit. + Then while the converts recounted how God had chastened and saved + them,-- + Children, whose golden locks yet shone with the lingering + effulgence + Of the touches of Him who blessed little children forever; + Old men, whose yearning eyes were dimmed with the far-streaming + brightness + Seen through the opening gates in the heart of the heavenly city,-- + Stealthily through the harking woods the lengthening shadows + Chased the wild things to their nests, and the twilight died into + darkness. + + Now the four great pyres that were placed there to light the + encampment, + High on platforms raised above the people, were kindled. + Flaming aloof, as it were the pillar by night in the Desert + Fell their crimson light on the lifted orbs of the preachers, + Fell on the withered brows of the old men, and Israel's mothers, + Fell on the bloom of youth, and the earnest devotion of manhood, + Fell on the anguish and hope in the tearful eyes of the mourners. + Flaming aloof, it stirred the sleep of the luminous maples + With warm summer-dreams, and faint, luxurious languor. + Near the four great pyres the people closed in a circle, + In their midst the mourners, and, praying with them, the exhorters, + And on the skirts of the circle the unrepentant and scorners,-- + Ever fewer and sadder, and drawn to the place of the mourners, + One after one, by the prayers and tears of the brethren and + sisters, + And by the Spirit of God, that was mightily striving within them, + Till at the last alone stood Louis Lebeau, unconverted. + + Louis Lebeau, the boatman, the trapper, the hunter, the fighter, + From the unlucky French of Gallipolis he descended, + Heir to Old World want and New World love of adventure. + Vague was the life he led, and vague and grotesque were the rumors + Through which he loomed on the people,--the hero of mythical + hearsay, + Quick of hand and of heart, impatient, generous, Western, + Taking the thought of the young in secret love and in envy. + Not less the elders shook their heads and held him for outcast, + Reprobate, roving, ungodly, infidel, worse than a Papist, + With his whispered fame of lawless exploits at St. Louis, + Wild affrays and loves with the half-breeds out on the Osage, + Brawls at New Orleans, and all the towns on the rivers, + All the godless towns of the many-ruffianed rivers. + Only she who loved him the best of all, in her loving + Knew him the best of all, and other than that of the rumors. + Daily she prayed for him, with conscious and tender effusion, + That the Lord would convert him. But when her father forbade him + Unto her thought, she denied him, and likewise held him for + outcast, + Turned her eyes when they met, and would not speak, though her heart + broke. + + Bitter and brief his logic that reasoned from wrong unto error: + "This is their praying and singing," he said, "that makes you reject + me,-- + You that were kind to me once. But I think my fathers' religion, + With a light heart in the breast and a friendly priest to absolve + one, + Better than all these conversions that only bewilder and vex me, + And that have made men so hard and women fickle and cruel. + Well, then, pray for my soul, since you would not have spoken to + save me,-- + Yes; for I go from these saints to my brethren and sisters, the + sinners." + Spoke and went, while her faint lips fashioned unuttered entreaties,-- + Went, and came again in a year at the time of the meeting, + Haggard and wan of face, and wasted with passion and sorrow. + Dead in his eyes was the careless smile of old, and its phantom + Haunted his lips in a sneer of restless, incredulous mocking. + Day by day he came to the outer skirts of the circle, + Dwelling on her, where she knelt by the white-haired exhorter, her + father, + With his hollow looks, and never moved from his silence. + + Now, where he stood alone, the last of impenitent sinners, + Weeping, old friends and comrades came to him out of the circle, + And with their tears besought him to hear what the Lord had done for + them. + Ever he shook them off, not roughly, nor smiled at their transports. + Then the preachers spoke and painted the terrors of Judgment, + And of the bottomless pit, and the flames of hell everlasting. + Still and dark he stood, and neither listened nor heeded; + But when the fervent voice of the white-haired exhorter was lifted, + Fell his brows in a scowl of fierce and scornful rejection. + "Lord, let this soul be saved!" cried the fervent voice of the old + man; + "For that the Shepherd rejoiceth more truly for one that hath + wandered, + And hath been found again, than for all the others that strayed + not." + + Out of the midst of the people, a woman old and decrepit, + Tremulous through the light, and tremulous into the shadow, + Wavered toward him with slow, uncertain paces of palsy, + Laid her quivering hand on his arm and brokenly prayed him: + "Louis Lebeau, I closed in death the eyes of your mother. + On my breast she died, in prayer for her fatherless children, + That they might know the Lord, and follow him always, and serve + him. + O, I conjure you, my son, by the name of your mother in glory, + Scorn not the grace of the Lord!" As when a summer-noon's tempest + Breaks in one swift gush of rain, then ceases and gathers + Darker and gloomier yet on the lowering front of the heavens, + So broke his mood in tears, as he soothed her, and stilled her + entreaties, + And so he turned again with his clouded looks to the people. + + Vibrated then from the hush the accents of mournfullest pity,-- + His who was gifted in speech, and the glow of the fires illumined + All his pallid aspect with sudden and marvellous splendor: + "Louis Lebeau," he spake, "I have known you and loved you from + childhood; + Still, when the others blamed you, I took your part, for I knew + you. + Louis Lebeau, my brother, I thought to meet you in heaven, + Hand in hand with her who is gone to heaven before us, + Brothers through her dear love! I trusted to greet you and lead you + Up from the brink of the River unto the gates of the City. + Lo! my years shall be few on the earth. O my brother, + If I should die before you had known the mercy of Jesus, + Yea, I think it would sadden the hope of glory within me!" + + Neither yet had the will of the sinner yielded an answer; + But from his lips there broke a cry of unspeakable anguish, + Wild and fierce and shrill, as if some demon within him + Bent his soul with the ultimate pangs of fiendish possession; + And with the outstretched arms of bewildered imploring toward them, + Death-white unto the people he turned his face from the darkness. + + Out of the sedge by the creek a flight of clamorous killdees + Rose from their timorous sleep with piercing and iterant challenge, + Wheeled in the starlight, and fled away into distance and silence. + White in the vale lay the tents, and beyond them glided the river, + Where the broadhorn[1] drifted slow at the will of the current, + And where the boatman listened, and knew not how, as he listened, + Something touched through the years the old lost hopes of his + childhood,-- + Only his sense was filled with low, monotonous murmurs, + As of a faint-heard prayer, that was chorused with deeper + responses. + + Not with the rest was lifted her voice in the fervent responses, + But in her soul she prayed to Him that heareth in secret, + Asking for light and for strength to learn his will and to do it: + "O, make me clear to know if the hope that rises within me + Be not part of a love unmeet for me here, and forbidden! + So, if it be not that, make me strong for the evil entreaty + Of the days that shall bring me question of self and reproaches, + When the unrighteous shall mock, and my brethren and sisters shall + doubt me! + Make me worthy to know thy will, my Savior, and do it!" + In her pain she prayed, and at last, through her mute adoration, + Rapt from all mortal presence, and in her rapture uplifted, + Glorified she rose, and stood in the midst of the people, + Looking on all with the still, unseeing eyes of devotion,-- + Vague, and tender, and sweet, as the eyes of the dead, when we dream + them + Living and looking on us, but they cannot speak, and we cannot,-- + Knowing only the peril that threatened his soul's unrepentance, + Knowing only the fear and error and wrong that withheld him, + Thinking, "In doubt of me, his soul had perished forever!" + Touched with no feeble shame, but trusting her power to save him, + Through the circle she passed, and straight to the side of her + lover, + Took his hand in her own, and mutely implored him an instant, + Answering, giving, forgiving, confessing, beseeching him all + things; + Drew him then with her, and passed once more through the circle + Unto her place, and knelt with him there by the side of her father, + Trembling as women tremble who greatly venture and triumph,-- + But in her innocent breast was the saint's sublime exultation. + + So was Louis converted; and though the lips of the scorners + Spared not in after years the subtle taunt and derision + (What time, meeker grown, his heart held his hand from its answer), + Not the less lofty and pure her love and her faith that had saved + him, + Not the less now discerned was her inspiration from heaven + By the people, that rose, and embracing and weeping together, + Poured forth their jubilant songs of victory and of thanksgiving, + Till from the embers leaped the dying flame to behold them, + And the hills of the river were filled with reverberant echoes,-- + Echoes that out of the years and the distance stole to me hither, + While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather; + Echoes that mingled and fainted and fell with the fluttering + murmurs + In the hearts of the hushing bells, as from island to island + Swooned the sound on the wide lagoons into palpitant silence. + + +FOOTNOTE: + + [1] The old-fashioned flatboats were so called. + + + + +CAPRICE. + + + I. + + She hung the cage at the window: + "If he goes by," she said, + "He will hear my robin singing, + And when he lifts his head, + I shall be sitting here to sew, + And he will bow to me, I know." + + The robin sang a love-sweet song, + The young man raised his head; + The maiden turned away and blushed: + "I am a fool!" she said, + And went on broidering in silk + A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk. + + II. + + The young man loitered slowly + By the house three times that day; + She took her bird from the window: + "He need not look this way." + She sat at her piano long, + And sighed, and played a death-sad song. + + But when the day was done, she said, + "I wish that he would come! + Remember, Mary, if he calls + To-night--I'm not at home." + So when he rang, she went--the elf!-- + She went and let him in herself. + + III. + + They sang full long together + Their songs love-sweet, death-sad; + The robin woke from his slumber, + And rang out, clear and glad. + "Now go!" she coldly said; "'tis late;" + And followed him--to latch the gate. + + He took the rosebud from her hair, + While, "You shall not!" she said; + He closed her hand within his own, + And, while her tongue forbade, + Her will was darkened in the eclipse + Of blinding love upon his lips. + + + + +SWEET CLOVER. + + "... My letters back to me." + + + I. + + I know they won the faint perfume, + That to their faded pages clings, + From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and things + Kept in the soft and scented gloom + + Of some mysterious box--poor leaves + Of summer, now as sere and dead + As any leaves of summer shed + From crimson boughs when autumn grieves! + + The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrill + All through with such delicious pain + Of soul and sense, to breathe again + The sweet that haunted memory still. + + And under these December skies, + As bland as May's in other climes, + I move, and muse my idle rhymes + And subtly sentimentalize. + + I hear the music that was played,-- + The songs that silence knows by heart!-- + I see sweet burlesque feigning art, + The careless grace that curved and swayed + + Through dances and through breezy walks; + I feel once more the eyes that smiled, + And that dear presence that beguiled + The pauses of the foolish talks, + + When this poor phantom of perfume + Was the Sweet Clover's living soul, + And breathed from her as if it stole, + Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom! + + II. + + We have not many ways with pain: + We weep weak tears, or else we laugh; + I doubt, not less the cup we quaff, + And tears and scorn alike are vain. + + But let me live my quiet life; + I will not vex my calm with grief, + I only know the pang was brief, + And there an end of hope and strife. + + And thou? I put the letters by: + In years the sweetness shall not pass; + More than the perfect blossom was + I count its lingering memory. + + Alas! with Time dear Love is dead, + And not with Fate. And who can guess + How weary of our happiness + We might have been if we were wed? + +Venice. + + + + +THE ROYAL PORTRAITS. + +(AT LUDWIGSHOF.) + + + I. + + Confronting each other the pictures stare + Into each other's sleepless eyes; + And the daylight into the darkness dies, + From year to year in the palace there: + But they watch and guard that no device + Take either one of them unaware. + + Their majesties the king and the queen, + The parents of the reigning prince: + Both put off royalty many years since, + With life and the gifts that have always been + Given to kings from God, to evince + His sense of the mighty over the mean. + + I cannot say that I like the face + Of the king; it is something fat and red; + And the neck that lifts the royal head + Is thick and coarse; and a scanty grace + Dwells in the dull blue eyes that are laid + Sullenly on the queen in her place. + + He must have been a king in his day + 'Twere well to pleasure in work and sport: + One of the heaven-anointed sort + Who ruled his people with iron sway, + And knew that, through good and evil report, + God meant him to rule and them to obey. + + There are many other likenesses + Of the king in his royal palace there; + You find him depicted everywhere,-- + In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress, + In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,-- + A king in all of them, none the less; + + But most himself in this on the wall + Over against his consort, whose + Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes + Make her the finest lady of all + The queens or courtly dames you choose, + In the ancestral portrait hall. + + A glorious blonde: a luxury + Of luring blue and wanton gold, + Of blanched rose and crimson bold, + Of lines that flow voluptuously + In tender, languorous curves to fold + Her form in perfect symmetry. + + She might have been false. Of her withered dust + There scarcely would be enough to write + Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right + To our lenient doubt if not to our trust: + So if the truth cannot make her white, + Let us be as merciful as we--must. + + II. + + The queen died first, the queen died young, + But the king was very old when he died, + Rotten with license, and lust, and pride; + And the usual Virtues came and hung + Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide + Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung. + + How the queen died is not certainly known, + And faithful subjects are all forbid + To speak of the murder which some one did + One night while she slept in the dark alone: + History keeps the story hid, + And Fear only tells it in undertone. + + Up from your startled feet aloof, + In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound + Leaps the echo, and round and round + Beating itself against the roof,-- + A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,-- + Dies ere its terror can utter proof + + Of that it knows. A door is fast, + And none is suffered to enter there. + His sacred majesty could not bear + To look at it toward the last, + As he grew very old. It opened where + The queen died young so many years past. + + III. + + How the queen died is not certainly known; + But in the palace's solitude + A harking dread and horror brood, + And a silence, as if a mortal groan + Had been hushed the moment before, and would + Break forth again when you were gone. + + The present king has never dwelt + In the desolate palace. From year to year + In the wide and stately garden drear + The snows and the snowy blossoms melt + Unheeded, and a ghastly fear + Through all the shivering leaves is felt. + + By night the gathering shadows creep + Along the dusk and hollow halls, + And the slumber-broken palace calls + With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep; + And then the ghostly moonlight falls + Athwart the darkness brown and deep. + + At early dawn the light wind sighs, + And through the desert garden blows + The wasted sweetness of the rose; + At noon the feverish sunshine lies + Sick in the walks. But at evening's close, + When the last, long rays to the windows rise, + + And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak + Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur + His cruel vigilance and her + Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak + A hopeless hate that cannot stir, + A voiceless hate that cannot speak + + In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes; + And as if she saw her murderer glare + On her face, and he the white despair + Of his victim kindle in wild surmise, + Confronted the conscious pictures stare,-- + And their secret back into darkness dies. + + + + +THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.[2] + + + I. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + Downcast, through the garden goes: + He is hurt with the grace of the lily, + And the beauty of the rose. + + For what is the grace of the lily + But her own slender grace? + And what is the rose's beauty + But the beauty of her face?-- + + Who sits beside her window + Waiting to welcome him, + That comes so lothly toward her + With his visage sick and dim. + + "Ah! lily, I come to break thee! + Ah! rose, a bitter rain + Of tears shall beat thy light out + That thou never burn again!" + + II. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + Takes the lady by the hand: + "Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey, + For I leave my native land. + + "From Mantua to-morrow + I go, a banished man; + Make me glad for truth and love's sake + Of my father's curse and ban. + + "Our quarrel has left my mother + Like death upon the floor; + And I come from a furious presence + I never shall enter more. + + "I would not wed the woman + He had chosen for my bride, + For my heart had been before him, + With his statecraft and his pride. + + "I swore to him by my princehood + In my love I would be free; + And I swear to thee by my manhood, + I love no one but thee. + + "Let the Duke of Bavaria marry + His daughter to whom he will: + There where my love was given + My word shall be faithful still. + + "There are six true hearts will follow + My truth wherever I go, + And thou equal truth wilt keep me + In welfare and in woe." + + The maiden answered him nothing + Of herself, but his words again + Came back through her lips like an echo + From an abyss of pain; + + And vacantly repeating + "In welfare and in woe," + Like a dream from the heart of fever + From her arms she felt him go. + + III. + + Out of Mantua's gate at daybreak + Seven comrades wander forth + On a path that leads at their humor, + East, west, or south, or north. + + The prince's laugh rings lightly, + "What road shall we take from home?" + And they answer, "We never shall lose it + If we take the road to Rome." + + And with many a jest and banter + The comrades keep their way, + Journeying out of the twilight + Forward into the day, + + When they are aware beside them + Goes a pretty minstrel lad, + With a shy and downward aspect, + That is neither sad nor glad. + + Over his slender shoulder, + His mandolin was slung, + And around its chords the treasure + Of his golden tresses hung. + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "Little minstrel, whither away?"-- + "With seven true-hearted comrades + On their journey, if I may." + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "If our way be hard and long?"-- + "I will lighten it with my music + And shorten it with my song." + + Spoke one of the seven companions, + "But what are the songs thou know'st?"-- + "O, I know many a ditty, + But this I sing the most: + + "How once was an humble maiden + Beloved of a great lord's son, + That for her sake and his troth's sake + Was banished and undone. + + "And forth of his father's city + He went at break of day, + And the maiden softly followed + Behind him on the way + + "In the figure of a minstrel, + And prayed him of his love, + 'Let me go with thee and serve thee + Wherever thou may'st rove. + + "'For if thou goest in exile + I rest banished at home, + And where thou wanderest with thee + My fears in anguish roam, + + "'Besetting thy path with perils, + Making thee hungry and cold, + Filling thy heart with trouble + And heaviness untold. + + "'But let me go beside thee, + And banishment shall be + Honor, and riches, and country, + And home to thee and me!'" + + Down falls the minstrel-maiden + Before the Marquis' son, + And the six true-hearted comrades + Bow round them every one. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + From its scabbard draws his sword: + "Now swear by the honor and fealty + Ye bear your friend and lord, + + "That whenever, and wherever, + As long as ye have life, + Ye will honor and serve this lady + As ye would your prince's wife!" + + IV. + + Over the broad expanses + Of garlanded Lombardy, + Where the gentle vines are swinging + In the orchards from tree to tree; + + Through Padua from Verona, + From the sculptured gothic town, + Carved from ruin upon ruin, + And ancienter than renown; + + Through Padua from Verona + To fair Venice, where she stands + With her feet on subject waters, + Lady of many lands; + + From Venice by sea to Ancona; + From Ancona to the west; + Climbing many a gardened hillside + And many a castled crest; + + Through valleys dim with the twilight + Of their gray olive trees; + Over plains that swim with harvests + Like golden noonday seas; + + Whence the lofty campanili + Like the masts of ships arise, + And like a fleet at anchor + Under them, the village lies; + + To Florence beside her Arno, + In her many-marbled pride, + Crowned with infamy and glory + By the sons she has denied; + + To pitiless Pisa, where never + Since the anguish of Ugolin + The moon in the Tower of Famine[3] + Fate so dread as his hath seen; + + Out through the gates of Pisa + To Livorno on her bay, + To Genoa and to Naples + The comrades hold their way, + + Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered, + Past the fortressed Ghibelline, + Through lands that reek with slaughter, + Treason, and shame, and sin; + + By desert, by sea, by city, + High hill-cope and temple-dome, + Through pestilence, hunger, and horror, + Upon the road to Rome; + + While every land behind them + Forgets them as they go, + And in Mantua they are remembered + As is the last year's snow; + + But the Marchioness goes to her chamber + Day after day to weep,-- + For the changeless heart of a mother + The love of a son must keep. + + The Marchioness weeps in her chamber + Over tidings that come to her + Of the exiles she seeks, by letter + And by lips of messenger, + + Broken hints of their sojourn and absence, + Comfortless, vague, and slight,-- + Like feathers wafted backwards + From passage birds in flight.[4] + + The tale of a drunken sailor, + In whose ship they went to sea; + A traveller's evening story + At a village hostelry, + + Of certain comrades sent him + By our Lady, of her grace, + To save his life from robbers + In a lonely desert place; + + Word from the monks of a convent + Of gentle comrades that lay + One stormy night at their convent, + And passed with the storm at day; + + The long parley of a peasant + That sold them wine and food, + The gossip of a shepherd + That guided them through a wood; + + A boatman's talk at the ferry + Of a river where they crossed, + And as if they had sunk in the current + All trace of them was lost; + + And so is an end of tidings + But never an end of tears, + Of secret and friendless sorrow + Through blank and silent years. + + V. + + To the Marchioness in her chamber + Sends word a messenger, + Newly come from the land of Naples, + Praying for speech with her. + + The messenger stands before her, + A minstrel slender and wan: + "In a village of my country + Lies a Mantuan gentleman, + + "Sick of a smouldering fever, + Of sorrow and poverty; + And no one in all that country + Knows his title or degree. + + "But six true Mantuan peasants, + Or nobles, as some men say, + Watch by the sick man's bedside, + And toil for him, night and day, + + "Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing, + Bearing burdens, and far and nigh + Begging for him on the highway + Of the strangers that pass by; + + "And they look whenever you meet them + Like broken-hearted men, + And I heard that the sick man would not + If he could, be well again; + + "For they say that he for love's sake + Was gladly banished, + But she for whom he was banished + Is worse to him, now, than dead,-- + + "A recreant to his sorrow, + A traitress to his woe." + From her place the Marchioness rises, + The minstrel turns to go. + + But fast by the hand she takes him,-- + His hand in her clasp is cold,-- + "If gold may be thy guerdon + Thou shalt not lack for gold; + + "And if the love of a mother + Can bless thee for that thou hast done, + Thou shalt stay and be his brother, + Thou shalt stay and be my son." + + "Nay, my lady," answered the minstrel, + And his face is deadly pale, + "Nay, this must not be, sweet lady, + But let my words prevail. + + "Let me go now from your presence, + And I will come again, + When you stand with your son beside you, + And be your servant then." + + VI. + + At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga + Kneels his lady on the floor; + "Lord, grant me before I ask it + The thing that I implore." + + "So it be not of that ingrate."-- + "Nay, lord, it is of him." + 'Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis + His eyes are tender and dim. + + "He lies sick of a fever in Naples, + Near unto death, as they tell, + In his need and pain forsaken + By the wanton he loved so well. + + "Now send for him and forgive him, + If ever thou loved'st me, + Now send for him and forgive him + As God shall be good to thee." + + "Well so,--if he turn in repentance + And bow himself to my will; + That the high-born lady I chose him + May be my daughter still." + + VII. + + In Mantua there is feasting + For the Marquis' grace to his son; + In Mantua there is rejoicing + For the prince come back to his own. + + The pomp of a wedding procession + Pauses under the pillared porch, + With silken rustle and whisper, + Before the door of the church. + + In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom + Stands with his high-born bride; + The six true-hearted comrades + Are three on either side. + + The bridegroom is gray as his father, + Where they stand face to face, + And the six true-hearted comrades + Are like old men in their place. + + The Marquis takes the comrades + And kisses them one by one: + "That ye were fast and faithful + And better than I to my son, + + "Ye shall be called forever, + In the sign that ye were so true, + The Faithful of the Gonzaga, + And your sons after you." + + VIII. + + To the Marchioness comes a courtier: + "I am prayed to bring you word + That the minstrel keeps his promise + Who brought you news of my lord; + + "And he waits without the circle + To kiss your highness' hand; + And he asks no gold for guerdon, + But before he leaves the land + + "He craves of your love once proffered + That you suffer him for reward, + In this crowning hour of his glory, + To look on your son, my lord." + + Through the silken press of the courtiers + The minstrel faltered in. + His clasped hands were bloodless, + His face was white and thin; + + And he bent his knee to the lady, + But of her love and grace + To her heart she raised him and kissed him + Upon his gentle face. + + Turned to her son the bridegroom, + Turned to his high-born wife, + "I give you here for your brother + Who gave back my son to life. + + "For this youth brought me news from Naples + How thou layest sick and poor, + By true comrades kept, and forsaken + By a false paramour. + + "Wherefore I charge you love him + For a brother that is my son." + The comrades turned to the bridegroom + In silence every one. + + But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel + With a visage blank and changed, + As his whom the sight of a spectre + From his reason hath estranged; + + And the smiling courtiers near them + On a sudden were still as death; + And, subtly-stricken, the people + Hearkened and held their breath + + With an awe uncomprehended + For an unseen agony:-- + Who is this that lies a-dying, + With her head on the prince's knee? + + A light of anguish and wonder + Is in the prince's eye, + "O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me, + Or I cannot let thee die! + + "For now I see thy hardness + Was softer than mortal ruth, + And thy heavenly guile was whiter, + My saint, than martyr's truth." + + She speaks not and she moves not, + But a blessed brightness lies + On her lips in their silent rapture + And her tender closed eyes. + + Federigo, the son of the Marquis, + He rises from his knee: + "Aye, you have been good, my father, + To them that were good to me. + + "You have given them honors and titles, + But here lies one unknown-- + Ah, God reward her in heaven + With the peace he gives his own!" + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [2] The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story + to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which + occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so + nearly as he found it in the _Cronache Montovane_, that he is + ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it. + The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of + Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his + subjects. + + [3] "Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda, + La qual per me ha il titol della fame + E in che conviene ancor ch'altri si chiuda, + M'avea mostrato per lo suo forame + Piu lune gia." + + DANTE, _L'Inferno_. + + [4] "As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in its flight." + + + + +THE FIRST CRICKET. + + + Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning, + And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,-- + Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining, + All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay? + + Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber, + Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan, + Yet with th' unconscious earth's boded evil my soul thou dost + cumber, + And in the year's lost youth makest me still lose my own. + + Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and + bleakest, + And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room, + And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,-- + Thou wilt again give me all,--dew and fragrance and bloom? + + Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing, + If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf, + Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling, + Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and--himself: + + Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers + Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree. + Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers, + Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be? + + + + +THE MULBERRIES. + + I. + + On the Rialto Bridge we stand; + The street ebbs under and makes no sound; + But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, + The noisy market rings around. + + "_Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!_" + A tuneful voice,--and light, light measure; + Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear, + If I paid three times the price for my pleasure. + + Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood, + The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves + Hiding the berries beneath them;--good! + Let us take whatever the young rogue gives. + + For you know, old friend, I haven't eaten + A mulberry since the ignorant joy + Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten + All this bitter world for a boy. + + II. + + O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood + By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof + On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, + I could see the top of our cabin roof. + + And, looking westward, could sweep the shores + Of the river where we used to swim + Under the ghostly sycamores, + Haunting the waters smooth and dim; + + And eastward athwart the pasture-lot + And over the milk-white buckwheat field + I could see the stately elm, where I shot + The first black squirrel I ever killed. + + And southward over the bottom-land + I could see the mellow breadths of farm + From the river-shores to the hills expand, + Clasped in the curving river's arm. + + In the fields we set our guileless snares + For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails, + Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs + From doubtful wings and vanished tails. + + And in the blue summer afternoon + We used to sit in the mulberry-tree: + The breaths of wind that remembered June + Shook the leaves and glittering berries free; + + And while we watched the wagons go + Across the river, along the road, + To the mill above, or the mill below, + With horses that stooped to the heavy load, + + We told old stories and made new plans, + And felt our hearts gladden within us again, + For we did not dream that this life of a man's + Could ever be what we know as men. + + We sat so still that the woodpeckers came + And pillaged the berries overhead; + From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame, + Peered, and listened to what we said. + + III. + + One of us long ago was carried + To his grave on the hill above the tree; + One is a farmer there, and married; + One has wandered over the sea. + + And, if you ask me, I hardly know + Whether I'd be the dead or the clown,-- + The clod above or the clay below,-- + Or this listless dust by fortune blown + + To alien lands. For, however it is, + So little we keep with us in life: + At best we win only victories, + Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife. + + But if I could turn from the long defeat + Of the little successes once more, and be + A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet, + Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,-- + + From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleep + Of the will that cannot itself awaken, + From the promise the future can never keep, + From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,-- + + Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrill + In the grass beneath the blanching thistle, + And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill, + Harked to the quail's complaining whistle,-- + + Ah me! should I paint the morrows again + In quite the colors so faint to-day, + And with the imperial mulberry's stain + Re-purple life's doublet of hodden-gray? + + Know again the losses of disillusion? + For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?-- + In spite of the question's bitter infusion, + Don't you find these mulberries over-sweet? + + All our atoms are changed, they say; + And the taste is so different since then; + We live, but a world has passed away + With the years that perished to make us men. + + + + +BEFORE THE GATE. + + + They gave the whole long day to idle laughter, + To fitful song and jest, + To moods of soberness as idle, after, + And silences, as idle too as the rest. + + But when at last upon their way returning, + Taciturn, late, and loath, + Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, + They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both. + + Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish + Such as but women know + That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, + And what they would, would rather they would not so; + + Till he said,--man-like nothing comprehending + Of all the wondrous guile + That women won win themselves with, and bending + Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,-- + + "Ah, if beyond this gate the path united + Our steps as far as death, + And I might open it!--" His voice, affrighted + At its own daring, faltered under his breath. + + Then she--whom both his faith and fear enchanted + Far beyond words to tell, + Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted + The art he had that knew to blunder so well-- + + Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking, + "Shall we not be too late + For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: + Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you--open the gate?" + + + + +CLEMENT. + + I. + + That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden, + Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September, + Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying + All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens; + Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest + autumn, + But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall, + Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor; + And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels, + And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the + tree-top; + When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the + thistles, + Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the + loppings, + When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield, + And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes; + When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision, + And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot + remember,-- + Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing! + That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow, + Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor + Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset, + Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel, + Smote through the pained gloom of his heart like a hurt to the + sense, there. + Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded + Hands, that held a few sad asters: "I sigh for this idyl + Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life," + With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner, + "Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened + Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together + Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands; + All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit + Village,--so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal, + Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, + in its silence. + Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to _him_ for his + kindness, + Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin + Clement; + Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors. + --No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is + coming: + Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future? + Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,--just as you like it;-- + Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you. + Then I'll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young + person + Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius + Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman. + O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish? + Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband." + Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him, + Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken, + Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,-- + All her mocking face transfigured,--with mournful effusion: + "Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,-- + Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition, + Fame, and your art,--you have all these things to console you. + I--what have I in this world? Since my child is dead--a bereavement." + Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him + Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he + answered + (Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover), + "Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me + beforetime, + With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness! + Yes, you might play it, I think,--that _role_ of remorseful young + person, + That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted. + Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal, + Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant + you-- + Not, indeed, for your word--that is light--but I wish to believe + you. + Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever! + I--I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married. + Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,-- + Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I + cherished!" + There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle, + Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance, + Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision: + "You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,-- + Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember." + Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house, + Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight. + + II. + + High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled; + Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-tree + Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished. + Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging + together, + Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor; + Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness, + Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children. + (Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our + first-loves!) + Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the + corners, + Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment, + In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,-- + Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick. + Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub, + Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols, + By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clambered + Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them, + Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him. + Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another + Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household, + Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely + importance, + Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the + kitchen; + Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him, + Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together + Over his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, "Who is it?" + Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of + children, + Calling his sister's children around her, and stilling their + clamor, + Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent, + Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visage + With the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion + Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble, + Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him. + Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children; + Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling, + Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her + keepsake, + Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before + them. + But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone + together + Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket + Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the + pendule + Sighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were + perished,-- + It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were + reading. + "Read it to-night," she said, "that I may not seem to be going." + Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought + him. + From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,-- + All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing, + Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,-- + Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered, + Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their + anguish, + But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness, + Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love's + sake. + Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to + silence, + Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another, + Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning, + Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion + With their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict, + Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine, + Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving. + So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future, + Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,-- + Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder. + Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silence + Shrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the + thistle + Out of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her: + "Perish the thorns and splendor,--the bloom and the sweetness are + perished. + Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one's Duty,-- + These and the world, for dead Love!--The end of these modern + romances! + Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin + Clement." + + + + +BY THE SEA. + + + I walked with her I love by the sea, + The deep came up with its chanting waves, + Making a music so great and free + That the will and the faith, which were dead in me, + Awoke and rose from their graves. + + Chanting, and with a regal sweep + Of their 'broidered garments up and down + The strand, came the mighty waves of the deep, + Dragging the wave-worn drift from its sleep + Along the sea-sands bare and brown. + + "O my soul, make the song of the sea!" I cried. + "How it comes, with its stately tread, + And its dreadful voice, and the splendid pride + Of its regal garments flowing wide + Over the land!" to my soul I said. + + My soul was still; the deep went down. + "What hast thou, my soul," I cried, + "In thy song?" "The sea-sands bare and brown, + With broken shells and sea-weed strown, + And stranded drift," my soul replied. + + + + +SAINT CHRISTOPHER. + + + In the narrow Venetian street, + On the wall above the garden gate + (Within, the breath of the rose is sweet, + And the nightingale sings there, soon and late), + + Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone, + With the little child in his huge caress, + And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown + About his gigantic tenderness; + + And over the wall a wandering growth + Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, + And climbs around them, and holds them both + In its netted clasp of knots and rings, + + Clothing the saint from foot to beard + In glittering leaves that whisper and dance + To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, + With a lusty summer exuberance. + + To the child on his arm the faithful saint + Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy; + His brows and his heavy beard aslant + Under the dimpled chin of the boy, + + Who plays with the world upon his palm, + And bends his smiling looks divine + On the face of the giant mild and calm, + And the glittering frolic of the vine. + + He smiles on either with equal grace,-- + On the simple ivy's unconscious life, + And the soul in the giant's lifted face, + Strong from the peril of the strife: + + For both are his own,--the innocence + That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven, + And the virtue that gently rises thence + Through trial sent and victory given. + + Grow, ivy, up to his countenance, + But it cannot smile on my life as on thine; + Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, + Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine. + +Venice, 1863. + + + + +ELEGY ON JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, + + Who died, "with the first song of the birds," Wednesday morning, + April 27, 1864. + + + I. + + In the early morning when I wake + At the hour that is sacred for his sake, + + And hear the happy birds of spring + In the garden under my window sing, + + And through my window the daybreak blows + The sweetness of the lily and rose, + + A dormant anguish wakes with day, + And my heart is smitten with strange dismay: + + Distance wider than thine, O sea, + Darkens between my brother and me! + + II. + + A scrap of print, a few brief lines, + The fatal word that swims and shines + + On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, + Make faltering reason know him dead, + + And I would that my heart might feel it too, + And unto its own regret be true; + + For this is the hardest of all to bear, + That his life was so generous and fair, + + So full of love, so full of hope, + Broadening out with ample scope, + + And so far from death, that his dying seems + The idle agony of dreams + + To my heart, that feels him living yet,-- + And I forget, and I forget. + + III. + + He was almost grown a man when he passed + Away, but when I kissed him last + + He was still a child, and I had crept + Up to the little room where he slept, + + And thought to kiss him good-by in his sleep; + But he was awake to make me weep + + With terrible homesickness, before + My wayward feet had passed the door. + + Round about me clung his embrace, + And he pressed against my face his face, + + As if some prescience whispered him then + That it never, never should be again. + + IV. + + Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, + When he was a babe and I played with him, + + I remember his looks and all his ways; + And how he grew through childhood's grace, + + To the hopes, and strifes, and sports, and joys, + And innocent vanity of boys; + + I hear his whistle at the door, + His careless step upon the floor, + + His song, his jest, his laughter yet,-- + And I forget, and I forget. + + V. + + Somewhere in the graveyard that I know, + Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow, + + They have laid him; and his sisters set + On his grave the flowers their tears have wet; + + And above his grave, while I write, the song + Of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong + + From the leafy dark of the chestnut-tree; + And many a murmuring honey-bee + + On the strawberry blossoms in the grass + Stoops by his grave and will not pass; + + And in the little hollow beneath + The slope of the silent field of death, + + The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, + And the cattle go by with homeward feet, + + And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, + At the harmless noises not meant for him; + + And Nature, unto her loving heart + Has taken our darling's mortal part, + + Tenderly, that he may be, + Like the song of the robin in the tree, + + The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, + A part of Summer evermore. + + VI. + + I write, and the words with my tears are wet,-- + But I forget, O, I forget! + + Teach me, Thou that sendest this pain, + To know and feel my loss and gain! + + Let me not falter in belief + On his death, for that is sorest grief: + + O, lift me above this wearing strife, + Till I discern his deathless life, + + Shining beyond this misty shore, + A part of Heaven evermore. + +Venice, Wednesday Morning, at Dawn, May 16, 1864. + + + + +THANKSGIVING. + + + I. + + Lord, for the erring thought + Not into evil wrought: + Lord, for the wicked will + Betrayed and baffled still: + For the heart from itself kept, + Our thanksgiving accept. + + II. + + For ignorant hopes that were + Broken to our blind prayer: + For pain, death, sorrow, sent + Unto our chastisement: + For all loss of seeming good, + Quicken our gratitude. + + + + +A SPRINGTIME. + + + One knows the spring is coming: + There are birds; the fields are green; + There is balm in the sunlight and moonlight, + And dew in the twilights between. + + But over there is a silence, + A rapture great and dumb, + That day when the doubt is ended, + And at last the spring is come. + + Behold the wonder, O silence! + Strange as if wrought in a night,-- + The waited and lingering glory, + The world-old, fresh delight! + + O blossoms that hang like winter, + Drifted upon the trees, + O birds that sing in the blossoms, + O blossom-haunting bees,-- + + O green, green leaves on the branches, + O shadowy dark below, + O cool of the aisles of orchards, + Woods that the wild flowers know,-- + + O air of gold and perfume, + Wind, breathing sweet and sun, + O sky of perfect azure-- + Day, Heaven and Earth in one!-- + + Let me draw near thy secret, + And in thy deep heart see + How fared, in doubt and dreaming, + The spring that is come in me. + + For my soul is held in silence, + A rapture, great and dumb,-- + For the mystery that lingered, + The glory that is come! + +1861. + + + + +IN EARLIEST SPRING. + + + Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, + Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, + Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart all the hollows and + angles + Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. + + But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow + Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift + Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, + Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift. + + Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire + (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes,-- + Rapture of life ineffable, perfect,--as if in the brier, + Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose. + + + + +THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING. + + + Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Out of its fragrant heart of bloom + The apple-tree whispers to the room, + "Why art thou but a nest of gloom, + While the bobolinks are singing?" + + The two wan ghosts of the chamber there,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + The two wan ghosts of the chamber there + Cease in the breath of the honeyed air, + Sweep from the room and leave it bare, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + Then with a breath so chill and slow,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Then with a breath so chill and slow, + It freezes the blossoms into snow, + The haunted room makes answer low, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "I know that in the meadow-land,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + I know that in the meadow-land + The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand, + And the brook goes by on the other hand, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "But ever I see, in the brawling stream,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + But ever I see in the brawling stream + A maiden drowned and floating dim, + Under the water, like a dream, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!-- + The bobolinks are singing! + Buried, she lies in the meadow-land, + Under the sorrowful elms where they stand. + Wind, blow over her soft and bland, + While the bobolinks are singing. + + "O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing + The farmer saw so heavily swing + From the elm, one merry morn of spring, + While the bobolinks were singing. + + "O blow, and blow away the bloom,-- + The bobolinks are singing! + O blow, and blow away the bloom + That sickens me in my heart of gloom, + That sweetly sickens the haunted room, + While the bobolinks are singing!" + + + + +PRELUDE. + +(TO AN EARLY BOOK OF VERSE.) + + + In March the earliest bluebird came + And caroled from the orchard-tree + His little tremulous songs to me, + And called upon the summer's name, + + And made old summers in my heart + All sweet with flower and sun again; + So that I said, "O, not in vain + Shall be thy lay of little art, + + "Though never summer sun may glow, + Nor summer flower for thee may bloom; + Though winter turn in sudden gloom, + And drowse the stirring spring with snow"; + + And learned to trust, if I should call + Upon the sacred name of Song, + Though chill through March I languish long, + And never feel the May at all, + + Yet may I touch, in some who hear, + The hearts, wherein old songs asleep + Wait but the feeblest touch to leap + In music sweet as summer air! + + I sing in March brief bluebird lays, + And hope a May, and do not know: + May be, the heaven is full of snow,-- + May be, there open summer days. + + + + +THE MOVERS. + +SKETCH. + + + Parting was over at last, and all the good-bys had been spoken. + Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly, + Bearing the mother and children, while onward before them the + father + Trudged with his gun on his arm, and the faithful house-dog beside + him, + Grave and sedate, as if knowing the sorrowful thoughts of his + master. + + April was in her prime, and the day in its dewy awaking: + Like a great flower, afar on the crest of the eastern woodland, + Goldenly bloomed the sun, and over the beautiful valley, + Dim with its dew and shadow, and bright with its dream of a river, + Looked to the western hills, and shone on the humble procession, + Paining with splendor the children's eyes, and the heart of the + mother. + + Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the air like a palpable + presence. + Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves and the flowers in the + wild-wood, + Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in the aisles of the forest. + Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning, the wild birds were + singing: + Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together; + Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage; + Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings unfrequent, + While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music, + Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing; + Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher + Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him; + Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows; + And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the + blackbirds. + + Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward, + Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly. + Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley, + Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden; + Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her + children, + Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder. + + Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them; + Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the + woodlands, + Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of + the dogwood, + Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud; + Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily + grazing,-- + Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the + cow-bells,-- + Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry + borders, + Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms. + Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar, + As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been + spoken. + Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin-- + Home for so many years, now home no longer forever-- + Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish. + Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney + Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever; + Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were + playing; + Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly. + Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty. + Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies, + Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness. + + Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the + winter, + Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer + evening, + Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber, + Still the father beheld her weep o'er the child that was dying, + Still the place was haunted by all the Past's sorrow and gladness! + + Neither of them might speak for the thoughts that came crowding + their hearts so, + Till, in their ignorant trouble aloud the children lamented; + Then was the spell of silence dissolved, and the father and mother + Burst into tears and embraced, and turned their dim eyes to the + Westward. + +Ohio, 1859. + + + + +THROUGH THE MEADOW. + + + The summer sun was soft and bland, + As they went through the meadow land. + + The little wind that hardly shook + The silver of the sleeping brook + Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- + A mystery of mysteries! + So he must often pause, and stoop, + And all the wanton ringlets loop + Behind her dainty ear--emprise + Of slow event and many sighs. + + Across the stream was scarce a step,-- + And yet she feared to try the leap; + And he, to still her sweet alarm, + Must lift her over on his arm. + + She could not keep the narrow way, + For still the little feet would stray, + And ever must he bend t' undo + The tangled grasses from her shoe,-- + From dainty rosebud lips in pout, + Must kiss the perfect flower out! + + Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit! + Some things are bitter that were sweet. + + + + +GONE. + + + Is it the shrewd October wind + Brings the tears into her eyes? + Does it blow so strong that she must fetch + Her breath in sudden sighs? + + The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, + The Rider has passed from sight; + The day dies out of the crimson west, + And coldly falls the night. + + She presses her tremulous fingers tight + Against her closed eyes, + And on the lonesome threshold there, + She cowers down and cries. + + + + +THE SARCASTIC FAIR. + + + Her mouth is a honey-blossom, + No doubt, as the poet sings; + But within her lips, the petals, + Lurks a cruel bee, that stings. + + + + +RAPTURE. + + + In my rhyme I fable anguish, + Feigning that my love is dead, + Playing at a game of sadness, + Singing hope forever fled,-- + + Trailing the slow robes of mourning, + Grieving with the player's art, + With the languid palms of sorrow + Folded on a dancing heart. + + I must mix my love with death-dust, + Lest the draught should make me mad; + I must make believe at sorrow, + Lest I perish, over-glad. + + + + +DEAD. + + + I. + + Something lies in the room + Over against my own; + The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom + Of candles, burning alone,-- + Untrimmed, and all aflare + In the ghastly silence there! + + II. + + People go by the door, + Tiptoe, holding their breath, + And hush the talk that they held before, + Lest they should waken Death, + That is awake all night + There in the candlelight! + + III. + + The cat upon the stairs + Watches with flamy eye + For the sleepy one who shall unawares + Let her go stealing by. + She softly, softly purrs, + And claws at the banisters. + + IV. + + The bird from out its dream + Breaks with a sudden song, + That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; + The hound the whole night long + Howls to the moonless sky, + So far, and starry, and high. + + + + +THE DOUBT. + + + She sits beside the low window, + In the pleasant evening-time, + With her face turned to the sunset, + Reading a book of rhyme. + + And the wine-light of the sunset, + Stolen into the dainty nook, + Where she sits in her sacred beauty, + Lies crimson on the book. + + O beautiful eyes so tender, + Brown eyes so tender and dear, + Did you leave your reading a moment + Just now, as I passed near? + + Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes + Her features, so lily-pale; + Maybe, 'tis the lover's passion, + She reads of in the tale. + + O darling, and darling, and darling, + If I dared to trust my thought; + If I dared to believe what I must not, + Believe what no one ought,-- + + We would read together the poem + Of the Love that never died, + The passionate, world-old story + Come true, and glorified. + + + + +THE THORN. + + + "Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, + But this has none, I know." + She clasped my rival's Rose + Over her breast of snow. + + I bowed to hide my pain, + With a man's unskilful art; + I moved my lips, and could not say + The Thorn was in my heart! + + + + +THE MYSTERIES. + + + Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, + Holding my breath; + There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept + At the dark mystery of Death. + + Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, + Spent with the strife,-- + O mother, let me weep upon thy breast + At the sad mystery of Life! + + + + +THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS. + + "The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of + General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top of + Lookout Mountain."--GENERAL MEIG'S _Report of the Battle before + Chattanooga_. + + + Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain, + Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe, + Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Mountain + Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below. + O, green be the laurels that grow, + O sweet be the wild-buds that blow, + In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low. + + Light of our hope and crown of our story, + Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deeds of daring + glow, + While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory, + On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe. + O, soft be the gales when they go + Through the pines on the summit where they blow, + Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below. + + + + +FOR ONE OF THE KILLED. + + + There on the field of battle + Lies the young warrior dead: + Who shall speak in the soldier's honor? + How shall his praise be said? + + Cannon, there in the battle, + Thundered the soldier's praise, + Hark! how the volumed volleys echo + Down through the far-off days! + + Tears for the grief of a father, + For a mother's anguish, tears; + But for him that died in his country's battle, + Glory and endless years. + + + + +THE TWO WIVES. + +(TO COLONEL J. G. M., IN MEMORY OF THE EVENT BEFORE ATLANTA.) + + I. + + The colonel rode by his picket-line + In the pleasant morning sun, + That glanced from him far off to shine + On the crouching rebel picket's gun. + + II. + + From his command the captain strode + Out with a grave salute, + And talked with the colonel as he rode;-- + The picket levelled his piece to shoot. + + III. + + The colonel rode and the captain walked,-- + The arm of the picket tired; + Their faces almost touched as they talked, + And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired. + + IV. + + The captain fell at the horse's feet, + Wounded and hurt to death, + Calling upon a name that was sweet + As God is good, with his dying breath. + + V. + + And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt + To close the eyes so dim, + A high remorse for God's mercy felt, + Knowing the shot was meant for him. + + VI. + + And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath, + The name of his own young wife: + For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death, + Alone could make his with life. + + + + +BEREAVED. + + + The passionate humming-birds cling + To the honeysuckles' hearts; + In and out at the open window + The twittering house-wren darts, + And the sun is bright. + + June is young, and warm, and sweet; + The morning is gay and new; + Glimmers yet the grass of the door-yard, + Pearl-gray with fragrant dew, + And the sun is bright. + + From the mill, upon the stream, + A busy murmur swells; + On to the pasture go the cattle, + Lowing, with tinkling bells, + And the sun is bright. + + She gathers his playthings up, + And dreamily puts them by; + Children are playing in the meadow, + She hears their joyous cry, + And the sun is bright. + + She sits and clasps her brow, + And looks with swollen eyes + On the landscape that reels and dances,-- + To herself she softly cries, + And the sun is bright. + + + + +THE SNOW-BIRDS. + + + The lonesome graveyard lieth, + A deep with silent waves + Of night-long snow, all white, and billowed + Over the hidden graves. + + The snow-birds come in the morning, + Flocking and fluttering low, + And light on the graveyard brambles, + And twitter there in the snow. + + The Singer, old and weary, + Looks out from his narrow room: + "Ah, me! but my thoughts are snow-birds, + Haunting a graveyard gloom, + + "Where all the Past is buried + And dead, these many years, + Under the drifted whiteness + Of frozen falls of tears. + + "Poor birds! that know not summer, + Nor sun, nor flowers fair,-- + Only the graveyard brambles, + And graves, and winter air!" + + + + +VAGARY. + + + Up and down the dusty street, + I hurry with my burning feet; + Against my face the wind-waves beat, + Fierce from the city-sea of heat. + Deep in my heart the vision is, + Of meadow grass and meadow trees + Blown silver in the summer breeze, + And ripe, red, hillside strawberries. + + My sense the city tumult fills,-- + The tumult that about me reels + Of strokes and cries, and feet and wheels. + Deep in my dream I list, and, hark! + From out the maple's leafy dark, + The fluting of the meadow lark! + + About the thronged street I go: + There is no face here that I know; + Of all that pass me to and fro + There is no face here that I know. + Deep in my soul's most sacred place, + With a sweet pain I look and trace + The features of a tender face, + All lit with love and girlish grace. + + Some spell is on me, for I seem + A memory of the past, a dream + Of happiness remembered dim, + Unto myself that walk the street + Scathed with the city's noontide heat, + With puzzled brain and burning feet. + + + + +FEUERBILDER. + + + The children sit by the fireside + With their little faces in bloom; + And behind, the lily-pale mother, + Looking out of the gloom, + + Flushes in cheek and forehead + With a light and sudden start; + But the father sits there silent, + From the firelight apart. + + "Now, what dost thou see in the embers? + Tell it to me, my child," + Whispers the lily-pale mother + To her daughter sweet and mild. + + "O, I see a sky and a moon + In the coals and ashes there, + And under, two are walking + In a garden of flowers so fair. + + "A lady gay, and her lover, + Talking with low-voiced words, + Not to waken the dreaming flowers + And the sleepy little birds." + + Back in the gloom the mother + Shrinks with a sudden sigh. + "Now, what dost thou see in the embers?" + Cries the father to the boy. + + "O, I see a wedding-procession + Go in at the church's door,-- + Ladies in silk and knights in steel,-- + A hundred of them, and more. + + "The bride's face is as white as a lily, + And the groom's head is white as snow; + And without, with plumes and tapers, + A funeral paces slow." + + Loudly then laughed the father, + And shouted again for cheer, + And called to the drowsy housemaid + To fetch him a pipe and beer. + + + + +AVERY. + +[NIAGARA, 1853.] + + I. + + All night long they heard in the houses beside the shore, + Heard, or seemed to hear, through the multitudinous roar, + Out of the hell of the rapids as 'twere a lost soul's cries,-- + Heard and could not believe; and the morning mocked their eyes, + Showing, where wildest and fiercest the waters leaped up and ran + Raving round him and past, the visage of a man + Clinging, or seeming to cling, to the trunk of a tree that, caught + Fast in the rocks below, scarce out of the surges raught. + Was it a life, could it be, to yon slender hope that clung? + Shrill, above all the tumult the answering terror rung. + + II. + + Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is drowned, + Over the rocks the lines of another are tangled and wound; + And the long, fateful hours of the morning have wasted soon, + As it had been in some blessed trance, and now it is noon. + Hurry, now with the raft! But O, build it strong and stanch, + And to the lines and treacherous rocks look well as you launch! + Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent sides, + Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides, + Onward rushes the raft, with many a lurch and leap,-- + Lord! if it strike him loose from the hold he scarce can keep! + + No! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harmless at last, + And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast. + Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men, and slow; + Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go! + Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multitude; + Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood + Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all, + Save for the rapids' plunge, and the thunder of the fall. + But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale, + Chorussing his unheard despair, a desperate wail: + Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings, + Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings. + + III. + + All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways; + And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and prays: + Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to save, + Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and the wave + Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their strife, + Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his life,-- + Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and women swoon. + Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon, + And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last + Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed. + + IV. + + Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay, + Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his way. + "No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him. You, + Tell us, who are you?" "His brother!" "God help you both! Pass + through." + Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to him, + Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim; + But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are lost + As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are tossed. + And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope + Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope; + Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry,-- + Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying free; + Sees, then, the form,--that, spent with effort and fasting and + fear, + Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying so near,-- + Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and + hurled + Headlong on to the cataract's brink, and out of the world. + + + + +BOPEEP: A PASTORAL. + + "O, to what uses shall we put + The wildweed flower that simply blows? + And is there any moral shut + Within the bosom of the rose?" + + TENNYSON. + + I. + + She lies upon the soft, enamoured grass, + I' the wooing shelter of an apple-tree, + And at her feet the tranced brook is glass, + And in the blossoms over her the bee + Hangs charmed of his sordid industry; + For love of her the light wind will not pass. + + II. + + Her golden hair, blown over her red lips, + That seem two rose-leaves softly breathed apart, + Athwart her rounded throat like sunshine slips; + Her small hand, resting on her beating heart, + The crook that tells her peaceful shepherd-art + Scarce keeps with light and tremulous finger-tips. + + III. + + She is as fair as any shepherdess + That ever was in mask or Christmas scene: + Bright silver spangles hath she on her dress, + And of her red-heeled shoes appears the sheen; + And she hath ribbons of such blue or green + As best suits pastoral people's comeliness. + + IV. + + She sleeps, and it is in the month of May, + And the whole land is full of the delight + Of music and sweet scents; and all the day + The sun is gold; the moon is pearl all night, + And like a paradise the world is bright, + And like a young girl's hopes the world is gay. + + V. + + So waned the hours; and while her beauteous sleep + Was blest with many a happy dream of Love, + Untended still, her silly, vagrant sheep + Afar from that young shepherdess did rove, + Along the vales and through the gossip grove, + O'er daisied meads and up the thymy steep. + + VI. + + Then (for it happens oft when harm is nigh, + Our dreams grow haggard till at last we wake) + She thought that from the little runnel by + There crept upon a sudden forth a snake, + And stung her hand, and fled into the brake; + Whereat she sprang up with a bitter cry, + + VII. + + And wildly over all that place did look, + And could not spy her ingrate, wanton flock,-- + Not there among tall grasses by the brook, + Not there behind the mossy-bearded rock; + And pitiless Echo answered with a mock + When she did sorrow that she was forsook. + + VIII. + + Alas! the scattered sheep might not be found, + And long and loud that gentle maid did weep, + Till in her blurred sight the hills went round, + And, circling far, field, wood, and stream did sweep; + And on the ground the miserable Bopeep + Fell and forgot her troubles in a swound. + + IX. + + When she awoke, the sun long time had set, + And all the land was sleeping in the moon, + And all the flowers with dim, sad dews were wet, + As they had wept to see her in that swoon. + It was about the night's low-breathing noon; + Only the larger stars were waking yet. + + X. + + Bopeep, the fair and hapless shepherdess, + Rose from her swooning in a sore dismay, + And tried to smooth her damp and rumpled dress, + That showed in truth a grievous disarray; + Then where the brook the wan moon's mirror lay, + She laved her eyes, and curled each golden tress. + + XI. + + And looking to her ribbons, if they were + As ribbons of a shepherdess should be, + She took the hat that she was wont to wear + (Bedecked it was with ribbons flying free + As ever man in opera might see), + And set it on her curls of yellow hair. + + XII. + + "And I will go and seek my sheep," she said, + "Through every distant land until I die; + But when they bring me hither, cold and dead, + Let me beneath these apple-blossoms lie, + With this dear, faithful, lovely runnel nigh, + Here, where my cru--cru--cruel sheep have fed." + + XIII. + + Thus sorrow and despair make bold Bopeep, + And forth she springs, and hurries on her way: + Across the lurking rivulet she can leap, + No sombre forest shall her quest delay, + No crooked vale her eager steps bewray: + What dreadeth she that seeketh her lost sheep? + + XIV. + + By many a pond, where timorous water-birds, + With clattering cries and throbbing wings, arose, + By many a pasture, where the soft-eyed herds + Looked shadow-huge in their unmoved repose, + Long through the lonesome night that sad one goes + And fills the solitude with wailing words; + + XV. + + So that the little field-mouse dreams of harm, + Snuggled away from harm beneath the weeds; + The violet, sleeping on the clover's arm, + Wakes, and is cold with thoughts of dreadful deeds; + The pensive people of the water-reeds + Hark with a mute and dolorous alarm. + + XVI. + + And the fond hearts of all the turtle-doves + Are broken in compassion of her woe, + And every tender little bird that loves + Feels in his breast a sympathetic throe; + And flowers are sad wherever she may go, + And hoarse with sighs the waterfalls and groves. + + XVII. + + The pale moon droppeth low; star after star + Grows faint and slumbers in the gray of dawn; + And still she lingers not, but hurries far, + Till in a dreary wilderness withdrawn + Through tangled woods she lorn and lost moves on, + Where griffins dire and dreadful dragons are. + + XVIII. + + Her ribbons all are dripping with the dew, + Her red-heeled shoes are torn, and stained with mire, + Her tender arms the angry sharpness rue + Of many a scraggy thorn and envious brier; + And poor Bopeep, with no sweet pity nigh her, + Wrings her small hands, and knows not what to do. + + XIX. + + And on that crude and rugged ground she sinks, + And soon her seeking had been ended there, + But through the trees a fearful glimmer shrinks, + And of a hermit's dwelling she is 'ware: + At the dull pane a dull-eyed taper blinks, + Drowsed with long vigils and the morning air. + + XX. + + Thither she trembling moves, and at the door + Falls down, and cannot either speak or stir: + The hermit comes,--with no white beard before, + Nor coat of skins, nor cap of shaggy fur: + It was a comely youth that lifted her, + And to his hearth, and to his breakfast, bore. + + XXI. + + Arrayed he was in princeliest attire, + And of as goodly presence sooth was he + As any little maiden might admire, + Or any king-beholding cat might see + "My poor Bopeep," he sigheth piteously, + "Rest here, and warm you at a hermit's fire." + + XXII. + + She looked so beautiful, there, mute and white, + He kissed her on the lips and on the eyes + (The most a prince could do in such a plight); + But chiefly gazed on her in still surprise, + And when he saw her lily eyelids rise, + For him the whole world had no fairer sight. + + XXIII. + + "Rude is my fare: a bit of venison steak, + A dish of honey and a glass of wine, + With clean white bread, is the poor feast I make. + Be served, I pray: I think this flask is fine," + He said. "Hard is this hermit life of mine: + This day I will its weariness forsake." + + XXIV. + + And then he told her how it chanced that he, + King Cole's son, in that forest held his court, + And the sole reason that there seemed to be + Was, he was being hermit there for sport; + But he confessed the life was not his forte, + And therewith both laughed out right jollily. + + XXV. + + And sly Bopeep forgot her sheep again + In gay discourse with that engaging youth: + Love hath such sovran remedies for pain! + But then he was a handsome prince, in truth, + And both were young, and both were silly, sooth, + And everything to Love but love seems vain. + + XXVI. + + They took them down the silver-clasped book + That this young anchorite's predecessor kept,-- + A holy seer,--and through it they did look; + Sometimes their idle eyes together crept, + Sometimes their lips; but still the leaves they swept, + Until they found a shepherd's pictured crook. + + XXVII. + + And underneath was writ it should befall + On such a day, in such a month and year, + A maiden fair, a young prince brave and tall, + By such a chance should come together here. + They were the people, that was very clear: + "O love," the prince said, "let us read it all!" + + XXVIII. + + And thus the hermit's prophecy ran on: + Though she her lost sheep wist not where to find, + Yet should she bid her weary care begone, + And banish every doubt from her sweet mind: + They, with their little snow-white tails behind, + Homeward would go, if they were left alone. + + XXIX. + + They closed the book, and in her happy eyes + The prince read truth and love forevermore,-- + Better than any hermit's prophecies! + They passed together from the cavern's door; + Embraced, they turned to look at it once more, + And over it beheld the glad sun rise, + + XXX. + + That streamed before them aisles of dusk and gold + Under the song-swept arches of the wood, + And forth they went, tranced in each other's hold, + Down through that rare and luminous solitude, + Their happy hearts enchanted in the mood + Of morning, and of May, and romance old. + + XXXI. + + Sometimes the saucy leaves would kiss her cheeks, + And he must kiss their wanton kiss away; + To die beneath her feet the wood-flower seeks, + The quivering aspen feels a fine dismay, + And many a scented blossom on the spray + In odorous sighs its passionate longing speaks. + + XXXII. + + And forth they went down to that stately stream, + Bowed over by the ghostly sycamores + (Awearily, as if some heavy dream + Held them in languor), but whose opulent shores + With pearled shells and dusts of precious ores + Were tremulous brilliance in the morning beam; + + XXXIII. + + Where waited them, beside the lustrous sand, + A silk-winged shallop, sleeping on the flood; + And smoothly wafted from the hither strand, + Across the calm, broad stream they lightly rode, + Under them still the silver fishes stood; + The eager lilies, on the other land, + + XXXIV. + + Beckoned them; but where the castle shone + With diamonded turrets and a wall + Of gold-embedded pearl and costly stone, + Their vision to its peerless splendor thrall + The maiden fair, the young prince brave and tall, + Thither with light, unlingering feet pressed on. + + XXXV. + + A gallant train to meet this loving pair, + In silk and steel, moves from the castle door, + And up the broad and ringing castle stair + They go with gleeful minstrelsy before, + And "Hail our prince and princess evermore!" + From all the happy throng is greeting there. + + XXXVI. + + And in the hall the prince's sire, King Cole, + Sitting with crown and royal ermine on, + His fiddlers three behind with pipe and bowl, + Rises and moves to lift his kneeling son, + Greeting his bride with kisses many a one, + And tears and laughter from his jolly soul; + + XXXVII. + + Then both his children to a window leads + That over daisied pasture-land looks out, + And shows Bopeep where her lost flock wide feeds, + And every frolic lambkin leaps about. + She hears Boy-Blue, that lazy shepherd, shout, + Slow pausing from his pipe of mellow reeds; + + XXXVIII. + + And, turning, peers into her prince's eyes; + Then, caught and clasped against her prince's heart, + Upon her breath her answer wordless dies, + And leaves her gratitude to sweeter art,-- + To lips from which the bloom shall never part, + To looks wherein the summer never dies! + + + + +WHILE SHE SANG. + + I. + + She sang, and I heard the singing, + Far out of the wretched past, + Of meadow-larks in the meadow, + In a breathing of the blast. + + Cold through the clouds of sunset + The thin red sunlight shone, + Staining the gloom of the woodland + Where I walked and dreamed alone; + + And glinting with chilly splendor + The meadow under the hill, + Where the lingering larks were lurking + In the sere grass hid and still. + + Out they burst with their singing, + Their singing so loud and gay; + They made in the heart of October + A sudden ghastly May, + + That faded and ceased with their singing. + The thin red sunlight paled, + And through the boughs above me + The wind of evening wailed;-- + + Wailed, and the light of evening + Out of the heaven died; + And from the marsh by the river + The lonesome killdee cried. + + II. + + The song is done, but a phantom + Of music haunts the chords, + That thrill with its subtile presence, + And grieve for the dying words. + + And in the years that are perished, + Far back in the wretched past, + I see on the May-green meadows + The white snow falling fast;-- + + Falling, and falling, and falling, + As still and cold as death, + On the bloom of the odorous orchard, + On the small, meek flowers beneath; + + On the roofs of the village-houses, + On the long, silent street, + Where its plumes are soiled and broken + Under the passing feet; + + On the green crest of the woodland, + On the cornfields far apart; + On the cowering birds in the gable, + And on my desolate heart. + + + + +A POET. + + + From wells where Truth in secret lay + He saw the midnight stars by day. + + "O marvellous gift!" the many cried, + "O cruel gift!" his voice replied. + + The stars were far, and cold, and high, + That glimmered in the noonday sky; + + He yearned toward the sun in vain, + That warmed the lives of other men. + + + + +CONVENTION. + + + He falters on the threshold, + She lingers on the stair: + Can it be that was his footstep? + Can it be that she is there? + + Without is tender yearning, + And tender love is within; + They can hear each other's heart-beats, + But a wooden door is between. + + + + +THE POET'S FRIENDS. + + + The robin sings in the elm; + The cattle stand beneath, + Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes + And fragrant meadow-breath. + + They listen to the flattered bird, + The wise-looking, stupid things; + And they never understand a word + Of all the robin sings. + + + + +NO LOVE LOST. + +A ROMANCE OF TRAVEL. + + 1862. + BERTHA--_Writing from Venice_. + + I. + + On your heart I feign myself fallen--ah, heavier burden, + Darling, of sorrow and pain than ever shall rest there! I take you + Into these friendless arms of mine, that you cannot escape me; + Closer and closer I fold you, and tell you all, and you listen + Just as you used at home, and you let my sobs and my silence + Speak, when the words will not come--and you understand and forgive + me. + --Ah! no, no! but I write, with the wretched bravado of distance, + What you must read unmoved by the pity too far for entreaty. + + II. + + Well, I could never have loved him, but when he sought me and + asked me,-- + When to the men that offered their lives, the love of a woman + Seemed so little to give!--I promised the love that he asked me, + Sent him to war with my kiss on his lips, and thought him my hero. + Afterward came the doubt, and out of long question, self-knowledge,-- + Came that great defeat, and the heart of the nation was withered; + Mine leaped high with the awful relief won of death. But the + horror, + Then, of the crime that was wrought in that guilty moment of + rapture,-- + Guilty as if my will had winged the bullet that struck him,-- + Clung to me day and night, and dreaming I saw him forever, + Looking through battle-smoke with sorrowful eyes of upbraiding, + Or, in the moonlight lying gray, or dimly approaching, + Holding toward me his arms, that still held nearer and nearer, + Folded about me at last ... and I would I had died in the fever!-- + Better then than now, and better than ever hereafter! + + III. + + Weary as some illusion of fever to me was the ocean-- + Storm-swept, scourged with bitter rains, and wandering always + Onward from sky to sky with endless processions of surges, + Knowing not life nor death, but since the light was, the first day, + Only enduring unrest till the darkness possess it, the last day. + Over its desolate depths we voyaged away from all living: + All the world behind us waned into vaguest remoteness; + Names, and faces, and scenes recurred like that broken remembrance + Of the anterior, bodiless life of the spirit,--the trouble + Of a bewildered brain, or the touch of the Hand that created,-- + And when the ocean ceased at last like a faded illusion, + Europe itself seemed only a vision of eld and of sadness. + Naught but the dark in my soul remained to me constant and real, + Growing and taking the thoughts bereft of happier uses, + Blotting all sense of lapse from the days that with swift iteration + Were and were not. They fable the bright days the fleetest: + These that had nothing to give, that had nothing to bring or to + promise, + Went as one day alone. For me was no alternation + Save from my dull despair to wild and reckless rebellion, + When the regret for my sin was turned to ruthless self-pity-- + When I hated him whose love had made me its victim, + Through his faith and my falsehood yet claiming me. Then I was + smitten + With so great remorse, such grief for him, and compassion, + That, if he could have come back to me, I had welcomed and loved + him + More than man ever was loved. Alas, for me that another + Holds his place in my heart evermore! Alas, that I listened + When the words, whose daring lured my spirit and lulled it, + Seemed to take my blame away with my will of resistance! + + Do not make haste to condemn me: my will was the will of a + woman,-- + Fain to be broken by love. Yet unto the last I endeavored + What I could to be faithful still to the past and my penance; + And as we stood that night in the old Roman garden together-- + By the fountain whose passionate tears but now had implored me + In his pleading voice--and he waited my answer, I told him + All that had been before of delusion and guilt, and conjured him + Not to darken his fate with mine. The costly endeavor + Only was subtler betrayal. O me, from the pang of confession, + Sprang what strange delight, as I tore from its lurking that + horror-- + Brooded upon so long--with the hope that at last I might see it + Through his eyes, unblurred by the tears that disordered my vision! + Oh, with what rapturous triumph I humbled my spirit before him, + That he might lift me and soothe me, and make that dreary + remembrance, + All this confused present, seem only some sickness of fancy, + Only a morbid folly, no certain and actual trouble! + If from that refuge I fled with words of too feeble denial-- + Bade him hate me, with sobs that entreated his tenderest pity, + Moved mute lips and left the meaningless farewell unuttered-- + She that never has loved, alone can wholly condemn me. + + IV. + + How could he other than follow? My heart had bidden him follow, + Nor had my lips forbidden; and Rome yet glimmered behind me, + When my soul yearned towards his from the sudden forlornness of + absence. + Everywhere his face looked from vanishing glimpses of faces, + Everywhere his voice reached my senses in fugitive cadence. + Sick, through the storied cities, with wretched hopes, and + upbraidings + Of my own heart for its hopes, I went from wonder to wonder, + Blind to them all, or only beholding them wronged, and related, + Through some trick of wayward thought, to myself and my trouble. + Not surprise nor regret, but a fierce, precipitate gladness + Sent the blood to my throbbing heart when I found him in Venice. + "Waiting for you," he whispered; "you would so." I answered him + nothing. + + V. + + Father, whose humor grows more silent and ever more absent + (Changed in all but love for me since the death of my mother), + Willing to see me contented at last, and trusting us wholly, + Left us together alone in our world of love and of beauty. + So, by noon and by night, we two have wandered in Venice, + Where the beautiful lives in vivid and constant caprices, + Yet, where the charm is so perfect that nothing fantastic surprises + More than in dreams, and one's life with the life of the city is + blended + In a luxurious calm, and the tumult without and beyond it + Seems but the emptiest fable of vain aspiration and labor. + + Yes, from all that makes this Venice sole among cities, + Peerless forever,--the still lagoons that sleep in the sunlight, + Lulled by their island-bells; the night's mysterious waters + Lit through their shadowy depths by stems of splendor, that blossom + Into the lamps that float, like flamy lotuses, over; + Narrow and secret canals, that dimly gleaming and glooming + Under palace-walls and numberless arches of bridges, + List no sound but the dip of the gondolier's oar and his warning + Cried from corner to corner; the sad, superb Canalazzo + Mirroring marvellous grandeur and beauty, and dreaming of glory + Out of the empty homes of her lords departed; the footways + Wandering sunless between the walls of the houses, and stealing + Glimpses, through rusted cancelli, of lurking greenness of gardens, + Wild-grown flowers and broken statues and mouldering frescos; + Thoroughfares filled with traffic, and throngs ever ebbing and + flowing + To and from the heart of the city, whose pride and devotion, + Lifting high the bells of St. Mark's like prayers unto heaven, + Stretch a marble embrace of palaces toward the cathedral + Orient, gorgeous, and flushed with color and light, like the + morning!-- + From the lingering waste that is not yet ruin in Venice, + And her phantasmal show, through all, of being and doing-- + Came a strange joy to us, untouched by regret for the idle + Days without yesterdays that died into nights without morrows. + Here, in our paradise of love we reigned, new-created, + As in the youth of the world, in the days before evil and + conscience. + Ah! in our fair, lost world was neither fearing nor doubting, + Neither the sickness of old remorse nor the gloom of foreboding,-- + Only the glad surrender of all individual being + Unto him whom I loved, and in whose tender possession, + Fate-free, my soul reposed from its anguish. + + --Of these things I write you + As of another's experience; part of my own they no longer + Seem to me now, through the doom that darkens the past like the + future. + + VI. + + Golden the sunset gleamed, above the city behind us, + Out of a city of clouds as fairy and lovely as Venice, + While we looked at the fishing-tails of purple and yellow + Far on the rim of the sea, whose light and musical surges + Broke along the sands with a faint, reiterant sadness. + But, when the sails had darkened into black wings, through the + twilight + Sweeping away into night--past the broken tombs of the Hebrews + Homeward we sauntered slowly, through dew-sweet, blossomy alleys; + So drew near the boat by errant and careless approaches, + Entered, and left with indolent pulses the Lido behind us. + + All the sunset had paled, and the campanili of Venice + Rose like the masts of a mighty fleet moored there in the water. + Lights flashed furtively to and fro through the deepening twilight. + Massed in one thick shade lay the Gardens; the numberless islands + Lay like shadows upon the lagoons. And on us as we loitered + By their enchanted coasts, a spell of ineffable sweetness + Fell and made us at one with them; and silent and blissful + Shadows we seemed, that drifted on through a being of shadow, + Vague, indistinct to ourselves, unbounded by hope or remembrance. + Yet we knew the beautiful night, as it grew from the evening: + Far beneath us and far above us the vault of the heavens + Glittered and darkened; and now the moon, that had haunted the + daylight + Thin and pallid, dimmed the stars with her fulness of splendor, + And over all the lagoons fell the silvery rain of the moonbeams, + As in the song the young girls sang while their gondolas passed + us,-- + Sang in the joy of love, or youth's desire of loving. + + Balmy night of the South! O perfect night of the Summer! + Night of the distant dark, of the near and tender effulgence!-- + How from my despair are thy peace and loveliness frightened! + For, while our boat lay there at the will of the light undulations, + Idle as if our mood imbued and controlled it, yet ever + Seeming to bear us on athwart those shining expanses + Out to shining seas beyond pursuit or returning-- + There, while we lingered, and lingered, and would not break from our + rapture, + Down the mirrored night another gondola drifted + Nearer and slowly nearer our own, and moonlighted faces + Stared. And that sweet trance grew a rigid and dreadful possession, + Which, if no dream indeed, yet mocked with such semblance of + dreaming, + That, as it happens in dreams, when a dear face, stooping to kiss + us, + Takes, ere the lips have touched, some malign and horrible aspect, + _His_ face faded away, and the face of the Dead--of that other-- + Flashed on mine, and writhing, through every change of emotion,-- + Wild amaze and scorn, accusation and pitiless mocking,-- + Vanished into the swoon whose blackness encompassed and hid me. + + PHILIP--_To Bertha_. + + I am not sure, I own, that if first I had seen my delusion + When I saw _you_, last night, I should be so ready to give you + Now your promises back, and hold myself nothing above you, + That it is mine to offer a freedom you never could ask for. + Yet, believe me, indeed, from no bitter heart I release you: + You are as free of me now as though I had died in the battle, + Or as I never had lived. Nay, if it is mine to forgive you, + Go without share of the blame that could hardly be all upon your + side. + + Ghosts are not sensitive things; yet, after my death in the + papers, + Sometimes a harrowing doubt assailed this impalpable essence: + Had I done so well to plead my cause at that moment, + When your consent must be yielded less to the lover than soldier? + "Not so well," I was answered by that ethereal conscience + Ghosts have about them, "and not so nobly or wisely as might be." + --Truly, I loved you, then, as now I love you no longer. + + I was a prisoner then, and this doubt in the languor of sickness + Came; and it clung to my convalescence, and grew to the purpose, + After my days of captivity ended, to seek you and solve it, + And, if I haply had erred, to undo the wrong, and release you. + + Well, you have solved me the doubt. I dare to trust that you wept + me, + Just a little, at first, when you heard of me dead in the battle? + For we were plighted, you know, and even in this saintly humor, + I would scarce like to believe that my loss had merely relieved + you. + Yet, I say, it was prudent and well not to wait for my coming + Back from the dead. If it may be I sometimes had cherished a fancy + That I had won some right to the palm with the pang of the + martyr,-- + Fondly intended, perhaps, some splendor of self-abnegation,-- + Doubtless all that was a folly which merciful chances have spared + me. + No, I am far from complaining that Circumstance coolly has ordered + Matters of tragic fate in such a commonplace fashion. + How do I know, indeed, that the easiest isn't the best way? + + Friendly adieux end this note, and our little comedy with it. + + FANNY--_To Clara_. + + I. + + Yes, I promised to write, but how shall I write to you, darling? + Venice we reached last Monday, wild for canals and for color, + Palaces, prisons, lagoons, and gondolas, bravoes, and moonlight, + All the mysterious, dreadful, beautiful things in existence. + Fred had joined us at Naples, insuff'rably knowing and travelled, + Wise in the prices of things and great at tempestuous bargains, + Rich in the costly nothing our youthful travellers buy here, + At a prodigious outlay of time and money and trouble; + Utter confusion of facts, and talking the wildest of pictures,-- + Pyramids, battle-fields, bills, and examinations of luggage, + Passports, policemen, porters, and how he got through his + tobacco,-- + Ignorant, handsome, full-bearded, brown, and good-natured as ever: + Annie thinks him perfect, and I well enough for a brother. + Also, a friend of Fred's came with us from Naples to Venice; + And, altogether, I think, we are rather agreeable people, + For we've been taking our pleasure at all times in perfect + good-humor; + Which is an excellent thing that you'll understand when you've + travelled, + Seen Recreation dead-beat and cross, and learnt what a burden + Frescos, for instance, can be, and, in general, what an affliction + Life is apt to become among the antiques and old masters. + + Venice we've thoroughly done, and it's perfectly true of the + pictures-- + Titians and Tintorettos, and Palmas and Paul Veroneses; + Neither are gondolas fictions, but verities, hearse-like and + swan-like, + Quite as the heart could wish. And one finds, to one's infinite + comfort, + Venice just as unique as one's fondest visions have made it: + Palaces and mosquitoes rise from the water together, + And, in the city's streets, the salt-sea is ebbing and flowing + Several inches or more. + + --Ah! let me not wrong thee, O Venice! + Fairest, forlornest, and saddest of all the cities, and dearest! + Dear, for my heart has won here deep peace from cruel confusion; + And in this lucent air, whose night is but tenderer noon-day, + Fear is forever dead, and hope has put on the immortal! + --There! and you need not laugh. I'm coming to something directly. + One thing: I've bought you a chain of the famous fabric of Venice-- + Something peculiar and quaint, and of such a delicate texture + That you must wear it embroidered upon a riband of velvet, + If you would have the effect of its exquisite fineness and beauty. + "Isn't it very frail?" I asked of the workman who made it. + "Strong enough, if you will, to bind a lover, signora,"-- + With an expensive smile. 'Twas bought near the Bridge of Rialto. + (Shylock, you know.) In our shopping, Aunt May and Fred do the + talking: + Fred begins always in French, with the most delicious effront'ry, + Only to end in profoundest humiliation and English. + Aunt, however, scorns to speak any tongue but Italian: + "Quanto per these ones here?" and "What did you say was the + prezzo?" + "Ah! troppo caro! _Too much!_ No, no! Don't I _tell_ you it's + troppo?" + All the while insists that the gondolieri shall show us + What she calls Titian's palazzo, and pines for the house of + Othello. + Annie, the dear little goose, believes in Fred and her mother + With an enchanting abandon. She doesn't at all understand them, + But she has some twilight views of their cleverness. Father is + quiet, + Now and then ventures some French when he fancies that nobody hears + him, + In an aside to the valet-de-place--I never detect him-- + Buys things for mother and me with a quite supernatural sweetness, + Tolerates all Fred's airs, and is indispensably pleasant. + + II. + + Prattling on of these things, which I think cannot interest + deeply, + So I hold back in my heart its dear and wonderful secret + (Which I must tell you at last, however I falter to tell you), + Fain to keep it all my own for a little while longer,-- + Doubting but it shall lose some part of its strangeness and + sweetness, + Shared with another, and fearful that even _you_ may not find it + Just the marvel that I do--and thus turn our friendship to hatred. + + Sometimes it seems to me that this love, which I feel is eternal, + Must have begun with my life, and that only an absence was ended + When we met and knew in our souls that we loved one another. + For from the first was no doubt. The earliest hints of the passion, + Whispered to girlhood's tremulous dream, may be mixed with + misgiving, + But, when the very love comes, it bears no vagueness of meaning; + Touched by its truth (too fine to be felt by the ignorant senses, + Knowing but looks and utterance) soul unto soul makes confession, + Silence to silence speaks. And I think that this subtile assurance, + Yet unconfirmed from without, is even sweeter and dearer + Than the perfected bliss that comes when the words have been + spoken. + --Not that I'd have them unsaid, now! But 't was delicious to + ponder + All the miracle over, and clasp it, and keep it, and hide it,-- + While I beheld him, you know, with looks of indifferent languor, + Talking of other things, and felt the divine contradiction + Trouble my heart below! + + And yet, if no doubt touched our passion, + Do not believe for that, our love has been wholly unclouded. + All best things are ours when pain and patience have won them: + Peace itself would mean nothing but for the strife that preceded; + Triumph of love is greatest, when peril of love has been sorest. + (That's to say, I dare say. I'm only repeating what _he_ said.) + Well, then, of all wretched things in the world, a mystery, Clara, + Lurked in this life dear to mine, and hopelessly held us asunder + When we drew nearest together, and all but his speech said, "I love + you." + Fred had known him at college, and then had found him at Naples, + After several years,--and called him a capital fellow. + Thus far his knowledge went, and beyond this began to run shallow + Over troubled ways, and to break into brilliant conjecture, + Harder by far to endure than the other's reticent absence-- + Absence wherein at times he seemed to walk like one troubled + By an uneasy dream, whose spell is not broken with waking, + But it returns all day with a vivid and sudden recurrence, + Like a remembered event. Of the past that was closest the present, + This we knew from himself: He went at the earliest summons, + When the Rebellion began, and falling, terribly wounded, + Into the enemy's hands, after ages of sickness and prison, + Made his escape at last; and, returning, found all his virtues + Grown out of recognition and shining in posthumous splendor,-- + Found all changed and estranged, and, he fancied, more wonder than + welcome. + So, somewhat heavy of heart, and disabled for war, he had wandered + Hither to Europe for perfecter peace. Abruptly his silence, + Full of suggestion and sadness, made here a chasm between us; + But we spanned the chasm with conversational bridges, + Else talked all around it, and feigned an ignorance of it, + With that absurd pretence which is always so painful, or comic, + Just as you happen to make it or see it. + + In spite of our fictions, + Severed from his by that silence, my heart grew ever more anxious, + Till last night when together we sat in Piazza San Marco + (Then, when the morrow must bring us parting--forever, it might + be), + Taking our ices al fresco. Some strolling minstrels were singing + Airs from the Trovatore. I noted with painful observance, + With the unwilling minuteness at such times absolute torture, + All that brilliant scene, for which I cared nothing, before me: + Dark-eyed Venetian leoni regarding the forestieri + With those compassionate looks of gentle and curious wonder + Home-keeping Italy's nations bend on the voyaging races,-- + Taciturn, indolent, sad, as their beautiful city itself is; + Groups of remotest English--not just the traditional English + (Lavish Milor is no more, and your travelling Briton is frugal)-- + English, though, after all, with the Channel always between them, + Islanded in themselves, and the Continent's sociable races; + Country-people of ours--the New World's confident children, + Proud of America always, and even vain of the Troubles + As of disaster laid out on a scale unequalled in Europe; + Polyglot Russians that spoke all languages better than natives; + White-coated Austrian officers, anglicized Austrian dandies; + Gorgeous Levantine figures of Greek, and Turk, and Albanian-- + These, and the throngs that moved through the long arcades and + Piazza, + Shone on by numberless lamps that flamed round the perfect Piazza, + Jewel-like set in the splendid frame of this beautiful picture, + Full of such motley life, and so altogether Venetian. + + Then we rose and walked where the lamps were blanched by the + moonlight + Flooding the Piazzetta with splendor, and throwing in shadow + All the facade of Saint Mark's, with its pillars, and horses, and + arches; + But the sculptured frondage, that blossoms over the arches + Into the forms of saints, was touched with tenderest lucence, + And the angel that stands on the crest of the vast campanile + Bathed his golden vans in the liquid light of the moonbeams. + Black rose the granite pillars that lift the Saint and the Lion; + Black sank the island campanili from distance to distance; + Over the charmed scene there brooded a presence of music, + Subtler than sound, and felt, unheard, in the depth of the spirit. + + How can I gather and show you the airy threads of enchantment + Woven that night round my life and forever wrought into my being, + As in our boat we glided away from the glittering city? + Dull at heart I felt, and I looked at the lights in the water, + Blurring their brilliance with tears, while the tresses of eddying + seaweed, + Whirled in the ebbing tide, like the tresses of sea-maidens + drifting + Seaward from palace-haunts, in the moonshine glistened and + darkened. + + Sad and vague were my thoughts, and full of fear was the silence; + And, when he turned to speak at last, I trembled to hear him, + Feeling he now must speak of his love, and his life and its + secret,-- + Now that the narrowing chances had left but that cruel conclusion, + Else the life-long ache of a love and a trouble unuttered. + Better, my feebleness pleaded, the dreariest doubt that had vexed + me, + Than my life left nothing, not even a doubt to console it; + But, while I trembled and listened, his broken words crumbled to + silence, + And, as though some touch of fate had thrilled him with warning, + Suddenly from me he turned. Our gondola slipped from the shadow + Under a ship lying near, and glided into the moonlight, + Where, in its brightest lustre, another gondola rested. + _I_ saw two lovers there, and he, in the face of the woman, + Saw what has made him mine, my own beloved, forever! + Mine!--but through _what_ tribulation, and awful confusion of + spirit! + Tears that I think of with smiles, and sighs I remember with + laughter, + Agonies full of absurdity, keen, ridiculous anguish, + Ending in depths of blissful shame, and heavenly transports! + + III. + + White, and estranged as a man who has looked on a spectre, he + mutely + Sank to the place at my side, nor while we returned to the city + Uttered a word of explaining, or comment, or comfort, but only, + With his good-night, incoherently craved my forgiveness and + patience, + Parted, and left me to spend the night in hysterical vigils, + Tending to Annie's supreme dismay, and postponing our journey + One day longer at least; for I went to bed in the morning, + Firmly rejecting the pity of friends, and the pleasures of travel, + Fixed in a dreadful purpose never to get any better. + + Later, however, I rallied, when Fred, with a maddening prologue + Touching the cause of my sickness, including his fever at Jaffa, + Told me that some one was waiting; and could he see me a moment? + See me? Certainly not. Or,--yes. But why did he want to? + So, in the dishabille of a morning-gown and an arm-chair, + Languid, with eloquent wanness of eye and of cheek, I received + him-- + Willing to touch and reproach, and half-melted myself by my pathos, + Which, with a reprobate joy, I wholly forgot the next instant, + When, with electric words, few, swift, and vivid, he brought me, + Through a brief tempest of tears, to this heaven of sunshine and + sweetness. + + Yes, he had looked on a ghost--the phantom of love that was + perished!-- + When, last night, he beheld the scene of which I have told you. + For to the woman he saw there, his troth had been solemnly plighted + Ere he went to the war. His return from the dead found her absent + In the belief of his death; and hither to Europe he followed,-- + Followed to seek her, and keep, if she would, the promise between + them, + Or, were a haunting doubt confirmed, to break it and free her. + Then, at Naples we met, and the love that, before he was conscious, + Turned his life toward mine, laid torturing stress to the purpose + Whither it drove him forever, and whence forever it swerved him. + How could he tell me his love, with this terrible burden upon him? + How could he linger near me, and still withhold the avowal? + And what ruin were that, if the other were doubted unjustly, + And should prove fatally true! With shame, he confessed he had + faltered, + Clinging to guilty delays, and to hopes that were bitter with + treason, + Up to the eve of our parting. And then the last anguish was spared + him. + _Her_ love for him was dead. But the heart that leaped in his bosom + With a great, dumb throb of joy and wonder and doubting, + Still must yield to the spell of his silencing will till that + phantom + Proved an actual ghost by common-place tests of the daylight, + Such as speech with the lady's father. + + And now, could I pardon-- + Nay, did I think I could love him? I sobbingly answered, I thought + so. + And we are all of us going to Lago di Como to-morrow, + With an ulterior view at the first convenient Legation. + + Patientest darling, good-by! Poor Fred, whose sense of what's + proper + Never was touched till now, is shocked at my glad self-betrayals, + And I am pointed out as an awful example to Annie, + Figuring all she must never be. But, oh, if _he_ loves me!-- + + POSTSCRIPT. + + Since, he has shown me a letter in which he absolves and forgives + her + (Philip, of course, not Fred; and the _other_, of course, and not + Annie). + Don't you think him generous, noble, unselfish, heroic? + + L'ENVOY.--_Clara's Comment_. + + Well, I'm glad, I am sure, if Fanny supposes she's happy. + I've no doubt her lover is good and noble--as men go. + But, as regards his release of a woman who'd wholly forgot him, + And whom he loved no longer, for one whom he loves, and who loves + him, + _I_ don't exactly see where the _heroism_ commences. + + + + +THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS. + + + There is a bird that comes and sings + In the Professor's garden-trees; + Upon the English oak he swings, + And tilts and tosses in the breeze. + + I know his name, I know his note, + That so with rapture takes my soul; + Like flame the gold beneath his throat, + His glossy cope is black as coal. + + O oriole, it is the song + You sang me from the cottonwood, + Too young to feel that I was young, + Too glad to guess if life were good. + + And while I hark, before my door, + Adown the dusty Concord Road, + The blue Miami flows once more + As by the cottonwood it flowed. + + And on the bank that rises steep, + And pours a thousand tiny rills, + From death and absence laugh and leap + My school-mates to their flutter-mills. + + The blackbirds jangle in the tops + Of hoary-antlered sycamores; + The timorous killdee starts and stops + Among the drift-wood on the shores. + + Below, the bridge--a noonday fear + Of dust and shadow shot with sun-- + Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, + Far unto alien coasts unknown. + + And on those alien coasts, above, + Where silver ripples break the stream's + Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove + A hidden parrot scolds and screams. + + Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things: + A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath-- + It is a song the oriole sings-- + And all the rest belongs to death. + + But oriole, my oriole, + Were some bright seraph sent from bliss + With songs of heaven to win my soul + From simple memories such as this, + + What could he tell to tempt my ear + From you? What high thing could there be, + So tenderly and sweetly dear + As my lost boyhood is to me? + + + + +PORDENONE. + + I. + + Hard by the Church of Saint Stephen, in sole and beautiful Venice, + Under the colonnade of the Augustinian Convent, + Every day, as I passed, I paused to look at the frescos + Painted upon the ancient walls of the court of the Convent + By a great master of old, who wore his sword and his dagger + While he wrought the figures of patriarchs, martyrs, and virgins + Into the sacred and famous scenes of Scriptural story. + + II. + + Long ago the monks from their snug self-devotion were driven, + Wistful and fat and slow: looking backward, I fancied them going + Out through the sculptured doorway, and down the Ponte de'Frati, + Cowled and sandalled and beaded, a plump and pensive procession; + And in my day their cells were barracks for Austrian soldiers, + Who in their turn have followed the Augustinian Friars. + As to the frescos, little remained of work once so perfect. + Summer and winter weather of some three cycles had wasted; + Plaster had fallen, and left unsightly blotches of ruin; + Wanton and stupid neglect had done its worst to the pictures: + Yet to the sympathetic and reverent eye was apparent-- + Where the careless glance but found, in expanses of plaster, + Touches of incoherent color and lines interrupted-- + Somewhat still of the life of surpassing splendor and glory + Filling the frescos once; and here and there was a figure, + Standing apart, and out from the common decay and confusion, + Flushed with immortal youth and ineffaceable beauty, + Such as that figure of Eve in pathetic expulsion from Eden, + Taking--the tourist remembers--the wrath of Heaven al fresco, + As is her well-known custom in thousands of acres of canvas. + + III. + + I could make out the much-bepainted Biblical subjects, + When I had patience enough: The Temptation, of course, and + Expulsion; + Cain killing Abel, his Brother--the merest fragment of murder; + Noah's Debauch--the trunk of the sea-faring patriarch naked, + And the garment, borne backward to cover it, fearfully tattered; + Abraham offering Isaac--no visible Isaac, and only + Abraham's lifted knife held back by the hovering angel; + Martyrdom of Saint Stephen--a part of the figure of Stephen; + And the Conversion of Paul--the greaves on the leg of a soldier + Held across the back of a prostrate horse by the stirrup; + But when I looked at the face of that tearful and beauteous + figure,-- + Eve in the fresco there, and, in Venice of old, Violante, + As I must fain believe (the lovely daughter of Palma, + Who was her father's Saint Barbara, and was the Bella of Titian),-- + Such a meaning and life shone forth from its animate presence + As could restore those vague and ineffectual pictures, + With their pristine colors, and fill them with light and with + movement. + Nay, sometimes it could blind me to all the present about me, + Till I beheld no more the sausage-legged Austrian soldiers, + Where they stood on guard beside one door of the Convent, + Nor the sentinel beggars that watched the approach to the other; + Neither the bigolanti, the broad-backed Friulan maidens, + Drawing the water with clatter and splashing, and laughter and + gossip, + Out of the carven well in the midst of the court of the Convent-- + No, not even the one with the mole on her cheek and the sidelong + Look, as she ambled forth with her buckets of bronze at her + shoulder, + Swinging upon the yoke to and fro, a-drip and a-glimmer. + All in an instant was changed, and once more the cloister was + peopled + By the serene monks of old, and against walls of the cloisters, + High on his scaffolding raised, Pordenone[5] wrought at his + frescos. + Armed with dagger and sword, as the legend tells, against Titian, + Who was his rival in art and in love. + + IV. + + It seemed to be summer, + In the forenoon of the day; and the master's diligent pencil + Laid its last light touches on Eve driven forth out of Eden, + Otherwise Violante, and while his pupils about him + Wrought and chattered, in silence ran the thought of the painter: + "She, and forever she! Is it come to be my perdition? + Shall I, then, never more make the face of a beautiful woman + But it must take her divine, accursed beauty upon it, + And, when I finish my work, stand forth her visible presence? + Ah! I could take this sword and strike it into her bosom! + Though I believe my own heart's blood would stream from the + painting, + So much I love her! Yes, that look is marvellous like you, + Wandering, tender--such as I'd give my salvation to win you + Once to bend upon me! But I knew myself better than make you, + Lest I should play the fool about you here before people, + Helpless to turn away from your violet eyes, Violante, + That have turned all my life to a vision of madness." The painter + Here unto speech betraying the thoughts he had silently pondered, + "Visions, visions, my son?" said a gray old friar who listened, + Seated there in the sun, with his eye on the work of the painter + Fishily fixed, while the master blasphemed behind his mustaches. + "Much have I envied your Art, who vouchsafeth to those who adore + her + Visions of heavenly splendor denied to fastings and vigils. + I have spent days and nights of faint and painful devotion, + Scourged myself almost to death, without one glimpse of the glory + Which your touch has revealed in the face of that heavenly maiden. + Pleasure me to repeat what it was you were saying of visions: + Fain would I know how they come to you, though _I_ never see them, + And in my thickness of hearing I fear some words have escaped me." + Then, while the painter glared on the lifted face of the friar, + Baleful, breathless, bewildered, fiercer than noon in the dog-days, + Round the circle of pupils there ran a tittering murmur; + From the lips to the ears of those nameless Beppis and Gigis + Buzzed the stinging whisper: "Let's hear Pordenone's confession." + Well they knew the master's luckless love, and whose portrait + He had unconsciously painted there, and guessed that his visions + Scarcely were those conceived by the friar, who constantly + blundered + Round the painter at work, mistaking every subject-- + Noah's drunken Debauch for the Stoning of Stephen the Martyr, + And the Conversion of Paul for the Flight into Egypt; forever + Putting his hand to his ear and shouting, "Speak louder, I pray + you!" + So they waited now, in silent, amused expectation, + Till Pordenone's angry scorn should gather to bursting. + Long the painter gazed in furious silence, then slowly + Uttered a kind of moan, and turned again to his labor. + Tears gathered into his eyes, of mortification and pathos, + And when the dull old monk, who forgot, while he waited the answer, + Visions and painter, and all, had maundered away in his error, + Pordenone half envied the imbecile peace of his bosom; + "For in my own," he mused, "is such a combat of devils, + That I believe torpid age or stupid youth would be better + Than this manhood of mine that has climbed aloft to discover + Heights which I never can reach, and bright on the pinnacle + standing + In the unfading light, my rival crowned victor above me. + If I could hint what I feel, what forever escapes from my pencil, + All after-time should know my will was not less than my failure, + Nor should any one dare remember me merely in pity. + All should read my sorrows and do my discomfiture homage, + Saying: 'Not meanly at any time this painter meant or endeavored; + His was the anguish of one who falls short of the highest + achievement, + Conscious of doing his utmost, and knowing how vast his defeat is. + Life, if he would, might have had some second guerdon to give him, + But he would only the first; and behold! Let us honor + Grief such as his must have been; no other sorrow can match it! + There are certainly some things here that are nobly imagined: + Look! here is masterly power in this play of light, and these + shadows + Boldly are massed; and what color! One can well understand + Buonarotti + Saying the sight of his Curtius was worth the whole journey from + Florence. + Here is a man at least never less than his work; you can feel it + As you can feel in Titian's the painter's inferior spirit. + He and this Pordenone, you know, were rivals; and Titian + Knew how to paint to the popular humor, and spared not + Foul means or fair (his way with rivals) to crush Pordenone, + Who with an equal chance'-- + "Alas, if the whole world should tell me + I was his equal in art, and the lie could save me from torment, + So must I be lost, for my soul could never believe it! + Nay, let my envy snarl as fierce as it will at his glory, + Still, when I look on his work, my soul makes obeisance within me, + Humbling itself before the touch that shall never be equalled." + + He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence, + And Pordenone was roused from these thoughts anon by the sudden + Hush that had fallen upon the garrulous group of his pupils; + And ere he turned half-way with instinctive looks of inquiry, + He was already warned, with a shock at the heart, of a presence + Long attended, not feared; and he laid one hand on his sword-hilt, + Seizing the sheath with the other hand, that the pallet had dropped + from. + Then he fronted Titian, who stood with his arms lightly folded, + And with a curious smile, half of sarcasm, half of compassion, + Bent on th' embattled painter, cried: "Your slave, Messere Antonio! + What good friend has played this bitter jest with your humor? + As I beheld you just now full-armed with your pencil and palette, + I was half awed by your might; but these sorry trappings of bravo + Make me believe you less fit to be the rival of Titian, + Here in the peaceful calm of our well-ordered city of Venice, + Than to take service under some Spanish lordling at Naples, + Needy in blades for work that can not wait for the poison." + + Pordenone flushed with anger and shame to be taken + At an unguarded point; but he answered with scornful defiance: + "Oh, you are come, I see, with the favorite weapon of Titian, + And you would make a battle of words. If you care for my counsel, + Listen to me: I say you are skilfuller far in my absence, + And your tongue can inflict a keener and deadlier mischief + When it is dipped in poisonous lies, and wielded in secret." + "Nay, then," Titian responded, "methinks that our friend Aretino[6] + Makes a much better effect than either of us in that tongue-play. + But since Messer Robusti has measured our wit for his portrait, + Even _he_ has grown shyer of using his tongue than he once was. + Have you not heard the tale? Tintoretto was told Aretino + Meant to make him the subject of one of his merry effusions; + And with his naked dirk he went carefully over his person, + Promising, if the poet made free with him in his verses, + He would immortalize my satirical friend with that pencil. + Doubtless the tale is not true. Aretino says nothing about it; + Always speaks, in fact, with the highest respect of Robusti. + True or not, 'tis well found." Then looking around on the frescos: + "Good, very good indeed! Your breadth and richness and softness + No man living surpasses; those heads are truly majestic. + Yes, Buonarotti was right, when he said that to look at your + Curtius + Richly repaid him the trouble and cost of a journey from Florence. + Surely the world shall know you the first of painters in fresco! + Well? You will not strike me unarmed? This was hardly expected + By the good people that taught you to think our rivalry blood-red. + Let us be friends, Pordenone!" + "Be patron and patronized, rather; + Nay, if you spoke your whole mind out, be assassin and victim. + Could the life beat again in the broken heart of Giorgione, + He might tell us, I think, something pleasant of friendship with + Titian." + Suddenly over the shoulder of Titian peered an ironical visage, + Smiling, malignly intent--the leer of the scurrilous poet: + "You know--all the world knows--who dug the grave of Giorgione.[7] + Titian and he were no friends--our Lady of Sorrows forgive 'em! + But for all hurt that Titian did him he might have been living, + Greater than any living, and lord of renown and such glory + As would have left you both dull as yon withered moon in the + sunshine." + Loud laughed the listening group at the insolent gibe of the poet, + Stirring the gall to its depths in the bitter soul of their master, + Who with his tremulous fingers tapped the hilt of his poniard, + Answering naught as yet. Anon the glance of the ribald, + Carelessly ranging from Pordenone's face to the picture, + Dwelt with an absent light on its marvellous beauty, and kindled + Into a slow recognition, with "Ha! Violante!" Then, erring + Wilfully as to the subject, he cackled his filthy derision: + "What have we here! More Magdalens yet of the painter's acquaintance? + Ah--!" + The words had scarce left his lips, when the painter + Rushed upon him, and clutching his throat, thrust him backward and + held him + Over the scaffolding's edge in air, and straightway had flung him + Crashing down on the pave of the cloister below, but for Titian, + Who around painter and poet alike wound his strong arms and stayed + them + Solely, until the bewildered pupils could come to the rescue. + Then, as the foes relaxed that embrace of frenzy and murder-- + White, one with rage and the other with terror, and either with + hatred-- + Grimly the great master smiled: "You were much nearer paradise, + Piero, + Than you have been for some time. Be ruled now by me and get + homeward + Fast as you may, and be thankful." And then, as the poet, + Looking neither to right nor to left, amid the smiles of the pupils + Tottered along the platform, and trembling descended the ladder + Down to the cloister pave, and, still without upward or backward + Glance, disappeared beneath the outer door of the Convent, + Titian turned again to the painter: "Farewell, Pordenone! + Learn more fairly to know me. I envy you not; and no rival + Now, or at any time, have I held you, or ever shall hold you. + Prosper and triumph still, for all me: you shall but do me honor, + Seeing that I too serve the art that your triumphs illustrate. + I for my part find life too short for work and for pleasure; + If it should touch a century's bound, I should think it too + precious + Even to spare a moment for rage at another's good fortune. + Do not be fooled by the purblind flatterers who would persuade you + Either of us shall have greater fame through the fall of the other. + We can thrive only in common. The tardily blossoming cycles, + Flowering at last in this glorious age of our art, had not waited, + Folded calyxes still, for Pordenone or Titian. + Think you if we had not been, our pictures had never been painted? + Others had done them, or better, the same. We are only + Pencils God paints with. And think you that He had wanted for + pencils + But for our being at hand? And yet--for some virtue creative + Dwells and divinely exists in the being of every creature, + So that the thing done through him is dear as if he had done it-- + If I should see your power, a tint of this great efflorescence, + Fading, methinks I should feel myself beginning to wither. + They have abused your hate who told you that Titian was jealous. + Once, in my youth that is passed, I too had my hates and my envies. + 'Sdeath! how it used to gall me--that power and depth of Giorgione! + I could have turned my knife in his heart when I looked at his + portraits. + Ah! we learn somewhat still as the years go. Now, when I see you + Doing this good work here, I am glad in my soul of its beauty. + Art is not ours, O friend! but if we are not hers, we are nothing. + Look at the face you painted last year--or yesterday, even: + Far, so far, it seems from you, so utterly, finally, parted, + Nothing is stranger to you than this child of your soul; and you + wonder-- + 'Did I indeed then do it?' No thrill of the rapture of doing + Stirs in your breast at the sight. Nay, then, not even the beauty + Which we had seemed to create is our own: the frame universal + Is as much ours. And shall I hate you because you are doing + That which when done you cannot feel yours more than I mine can feel + it? + It shall belong hereafter to all who perceive and enjoy it, + Rather than him who made it; he, least of all, shall enjoy it. + They of the Church conjure us to look on death and be humble; + I say, look upon life and keep your pride if you can, then: + See how to-day's achievement is only to-morrow's confusion; + See how possession always cheapens the thing that was precious + To our endeavor; how losses and gains are equally losses; + How in ourselves we are nothing, and how we are anything only + As indifferent parts of the whole, that still, on our ceasing, + Whole remains as before, no less without us than with us. + Were it not for the delight of doing, the wonderful instant + Ere the thing done is done and dead, life scarce were worth living. + Ah, but that makes life divine! We are gods, for that instant + immortal, + Mortal for evermore, with a few days' rumor--or ages'-- + What does it matter? We, too, have our share of eating and + drinking, + Love, and the liking of friends--mankind's common portion and + pleasure. + Come, Pordenone, with me; I would fain have you see my Assumption + While it is still unfinished, and stay with me for the evening: + You shall send home for your lute, and I'll ask Sansovino to + supper.[8] + After what happened just now I scarcely could ask Aretino; + Though, for the matter of that, the dog is not one to bear malice. + Will you not come?" + + V. + + I listen with Titian, and wait for the answer. + But, whatever the answer that comes to Titian, I hear none. + Nay, while I linger, all those presences fade into nothing, + In the dead air of the past; and the old Augustinian Convent + Lapses to picturesque profanation again as a barrack; + Lapses and changes once more, and this time vanishes wholly, + Leaving me at the end with the broken, shadowy legend, + Broken and shadowy still, as in the beginning. I linger, + Teased with its vague unfathomed suggestion, and wonder, + As at first I wondered, what happened about Violante, + And am but ill content with those metaphysical phrases + Touching the strictly impersonal nature of personal effort, + Wherewithal Titian had fain avoided the matter at issue. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [5] Giovanni Antonio Licinio, called _Pordenone_ from his birth-place + in the Friuli, was a contemporary of Titian's, whom he equalled + in many qualities, and was one of the most eminent Venetian + painters in fresco. + + [6] Pietro Aretino, the satirical poet, was a friend of Titian, whose + house he frequented. The story of Tintoretto's measuring him for + a portrait with his dagger is well known. + + [7] Giorgione (Giorgio Barbarelli) was Titian's fellow-pupil and rival + in the school of Bellini. He died at thirty-four, after a life + of great triumphs and excesses. + + [8] Sansovino, the architect, was a familiar guest at Titian's table, + in his house near the Fondamenta Nuove. + + + + +THE LONG DAYS. + + + Yes! they are here again, the long, long days, + After the days of winter, pinched and white; + Soon, with a thousand minstrels comes the light, + Late, the sweet robin-haunted dusk delays. + + But the long days that bring us back the flowers, + The sunshine, and the quiet-dripping rain, + And all the things we knew of spring again, + The long days bring not the long-lost long hours. + + The hours that now seem to have been each one + A summer in itself, a whole life's bound, + Filled full of deathless joy--where in his round, + Have these forever faded from the sun? + + The fret, the fever, the unrest endures, + But the time flies.... Oh, try, my little lad, + Coming so hot and play-worn, to be glad + And patient of the long hours that are yours! + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber Notes + +Archaic and variable spelling and hypenation preserved, including +words like chorussing and chipmonk. + +Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some inconsistent +quotes in "Pordenone". + +Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by William D. 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