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diff --git a/29993.txt b/29993.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73edb36 --- /dev/null +++ b/29993.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: 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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