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@@ -0,0 +1,2262 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sisters' Tragedy, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +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: The Sisters' Tragedy + +Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +Posting Date: July 30, 2008 [EBook #595] +Release Date: July, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SISTERS' TRAGEDY *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss + + + + + + + + + + THE SISTERS' TRAGEDY + WITH OTHER POEMS, + LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. BY + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH + + + + + + CONTENTS + + + + THE SISTERS' TRAGEDY + THE LAST CAESAR + IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY + ALEC YEATON'S SON + AT THE FUNERAL OF A MINOR POET + BATUSCHKA + ACT V + TENNYSON + THE SHIPMAN'S TALE + "I VEX ME NOT WITH BROODING ON THE YEARS" + MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WENDELL PHILLIPS + INTERLUDES + ECHO-SONG + A MOOD + GUILIELMUS REX + "PILLARED ARCH AND SCULPTURED TOWER + THRENODY + SESTET + A TOUCH OF NATURE + MEMORY + "I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW" + A DEDICATION + NO SONGS IN WINTER + "LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND + THE LETTER + SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS" + PAULINE PAVLOVNA + BAGATELLE. + CORYDON: A PASTORAL + AT A READING + THE MENU + AN ELECTIVE COURSE + L'EAU DORMANTE + THALIA + PALINODE + A PETITION + + + + + + + THE SISTERS' TRAGEDY + + A. D. 1670 + + AGLAE, a widow + MURIEL, her unmarried sister. + + IT happened once, in that brave land that lies + For half the twelvemonth wrapt in sombre skies, + Two sisters loved one man. He being dead, + Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed, + And all the passion that through heavy years + Had masked in smiles unmasked itself in tears. + No purer love may mortals know than this, + The hidden love that guards another's bliss. + High in a turret's westward-facing room, + Whose painted window held the sunset's bloom, + The two together grieving, each to each + Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech. + + Both still were young, in life's rich summer yet; + And one was dark, with tints of violet + In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she + Who rose--a second daybreak--from the sea, + Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place, + Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face. + + She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair + No wreath had worn, nor widow's weed might wear, + And told her blameless love, and knew no shame-- + Her holy love that, like a vestal flame + Beside the sacred body of some queen + Within a guarded crypt had burned unseen + From weary year to year. And she who heard + Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word, + But, drawing closer, on the troubled brow + Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow! + + + MURIEL. + + Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache, + Thou shouldst be dumb, yet needs must speak, or break. + The world is empty now that he is gone. + + + AGLAE. + + Ay, sweetheart! + + + MURIEL. + + None was like him, no, not one. + From other men he stood apart, alone + In honor spotless as unfallen snow. + Nothing all evil was it his to know; + His charity still found some germ, some spark + Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark. + He read men's souls; the lowly and the high + Moved on the self-same level in his eye. + Gracious to all, to none subservient, + Without offence he spake the word he meant-- + His word no trick of tact or courtly art, + But the white flowering of the noble heart. + Careless he was of much the world counts gain, + Careless of self, too simple to be vain, + Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake + He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake. + I saw--how could I help but love? And you-- + + + AGLAE. + + At this perfection did I worship too . . . + 'Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say! + I meant it not, my wits are gone astray, + With all that is and has been. No, I lie-- + Had he been less perfection, happier I! + + + MURIEL. + + Strange words and wild! 'Tis the distracted mind + Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find. + + + AGLAE. + + Yet 'twere as plain as writing on a scroll + Had you but eyes to read within my soul.-- + How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood, + Poisons the healthful currents of the blood + With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone! + I think, in truth, 'twere better to make moan, + And so be done with it. This many a year, + Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer, + Pierced through with sorrow! + + Then the widowed one + With sorrowfullest eyes beneath the sun, + Faltered, irresolute, and bending low + Her head, half whispered, + + Dear, how could you know? + What masks are faces!--yours, unread by me + These seven long summers; mine, so placidly + Shielding my woe! No tremble of the lip, + No cheek's quick pallor let our secret slip! + Mere players we, and she that played the queen, + Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean! + How shall I say it, how find words to tell + What thing it was for me made earth a hell + That else had been my heaven! 'Twould blanch your cheek + Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak, + Since like two souls at compt we seem to stand, + Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand, + But look not at me! Noble 'twas, and meet, + To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet + To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride + And that white honor for which earls have died. + You were not all unhappy, loving so! + I with a difference wore my weight of woe. + My lord was he. It was my cruel lot, + My hell, to love him--for he loved me not! + + Then came a silence. Suddenly like death + The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath-- + A flash of light whereby they both were slain, + She that was loved and she that loved in vain! + + + + + THE LAST CAESAR + + 1851-1870 + + I + + Now there was one who came in later days + To play at Emperor: in the dead of night + Stole crown and sceptre, and stood forth to light + In sudden purple. The dawn's straggling rays + Showed Paris fettered, murmuring in amaze, + With red hands at her throat--a piteous sight. + Then the new Caesar, stricken with affright + At his own daring, shrunk from public gaze + + In the Elysee, and had lost the day + But that around him flocked his birds of prey, + Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed. + 'Twixt hope and fear behold great Caesar hang! + Meanwhile, methinks, a ghostly laughter rang + Through the rotunda of the Invalides. + + II + + What if the boulevards, at set of sun, + Reddened, but not with sunset's kindly glow? + What if from quai and square the murmured woe + Swept heavenward, pleadingly? The prize was won, + A kingling made and Liberty undone. + No Emperor, this, like him awhile ago, + But his Name's shadow; that one struck the blow + Himself, and sighted the street-sweeping gun! + + This was a man of tortuous heart and brain, + So warped he knew not his own point of view-- + The master of a dark, mysterious smile. + + And there he plotted, by the storied Seine + And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud, + The Sphinx that puzzled Europe, for awhile. + + + + III + + I see him as men saw him once--a face + Of true Napoleon pallor; round the eyes + The wrinkled care; mustache spread pinion-wise, + Pointing his smile with odd sardonic grace + As wearily he turns him in his place, + And bends before the hoarse Parisian cries-- + Then vanishes, with glitter of gold-lace + And trumpets blaring to the patient skies. + + Not thus he vanished later! On his path + The Furies waited for the hour and man, + Foreknowing that they waited not in vain. + + Then fell the day, O day of dreadful wrath! + Bow down in shame, O crimson-girt Sedan! + Weep, fair Alsace! weep, loveliest Lorraine! + + So mused I, sitting underneath the trees + In that old garden of the Tuileries, + Watching the dust of twilight sifting down + Through chestnut boughs just toucht with autumn's brown-- + Not twilight yet, but that illusive bloom + Which holds before the deep-etched shadows come; + For still the garden stood in golden mist, + Still, like a river of molten amethyst, + The Seine slipt through its spans of fretted stone, + And, near the grille that once fenced in a throne, + The fountains still unbraided to the day + The unsubstantial silver of their spray. + + A spot to dream in, love in, waste one's hours! + Temples and palaces, and gilded towers, + And fairy terraces!--and yet, and yet + Here in her woe came Marie Antoinette, + Came sweet Corday, Du Barry with shrill cry, + Not learning from her betters how to die! + Here, while the Nations watched with bated breath, + Was held the saturnalia of Red Death! + For where that slim Egyptian shaft uplifts + Its point to catch the dawn's and sunset's drifts + Of various gold, the busy Headsman stood. . . . + Place de la Concorde--no, the Place of Blood! + + And all so peaceful now! One cannot bring + Imagination to accept the thing. + Lies, all of it! some dreamer's wild romance-- + High-hearted, witty, laughter-loving France! + In whose brain was it that the legend grew + Of Maenads shrieking in this avenue, + Of watch-fires burning, Famine standing guard, + Of long-speared Uhlans in that palace-yard! + What ruder sound this soft air ever smote + Than a bird's twitter or a bugle's note? + What darker crimson ever splashed these walks + Than that of rose-leaves dropping from the stalks? + And yet--what means that charred and broken wall, + That sculptured marble, splintered, like to fall, + Looming among the trees there? . . . And you say + This happened, as it were, but yesterday? + And here the Commune stretched a barricade, + And there the final desperate stand was made? + Such things have been? How all things change and fade! + How little lasts in this brave world below! + Love dies; hate cools; the Caesars come and go; + Gaunt Hunter fattens, and the weak grow strong. + Even Republics are not here for long! + + Ah, who can tell what hour may bring the doom, + The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy boom! + + + + + IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY + + "The Southern Transept, + hardly known by any other name but Poet's Corner." + + DEAN STANLEY. + + TREAD softly here; the sacredest of tombs + Are those that hold your Poets. Kings and queens + Are facile accidents of Time and Chance. + Chance sets them on the heights, they climb not there! + But he who from the darkling mass of men + Is on the wing of heavenly thought upborne + To finer ether, and becomes a voice + For all the voiceless, God anointed him: + His name shall be a star, his grave a shrine. + + Tread softly here, in silent reverence tread. + Beneath those marble cenotaphs and urns + Lies richer dust than ever nature hid + Packed in the mountain's adamantine heart, + Or slyly wrapt in unsuspected sand-- + The dross men toil for, and oft stain the soul. + How vain and all ignoble seems that greed + To him who stands in this dim claustral air + With these most sacred ashes at his feet! + This dust was Chaucer, Spenser, Dryden this-- + The spark that once illumed it lingers still. + O ever-hallowed spot of English earth! + If the unleashed and happy spirit of man + Have option to revisit our dull globe, + What august Shades at midnight here convene + In the miraculous sessions of the moon, + When the great pulse of London faintly throbs, + And one by one the stars in heaven pale! + + + + + ALEC YEATON'S SON + + GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 + + The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, + And the white caps flecked the sea; + "An' I would to God," the skipper groaned, + "I had not my boy with me!" + + Snug in the stern-sheets, little John + Laughed as the scud swept by; + But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan + As he watched the wicked sky. + + "Would he were at his mother's side!" + And the skipper's eyes were dim. + "Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, + What would become of him! + + "For me--my muscles are as steel, + For me let hap what may; + I might make shift upon the keel + Until the break o' day. + + "But he, he is so weak and small, + So young, scarce learned to stand-- + O pitying Father of us all, + I trust him in Thy hand! + + "For Thou, who markest from on high + A sparrow's fall--each one!-- + Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye + On Alec Yeaton's son!" + + Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed + Towards the headland light: + The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, + And black, black fell the night. + + Then burst a storm to make one quail + Though housed from winds and waves-- + They who could tell about that gale + Must rise from watery graves! + + Sudden it came, as sudden went; + Ere half the night was sped, + The winds were hushed, the waves were spent, + And the stars shone overhead. + + Now, as the morning mist grew thin, + The folk on Gloucester shore + Saw a little figure floating in + Secure, on a broken oar! + + Up rose the cry, "A wreck! a wreck! + Pull, mates, and waste no breath!"-- + They knew it, though 'twas but a speck + Upon the edge of death! + + Long did they marvel in the town + At God his strange decree, + That let the stalwart skipper drown + And the little child go free! + + + + + AT THE FUNERAL OF A MINOR POET + + [One of the Bearers soliloquizes:] + + . . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth, + Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair, + And sang your praise in verses manifold + And delicate, with here and there a line + From end to end in blossom like a bough + The May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thought + The workmanship more costly than the thing + Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments + Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self + Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass, + Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush, + Lavishing endless patience. He was born + Artist, not artisan, which some few saw + And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes + When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died, + And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows, + He missed the glare that gilds more facile men-- + A twilight poet, groping quite alone, + Belated, in a sphere where every nest + Is emptied of its music and its wings. + Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spare + Even his slight perfection in an age + Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux. + He had at least ideals, though unreached, + And heard, far off, immortal harmonies, + Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day. + The mighty Zolaistic Movement now + Engrosses us--a miasmatic breath + Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is, + The hideous side of it, with careful pains, + Making a god of the dull Commonplace. + For have we not the old gods overthrown + And set up strangest idols? We could clip + Imagination's wing and kill delight, + Our sole art being to leave nothing out + That renders art offensive. Not for us + Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones + Ineffable, nor any heaven-wrought dream + Of sculptor or of poet; we prefer + Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains + Take shape and substance, thoughts that taint the air + And make all life unlovely. Will it last? + Beauty alone endures from age to age, + From age to age endures, handmaid of God. + Poets who walk with her on earth go hence + Bearing a talisman. You bury one, + With his hushed music, in some Potter's Field; + The snows and rains blot out his very name, + As he from life seems blotted: through Time's glass + Slip the invisible and magic sands + That mark the century, then falls a day + The world is suddenly conscious of a flower, + Imperishable, ever to be prized, + Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave. + 'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms + And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings + Hold strange vitality, and, planted, grow + After the lapse of thrice a thousand years. + Some day, perchance, some unregarded note + Of our poor friend here--some sweet minor chord + That failed to lure our more accustomed ear-- + May witch the fancy of an unborn age. + Who knows, since seeds have such tenacity? + Meanwhile he's dead, with scantiest laurel won + And little of our Nineteenth Century gold. + So, take him, Earth, and this his mortal part, + With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmute + To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs! + + + + + BATUSCHKA.<1> + + From yonder gilded minaret + Beside the steel-blue Neva set, + I faintly catch, from time to time, + The sweet, aerial midnight chime-- + "God save the Tsar!" + + Above the ravelins and the moats + Of the white citadel it floats; + And men in dungeons far beneath + Listen, and pray, and gnash their teeth-- + "God save the Tsar!" + + The soft reiterations sweep + Across the horror of their sleep, + + <1> "Little Father," or "Dear Little Father," + a term of endearment applied + to the Tsar in Russian folk-song. + As if some daemon in his glee + Were mocking at their misery-- + "God save the Tsar!" + + In his Red Palace over there, + Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer. + How can it drown the broken cries + Wrung from his children's agonies?-- + "God save the Tsar!" + + Father they called him from of old-- + Batuschka! . . . How his heart is cold! + Wait till a million scourged men + Rise in their awful might, and then-- + God save the Tsar! + + + + + ACT V + + [Midnight.] + + First, two white arms that held him very close, + And ever closer as he drew him back + Reluctantly, the loose gold-colored hair + A thousand delicate fibres reaching out + Still to detain him; then some twenty steps + Of iron staircase winding round and down, + And ending in a narrow gallery hung + With Gobelin tapestries--Andromeda + Rescued by Perseus, and the sleek Diana + With her nymphs bathing; at the farther end + A door that gave upon a starlit grove + Of citron and clipt palm-trees; then a path + As bleached as moonlight, with the shadow of leaves + Stamped black upon it; next a vine-clad length + Of solid masonry; and last of all + A Gothic archway packed with night, and then-- + A sudden gleaming dagger through his heart. + + + + + TENNYSON + + I + + Shakespeare and Milton--what third blazoned name + Shall lips of after-ages link to these? + His who, beside the wild encircling seas, + Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim, + For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame, + Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities. + + + II + + What strain was his in that Crimean war? + A bugle-call in battle; a low breath, + Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death! + So year by year the music rolled afar, + From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar, + Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath. + + + III + + Others shall have their little space of time, + Their proper niche and bust, then fade away + Into the darkness, poets of a day; + But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme, + Thou shalt not pass! Thy fame in every clime + On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway. + + + IV + + Waft me this verse across the winter sea, + Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet, + O winter winds, and lay it at his feet; + Though the poor gift betray my poverty, + At his feet lay it: it may chance that he + Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet. + + + + + THE SHIPMAN'S TALE + + Listen, my masters! I speak naught but truth. + From dawn to dawn they drifted on and on, + Not knowing whither nor to what dark end. + Now the North froze them, now the hot South scorched. + Some called to God, and found great comfort so; + Some gnashed their teeth with curses, and some laughed + An empty laughter, seeing they yet lived, + So sweet was breath between their foolish lips. + Day after day the same relentless sun, + Night after night the same unpitying stars. + At intervals fierce lightnings tore the clouds, + Showing vast hollow spaces, and the sleet + Hissed, and the torrents of the sky were loosed. + From time to time a hand relaxed its grip, + And some pale wretch slid down into the dark + With stifled moan, and transient horror seized + The rest who waited, knowing what must be. + At every turn strange shapes reached up and clutched + The whirling wreck, held on awhile, and then + Slipt back into that blackness whence they came. + Ah, hapless folk, to be so tost and torn, + So racked by hunger, fever, fire, and wave, + And swept at last into the nameless void-- + Frail girls, strong men, and mothers with their babes! + + And was none saved? + + My masters, not a soul! + + O shipman, woful, woful is thy tale! + Our hearts are heavy and our eyes are dimmed. + What ship is this that suffered such ill fate? + + What ship, my masters? Know ye not?--The World! + + + + + "I VEX ME NOT WITH BROODING ON THE YEARS" + + I vex me not with brooding on the years + That were ere I drew breath: why should I then + Distrust the darkness that may fall again + When life is done? Perchance in other spheres-- + Dead planets--I once tasted mortal tears, + And walked as now among a throng of men, + Pondering things that lay beyond my ken, + Questioning death, and solacing my fears. + Ofttimes indeed strange sense have I of this, + Vague memories that hold me with a spell, + Touches of unseen lips upon my brow, + Breathing some incommunicable bliss! + In years foregone, O Soul, was all not well? + Still lovelier life awaits thee. Fear not thou! + + + + + MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WENDELL PHILLIPS + + I + + One by one they go + Into the unknown dark-- + Star-lit brows of the brave, + Voices that drew men's souls. + Rich is the land, O Death! + Can give you dead like our dead!-- + Such as he from whose hand + The magic web of romance + Slipt, and the art was lost! + Such as he who erewhile-- + The last of the Titan brood-- + With his thunder the Senate shook; + Or he who, beside the Charles, + Untoucht of envy or hate, + Tranced the world with his song; + Or that other, that gray-eyed seer + Who in pastoral Concord ways + With Plato and Hafiz walked. + + + II + + Not of these was the man + Whose wraith, through the mists of night, + Through the shuddering wintry stars, + Has passed to eternal morn. + Fit were the moan of the sea + And the clashing of cloud on cloud + For the passing of that soul! + + Ever he faced the storm! + No weaver of rare romance, + No patient framer of laws, + No maker of wondrous rhyme, + No bookman wrapt in his dream. + His was the voice that rang + In the fight like a bugle-call, + And yet could be tender and low + As when, on a night in June, + The hushed wind sobs in the pines. + His was the eye that flashed + With a sabre's azure gleam, + Pointing to heights unwon! + + + III + + Not for him were these days + Of clerkly and sluggish calm-- + To the petrel the swooping gale! + Austere he seemed, but the hearts + Of all men beat in his breast; + No fetter but galled his wrist, + No wrong that was not his own. + What if those eloquent lips + Curled with the old-time scorn? + What if in needless hours + His quick hand closed on the hilt? + 'Twas the smoke from the well-won fields + That clouded the veteran's eyes. + A fighter this to the end! + + Ah, if in coming times + Some giant evil arise, + And Honor falter and pale, + His were a name to conjure with! + God send his like again! + + + + + + + INTERLUDES + + + + + + + ECHO-SONG + + I + + Who can say where Echo dwells? + In some mountain-cave, methinks, + Where the white owl sits and blinks; + Or in deep sequestered dells, + Where the foxglove hangs its bells, + Echo dwells. + Echo! + Echo! + + + II + + Phantom of the crystal Air, + Daughter of sweet Mystery! + Here is one has need of thee; + Lead him to thy secret lair, + Myrtle brings he for thy hair-- + Hear his prayer, + Echo! + Echo! + + + III + + Echo, lift thy drowsy head, + And repeat each charmed word + Thou must needs have overheard + Yestere'en ere, rosy-red, + Daphne down the valley fled-- + Words unsaid, + Echo! + Echo! + + + IV + + Breathe the vows she since denies! + She hath broken every vow; + What she would she would not now-- + Thou didst hear her perjuries. + Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes, + Those sweet lies, + Echo! + Echo! + + + + + A MOOD + + A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- + Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; + A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; + A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; + A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken-- + Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken. + + + + + GUILIELMUS REX + + The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day + And saw that gentle figure pass + By London Bridge, his frequent way-- + They little knew what man he was. + + The pointed beard, the courteous mien, + The equal port to high and low, + All this they saw or might have seen-- + But not the light behind the brow! + + The doublet's modest gray or brown, + The slender sword-hilt's plain device, + What sign had these for prince or clown? + Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. + + Yet 'twas the king of England's kings! + The rest with all their pomps and trains + Are mouldered, half-remembered things-- + 'Tis he alone that lives and reigns! + + + + + "PILLARED ARCH AND SCULPTURED TOWER" + + Pillared arch and sculptured tower + Of Ilium have had their hour; + The dust of many a king is blown + On the winds from zone to zone; + Many a warrior sleeps unknown. + Time and Death hold each in thrall, + Yet is Love the lord of all; + Still does Helen's beauty stir + Because a poet sang of her! + + + + + THRENODY + + I + + Upon your hearse this flower I lay. + Brief be your sleep! You shall be known + When lesser men have had their day: + Fame blossoms where true seed is sown, + Or soon or late, let Time wrong what it may. + + + II + + Unvext by any dream of fame, + You smiled, and bade the world pass by: + But I--I turned, and saw a name + Shaping itself against the sky-- + White star that rose amid the battle's flame! + + + III + + Brief be your sleep, for I would see + Your laurels--ah, how trivial now + To him must earthly laurel be + Who wears the amaranth on his brow! + How vain the voices of mortality! + + + + + SESTET + + SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON + + Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel? + Or list the throstle singing loud and clear? + Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere + In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel + Life's pulse at highest--hark, the minster's peal! . . . + Turn but the page, that various world is here! + + + + + A TOUCH OF NATURE + + When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold + Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, + And folded green things in dim woods unclose + Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes + Into my veins and makes me kith and kin + To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. + Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, + Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, + Far from the brambly paths I used to know, + Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine + Where the Neponset alders take their glow, + I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar + And inarticulate ardors of the vine. + + + + + MEMORY + + My mind lets go a thousand things, + Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, + And yet recalls the very hour-- + 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, + And on the last blue noon in May-- + The wind came briskly up this way, + Crisping the brook beside the road; + Then, pausing here, set down its load + Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly + Two petals from that wild-rose tree. + + + + + "I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW" + + I'll not confer with Sorrow + Till to-morrow; + But Joy shall have her way + This very day. + + Ho, eglantine and cresses + For her tresses!-- + Let Care, the beggar, wait + Outside the gate. + + Tears if you will--but after + Mirth and laughter; + Then, folded hands on breast + And endless rest. + + + + + A DEDICATION + + Take these rhymes into thy grace, + Since they are of thy begetting, + Lady, that dost make each place + Where thou art a jewel's setting. + + Some such glamour lend this Book: + Let it be thy poet's wages + That henceforth thy gracious look + Lies reflected on its pages. + + + + + NO SONGS IN WINTER + + The sky is gray as gray may be, + There is no bird upon the bough, + There is no leaf on vine or tree. + + In the Neponset marshes now + Willow-stems, rosy in the wind, + Shiver with hidden sense of snow. + + So too 'tis winter in my mind, + No light-winged fancy comes and stays: + A season churlish and unkind. + + Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days, + The black ink crusts upon the pen-- + Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays + And golden orioles come again! + + + + + "LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND" + + Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand + And seeing a human footprint on the sand, + Have I this day been startled, finding here, + Set in brown mould and delicately clear, + Spring's footprint--the first crocus of the year! + O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude! + Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood + Flock from all sides with much ado and stir, + And make of me most willing prisoner! + + + + + THE LETTER + + EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887 + + I held his letter in my hand, + And even while I read + The lightning flashed across the land + The word that he was dead. + + How strange it seemed! His living voice + Was speaking from the page + Those courteous phrases, tersely choice, + Light-hearted, witty, sage. + + I wondered what it was that died! + The man himself was here, + His modesty, his scholar's pride, + His soul serene and clear. + + These neither death nor time shall dim, + Still this sad thing must be-- + Henceforth I may not speak to him, + Though he can speak to me! + + + + + SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS" + + That face which no man ever saw + And from his memory banished quite, + With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe + And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, + Looks from this frame. A master's hand + Has set the master-player here, + In the fair temple that he planned + Not for himself. To us most dear + This image of him! "It was thus + He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; + With that same grace he greeted us-- + Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!" + Sad words that shall be said some day-- + Far fall the day! O cruel Time, + Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, + Spare long this image of his prime, + That others standing in the place + Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, + May know what sweet majestic face + The gentle Prince of Players wore! + + + + + + + PAULINE PAVLOVNA + + SCENE: St. Petersburg. Period: the present time. A ballroom in the + winter palace of the Prince--. The ladies in character costumes and + masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the + exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with + marked distinction as they move here and there among the + promenaders. Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. + Count SERGIUS PAVLOVICH PANSHINE, who has just + arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber + with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of a maid of honor + in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself + from the crowd, and passes near Count PANSHINE, who + impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the threshold + of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied. + + HE. + + Pauline! + + + SHE. + + You knew me? + + + HE. + + How could I have failed? + A mask may hide your features, not your soul. + There is an air about you like the air + That folds a star. A blind man knows the night, + And feels the constellations. No coarse sense + Of eye or ear had made you plain to me. + Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, + As blue as violets of our Novgorod, + Look black behind your mask there, and your voice-- + I had not known that either. My heart said, + "Pauline Pavlovna." + + + SHE. + + Ah! Your heart said that? + You trust your heart, then! 'Tis a serious risk!-- + How is it you and others wear no mask? + + + HE. + + The Emperor's orders. + + + SHE. + + Is the Emperor here? + I have not seen him. + + + HE. + + He is one of the six + In scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. + Watch--you will note how every one bows down + Before those figures, thinking each by chance + May be the Tsar; yet none knows which is he. + Even his counterparts are left in doubt. + Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore + Such chains as gall our Emperor these sad days. + He dare trust no man. + + + SHE. + + All men are so false. + + + HE. + + Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna. + + + SHE. + + No; all, all! + I think there is no truth left in the world, + In man or woman. Once were noble souls.-- + Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? + + + HE. + + Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first. + Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, + In all this glare of light; but in some place + Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. + In what shape came the story to your ear? + Decked in the teller's colors, I'll be sworn; + The truth, but in the livery of a lie, + And so must wrong me. Only this is true: + The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life + To shield a life as wretched as my own, + Bestows upon me, as supreme reward-- + O irony!--the hand of this poor girl. + Says, HERE, I HAVE THE PEARL OF PEARLS FOR YOU, + SUCH AS WAS NEVER PLUCKED FROM OUT THE DEEP + BY INDIAN DIVER, FOR A SULTAN'S CROWN. + YOUR JOY'S DECREED, and stabs me with a smile. + + + SHE. + + And she--she loves you? + + + HE. + + I know not, indeed. + Likes me, perhaps. What matters it?--HER love! + The guardian, Sidor Yurievich, consents, + And she consents. No love in it at all, + A mere caprice, a young girl's spring-tide dream. + Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare, + She'll have a lover--something ready-made, + Or improvised between two cups of tea-- + A lover by imperial ukase! + Fate said her word--I chanced to be the man! + If that grenade the crazy student threw + Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar, + All this would not have happened. I'd have been + A hero, but quite safe from her romance. + She takes me for a hero--think of that! + Now by our holy Lady of Kazan, + When I have finished pitying myself, + I'll pity her. + + + SHE. + Oh no; begin with her; + She needs it most. + + + HE. + + At her door lies the blame, + Whatever falls. She, with a single word, + With half a tear, had stopt it at the first, + This cruel juggling with poor human hearts. + + + SHE. + + The Tsar commanded it--you said the Tsar. + + + HE. + + The Tsar does what she wills--God fathoms why. + Were she his mistress, now! but there's no snow + Whiter within the bosom of a cloud, + Nor colder either. She is very haughty, + For all her fragile air of gentleness; + With something vital in her, like those flowers + That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. + Resembles you in some things. It was that + First made us friends. I do her justice, see! + For we were friends in that smooth surface way + We Russians have imported out of France. + Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven + This bolt fell on me! After these two years, + My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, + The old wrong righted, the estates restored, + And my promotion, with the ink not dry! + Those fairies which neglected me at birth + Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me-- + Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. + The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste + The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lip. + This very night--just think, this very night-- + I planned to come and beg of you the alms + I dared not ask for in my poverty. + I thought me poor then. How stript am I now! + There's not a ragged mendicant one meets + Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave + To tell his love, and I have not that right! + Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there + Stark as a statue, with no word to say? + + + SHE. + + Because this thing has frozen up my heart. + I think that there is something killed in me, + A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. + What shall I say? What would you have me say? + + + HE. + + If it be possible, the word of words! + + + SHE, VERY SLOWLY. + + Well, then--I love you. I may tell you so + This once, . . . and then forever hold my peace. + We cannot stay here longer unobserved. + No--do not touch me! but stand further off, + And seem to laugh, as if we jested--eyes, + Eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away . . . + I love you. + + + HE. + + With such music in my ears + I would death found me. It were sweet to die + Listening! You love me--prove it. + + + SHE. + + Prove it--how? + I prove it saying it. How else? + + + HE. + + Pauline, + I have three things to choose from; you shall choose: + This marriage, or Siberia, or France. + The first means hell; the second, purgatory; + The third--with you--were nothing less than heaven! + + + SHE, STARTING. + + How dared you even dream it! + + + HE. + + I was mad. + This business has touched me in the brain. + Have patience! the calamity's so new. + (Pauses.) + There is a fourth way; but that gate is shut + To brave men who hold life a thing of God. + + + SHE. + + Yourself spoke there; the rest was not of you. + + + HE. + + Oh, lift me to your level! So I'm safe. + What's to be done? + + + SHE. + + There must be some path out. + Perhaps the Emperor-- + + + HE. + + Not a ray of hope! + His mind is set on this with that insistence + Which seems to seize on all match-making folk. + The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad. + + + SHE. + + Your father's friend, the Metropolitan-- + A word from him . . . + + + HE. + + Alas, he too is bitten! + Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he sees + This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege, + And opens every door to preference. + + + SHE. + + Think while I think. There surely is some key + Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. + Nastasia! + + + HE. + + What! beg life of her? Not I. + + + SHE. + + Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps + Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. + Were she told all, would she not pity us? + For if she love you, as I think she must, + Would not some generous impulse stir in her, + Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? + How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, + Ennobling it an instant, if no more! + You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, + And turn her into marble with the touch. + But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. + Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phrase + That will not hurt too much--ah, but 'twill hurt!-- + Just how your happiness lies in her hand + To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, + Your heart is gone from you, and you may find-- + + + HE. + + A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul + For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. + Not this way lies escape. At my first word + That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire + In every vein. + + + SHE. + + How blindly you read her, + Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grant + How small we often seem in our small world + Of trivial cares and narrow precedents-- + Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men-- + Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; + But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, + The weakest of us measures pulse with you. + + + HE. + + Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! + But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh. + There should have been; for Nature gave you both + The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, + The self-same Southern music to your lips, + Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould, + Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! + I know her wilful--her light head quite turned + In this court atmosphere of flatteries; + A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, + And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now, + With words like honey melting from the comb, + But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. + I fancy her, between two rosy smiles, + Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!" + That is the sum of her. + + + SHE. + + You know her not. + Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask + Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken + The soul these two months--and the face to-night! + [Removes her mask.] + + + HE. + + You!--it was YOU! + + + SHE. + + Count Sergius Pavlovich, + Go find Pauline Pavlovna--she is here-- + And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. + [She goes out hurriedly, replacing her mask.] + + + + + + + BAGATELLE + + + + + CORYDON + + A PASTORAL + + SCENE: A roadside in Arcady + + SHEPHERD. + + Good sir, have you seen pass this way + A mischief straight from market-day? + You'd know her at a glance, I think; + Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; + She has a way of looking back + Over her shoulder, and, alack! + Who gets that look one time, good sir, + Has naught to do but follow her. + + + PILGRIM. + + I have not seen this maid, methinks, + Though she that passed had lips like pinks. + + + SHEPHERD. + + Or like two strawberries made one + By some sly trick of dew and sun. + + + PILGRIM. + + A poet! + + + SHEPHERD. + + Nay, a simple swain + That tends his flock on yonder plain, + Naught else, I swear by book and bell. + But she that passed--you marked her well. + Was she not smooth as any be + That dwell herein in Arcady? + + + PILGRIM. + + Her skin was as the satin bark + Of birches. + + + SHEPHERD. + + Light or dark? + + + PILGRIM. + + Quite dark. + + + SHEPHERD. + + Then 'twas not she. + + + PILGRIM. + + The peach's side + That's next the sun is not so dyed + As was her cheek. Her hair hung down + Like summer twilight falling brown; + And when the breeze swept by, I wist + Her face was in a sombre mist. + + + SHEPHERD. + + No, that is not the maid I seek. + HER hair lies gold against the cheek; + Her yellow tresses take the morn + Like silken tassels of the corn. + And yet--brown locks are far from bad. + + + PILGRIM. + + Now I bethink me, this one had + A figure like the willow-tree + Which, slight and supple, wondrously + Inclines to droop with pensive grace, + And still retains its proper place; + A foot so arched and very small + The marvel was she walked at all; + Her hand--in sooth I lack for words-- + Her hand, five slender snow-white birds. + Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"-- + Was melody blown through a reed; + The girl Pan changed into a pipe + Had not a note so full and ripe. + And then her eye--my lad, her eye! + Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, + An outward ice, an inward fire, + And lashes to the heart's desire-- + Soft fringes blacker than the sloe. + + + SHEPHERD, THOUGHTFULLY. + + Good sir, which way did THIS one go? + . . . . . . . . + + + PILGRIM, SOLUS. + + So, he is off! The silly youth + Knoweth not Love in sober sooth. + He loves--thus lads at first are blind-- + No woman, only Womankind. + I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass, + No maid at all did this way pass! + + + + + AT A READING + + The spare Professor, grave and bald, + Began his paper. It was called, + I think, "A Brief Historic Glance + At Russia, Germany, and France." + A glance, but to my best belief + 'Twas almost anything but brief-- + A wide survey, in which the earth + Was seen before mankind had birth; + Strange monsters basked them in the sun, + Behemoth, armored glyptodon, + And in the dawn's unpractised ray + The transient dodo winged its way; + Then, by degrees, through silt and slough, + We reached Berlin--I don't know how. + The good Professor's monotone + Had turned me into senseless stone + Instanter, but that near me sat + Hypatia in her new spring hat, + Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom + Lighted the heavy-curtained room. + Hypatia--ah, what lovely things + Are fashioned out of eighteen springs! + At first, in sums of this amount, + The eighteen winters do not count. + Just as my eyes were growing dim + With heaviness, I saw that slim, + Erect, elastic figure there, + Like a pond-lily taking air. + She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat, + So altogether crisp and sweet, + I quite forgot what Bismarck said, + And why the Emperor shook his head, + And how it was Von Moltke's frown + Cost France another frontier town. + The only facts I took away + From the Professor's theme that day + Were these: a forehead broad and low, + Such as the antique sculptures show; + A chin to Greek perfection true; + Eyes of Astarte's tender blue; + A high complexion without fleck + Or flaw, and curls about her neck. + + + + + THE MENU + + I beg you come to-night and dine. + A welcome waits you, and sound wine-- + The Roederer chilly to a charm, + As Juno's breath the claret warm, + The sherry of an ancient brand. + No Persian pomp, you understand-- + A soup, a fish, two meats, and then + A salad fit for aldermen + (When aldermen, alas, the days! + Were really worth their mayonnaise); + A dish of grapes whose clusters won + Their bronze in Carolinian sun; + Next, cheese--for you the Neufchatel, + A bit of Cheshire likes me well; + Cafe au lait or coffee black, + With Kirsch or Kummel or Cognac + (The German band in Irving Place + By this time purple in the face); + Cigars and pipes. These being through, + Friends shall drop in, a very few-- + Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. + When these are guests I bolt the door, + With Not at Home to any one + Excepting Alfred Tennyson. + + + + + AN ELECTIVE COURSE + + LINES FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF A HARVARD UNDERGRADUATE + + The bloom that lies on Fanny's cheek + Is all my Latin, all my Greek; + The only sciences I know + Are frowns that gloom and smiles that glow; + Siberia and Italy + Lie in her sweet geography; + No scholarship have I but such + As teaches me to love her much. + + Why should I strive to read the skies, + Who know the midnight of her eyes? + Why should I go so very far + To learn what heavenly bodies are! + Not Berenice's starry hair + With Fanny's tresses can compare; + Not Venus on a cloudless night, + Enslaving Science with her light, + Ever reveals so much as when + SHE stares and droops her lids again. + + If Nature's secrets are forbidden + To mortals, she may keep them hidden. + AEons and aeons we progressed + And did not let that break our rest; + Little we cared if Mars o'erhead + Were or were not inhabited; + Without the aid of Saturn's rings + Fair girls were wived in those far springs; + Warm lips met ours and conquered us + Or ere thou wert, Copernicus! + + Graybeards, who seek to bridge the chasm + 'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm, + Who theorize and probe and gape, + And finally evolve an ape-- + Yours is a harmless sort of cult, + If you are pleased with the result. + Some folks admit, with cynic grace, + That you have rather proved your case. + These dogmatists are so severe! + Enough for me that Fanny's here, + Enough that, having long survived + Pre-Eveic forms, she HAS arrived-- + An illustration the completest + Of the survival of the sweetest. + + Linnaeus, avaunt! I only care + To know what flower she wants to wear. + I leave it to the addle-pated + To guess how pinks originated, + As if it mattered! The chief thing + Is that we have them in the Spring, + And Fanny likes them. When they come, + I straightway send and purchase some. + The Origin of Plants--go to! + Their proper end _I_ have in view. + + O loveliest book that ever man + Looked into since the world began + Is Woman! As I turn those pages, + As fresh as in the primal ages, + As day by day I scan, perplext, + The ever subtly changing text, + I feel that I am slowly growing + To think no other work worth knowing. + And in my copy--there is none + So perfect as the one I own-- + I find no thing set down but such + As teaches me to love it much. + + + + + L'EAU DORMANTE + + Curled up and sitting on her feet, + Within the window's deep embrasure, + Is Lydia; and across the street, + A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, + Watches her buried in her book. + In vain he tries to win a look, + And from the trellis over there + Blows sundry kisses through the air, + Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, + Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen. + + My lad, if you, without abuse, + Will take advice from one who's wiser, + And put his wisdom to more use + Than ever yet did your adviser; + + If you will let, as none will do, + Another's heartbreak serve for two, + You'll have a care, some four years hence, + How you lounge there by yonder fence + And blow those kisses through that screen-- + For Lydia will be seventeen. + + + + + THALIA + + A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING + FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS + BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS + ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR + FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK: + + I say it under the rose-- + oh, thanks!--yes, under the laurel, + We part lovers, not foes; + we are not going to quarrel. + + We have too long been friends + on foot and in gilded coaches, + Now that the whole thing ends, + to spoil our kiss with reproaches. + + I leave you; my soul is wrung; + I pause, look back from the portal-- + Ah, I no more am young, + and you, child, you are immortal! + + Mine is the glacier's way, + yours is the blossom's weather-- + When were December and May + known to be happy together? + + Before my kisses grow tame, + before my moodiness grieve you, + While yet my heart is flame, + and I all lover, I leave you. + + So, in the coming time, + when you count the rich years over, + Think of me in my prime, + and not as a white-haired lover, + + Fretful, pierced with regret, + the wraith of a dead Desire + Thrumming a cracked spinet + by a slowly dying fire. + + When, at last, I am cold-- + years hence, if the gods so will it-- + Say, "He was true as gold," + and wear a rose in your fillet! + + Others, tender as I, + will come and sue for caresses, + Woo you, win you, and die-- + mind you, a rose in your tresses! + + Some Melpomene woo, + some hold Clio the nearest; + You, sweet Comedy--you + were ever sweetest and dearest! + + Nay, it is time to go-- + when writing your tragic sister + Say to that child of woe + how sorry I was I missed her. + + Really, I cannot stay, + though "parting is such sweet sorrow" . . . + Perhaps I will, on my way + down-town, look in to-morrow! + + + + + PALINODE + + Who is Lydia, pray, and who + Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, + Let me breathe it in your ear-- + They are you, and only you. + And those other nameless two + Walking in Arcadian air-- + She that was so very fair? + She that had the twilight hair?-- + They were you, dear, only you. + If I speak of night or day, + Grace of fern or bloom of grape, + Hanging cloud or fountain spray, + Gem or star or glistening dew, + Or of mythologic shape, + Psyche, Pyrrha, Daphne, say-- + I mean you, dear, you, just you. + + + + + A PETITION + + To spring belongs the violet, and the blown + Spice of the roses let the summer own. + Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold-- + That I may not write verse when I am old. + + And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time! + Be not too ready to deny me rhyme; + And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse, + I beg you very gently break the news. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Sisters' Tragedy, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SISTERS' TRAGEDY *** + +***** This file should be named 595.txt or 595.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/9/595/ + +Produced by Judith Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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