Poems by William Wetmore Story

You sang the olden songs, and, sadly dreaming,
I lay and listened, while you thought I slept;
And if the tears were from my eyelids streaming,
You saw them not, and so I freely wept.

Round us the silent, shadowy night was stealing;
You were a voice alone within the dark;
And from life's hardened crust a tender feeling
Broke, like a blossom, through the rugged bark.

You were again a young and blushing maiden,
Who leaned upon my breast and breathed your love,
And I, no more with disappointments laden,
Seemed, as of yore, beside you in the grove.

The sky above us was serenely tender,
The moon shone softly gleaming through the trees;
Clasped heart to heart in Love's complete surrender,
Life seemed an island in enchanted seas.

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Dim longings, vague desires, like breaths from heaven,
Thrilled all our being with a strange unrest;
And all the finest strings that God hath given
Trembled to voiceless music in the breast.

Your hand's electric fire again ran through me,
I breathed the hyacinth odor of your hair;
Your soul in long sweet kisses clung unto me,
And filled me with a rapturous despair.

Your voice had ceased; yet still around me fluttered
The visions that your songs had raised in me;
When—“Mr. Jones,” cried Jeames—“Curse Jones,” I muttered,
And you—“Bring in the lights; 't is time for tea.”

I was again an old hard-hearted sinner,
And you were fifty, and you wore a cap;
Laughing, you said to Jones, “After his dinner,
You see, the old man likes to take his nap.”

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UN BACIO DATO NON È MAI PERDUTO.

Because we once drove together
In the moonlight over the snow,
With the sharp bells ringing their tinkling chime,
So many a year ago,

So, now, as I hear them jingle,
The winter comes back again,
Though the summer stirs in the heavy trees,
And the wild rose scents the lane.

We gather our furs around us,
Our faces the keen air stings,
And noiseless we fly o'er the snow-hushed world
Almost as if we had wings.

Enough is the joy of mere living,
Enough is the blood's quick thrill;
We are simply happy, I care not why,
We are happy beyond our will.

The trees are with icicles jewelled,
The walls are o'er-surfed with snow;
The houses with marble whiteness are roofed,
In their windows the home-lights glow.

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Through the tense, clear sky above us
The keen stars flash and gleam,
And wrapped in their silent shroud of snow
The broad fields lie and dream.

And jingling with low, sweet clashing
Ring the bells as our good horse goes,
And tossing his head, from his nostrils red
His frosty breath he blows.

And closely you nestle against me,
While around your waist my arm
I have slipped—'t is so bitter, bitter cold—
It is only to keep us warm.

We talk, and then we are silent;
And suddenly—you know why—
I stooped—could I help it? You lifted your face—
We kissed—there was nobody nigh.

And no one was ever the wiser,
And no one was ever the worse;
The skies did not fall,—as perhaps they ought,—
And we heard no paternal curse.

I never told it—did you, dear?—
From that day unto this;
But my memory keeps in its inmost recess,
Like a perfume, that innocent kiss.

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I dare say you have forgotten,
'T was so many a year ago;
Or you may not choose to remember it,
Time may have changed you so.

The world so chills us and kills us,
Perhaps you may scorn to recall
That night, with its innocent impulse,—
Perhaps you'll deny it all.

But if of that fresh, sweet nature
The veriest vestige survive,
You remember that moment's madness,—
You remember that moonlight drive.

288

PERSICA.

O Persica, Persica, pale and fair,
With a ripe blush on your cheek,
How pretty—how very pretty you are,
Until you begin to speak!

As for a heart and soul, my dear,
You have not enough to sin;
Outside so fair, like a peach you are,
With a stone for a heart within.

289

A MUSICAL BOX.

I know her, the thing of laces, and silk,
And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline,
With her neck and shoulders as white as milk,
And her doll-like face and conscious mien.
A lay figure fashioned to fit a dress,
All stuffed within with straw and bran;
Is that a woman to love, to caress?
Is that a creature to charm a man?

Only listen! how charmingly she talks
Of your dress and hers—of the Paris mode—
Of the coming ball—of the opera-box—
Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad.
Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well,
And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes;
A marchande de modes is her oracle,
And Paris her earthly paradise.

She 's perfect to whirl with in a waltz;
And her shoulders show well on a soft divan,
As she lounges at night and spreads her silks,
And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan;

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With a little laugh at whatever you say,
And rounding her “No” with a look of surprise,
And lisping her “Yes,” with an air distrait,
And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.

Her duty this Christian never omits!
She makes her calls, and she leaves her cards,
And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits,
And slim attachés and six-foot Guards.
Her talk is of people who 're nasty or nice,
And she likes little bon-bons of compliments;
While she seasons their sweetness, by way of spice,
With some witless scandal she often invents.

Is this the thing for a mother or wife?
Could love ever grow on such barren rocks?
Is this a companion to take for a wife?
One might as well marry a musical box.
You exhaust in a day her full extent;
'T is the same little tinkle of tunes always;
You must wind her up with a compliment,
To be bored with the only airs she plays.

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ON THE SURFACE.

From early light to late at night,
I chatter, chatter, chatter,
If things are sad or things are bad,
Dear me! what does it matter?
The livelong day to me is gay,
And I keep always laughing;
The world at best is such a jest,
'T is only fit for chaffing.

Along the brim of life to skim,
Not in its depths be sinking,
With jest and smile time to beguile,
Not bore one's self with thinking.
To touch and go, and to and fro,
To gossip, talk, and tattle,
To hear the news, and to amuse
One's world with endless prattle,—

This is my life: I hate all strife,
With none I am a snarler;
I like to joke with pleasant folk
In any pleasant parlor.
And when the day has slipped away,
Ere I blow out my candle,
I sit awhile, and muse and smile,
O'er that last bit of scandal.

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ROSA HESTERNA.

Yes, my love, it was fresh and glowing,
Blooming and beautiful,—yesterday!
Now its odor is sickly, its petals are going,
Its beauty is vanished—throw it away!
Pray, don't thrust it under my nose!
Who can endure a yesterday's rose?

I cannot deny your pretty sayings—
“It gave its life, and died in your hand,”
And “There are no deaths without decayings;”—
But the dying of roses who can stand?
The sweeter the odor the worse the decay;
And a yesterday's rose!—oh, throw it away!

Gratitude,—pity,—sense of duty?
Oh, my dear, don't talk such prose!
If duty don't rhyme, as you say, to beauty,
Does yesterday's odor haunt yesterday's rose?
To-morrow, perhaps, I shall throw you away!
Perhaps, to-morrow, but not to-day.

Now, while your lips are fresh as roses,
Kiss me, for preaching becomes you not!

293

Time for his wisdom his penance imposes;
When things are ripe they begin to rot.
And our loves and our roses, when they decay,
However we sigh, must be thrown away.

294

O FILIA PULCHRA!

How your sweet face revives again
The dear old time, my Pearl,—
If I may use the pretty name
I called you when a girl.

You are so young; while Time of me
Has made a cruel prey,
It has forgotten you, nor swept
One grace of youth away.

The same sweet face, the same sweet smile,
The same lithe figure, too!—
What did you say? “It was perchance
Your mother that I knew?”

Ah, yes, of course, it must have been,
And yet the same you seem,
And for a moment, all these years
Fled from me like a dream.

Then what your mother would not give,
Permit me, dear, to take,
The old man's privilege—a kiss—
Just for your mother's sake.

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SNOWDROP.

When, full of warm and eager love,
I clasp you in my fond embrace,
You gently push me back and say,
“Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace.”

You kiss me just as you would kiss
Some woman friend you chanced to see;
You call me “dearest.” All love's forms
Are yours, not its reality.

Oh Annie! cry, and storm, and rave!
Do anything with passion in it!
Hate me an hour, and then turn round
And love me truly, just one minute.

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LOVE AND PRUDENCE.

Do you remember that most perfect night,
In the full flush of June,
When the wide heavens were tranced in silver light
Of the sad patient moon?
Silent we sat, awed by a strange unrest;
The fathomless, far sky
Our very life absorbed, our thoughts oppressed,
By its immensity.

Lost in that infinite vast, how idle seemed
The best of human speech,
Earth scarcely breathed, so silently she dreamed,
Save when from some far reach
The faint wind sighed, and stirred the slumbering trees,
And shadowy stretch and plain
Seemed haunted by unuttered mysteries
Night on its life had lain.

We knew not what we were, or where we went,
Borne by some unseen power,
Nor in what dream-shaped realms our spirits spent

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That long, yet brief half hour;
I only know that, as a star from high
Slides down the ether thin
We shot to earth, roused by a startling cry,
“You 're getting cold—come in.”

298

THE TWO MUSES.

My fire burnt low—at intervals
Struggling for life, it flared and sank,
And shapeless shadows on the walls
Towered up—and into corners shrank.

The black brand crackled, bent, and brok
And through the soot the eager spark
Worried, like busy worldly folk,
And burrowing, died in dirt and dark

In the dead silence, loud the clock
Remorseless ticked each second's flight—
Heart-beats of time, with quiet shock
Driving Life on to Death and Night.

Well! let Life go!—my weary heart
Is sick of things that only seem;
Love is a sham, and so is Art,
And Faith the ghost of Hope's vain dream.

A curse is on this world of ours,
Where Faith, Love, Art, are all a lie;
Beneath the curse the spirit cowers,
And their best gifts the Gods deny.

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As thus I mused in desperate mood,
I raised my eyes, and faintly seen
In the dim light a figure stood,
With prayerful face and vesture mean.

Her eyes were shy with half-alarm;
Wan were her cheeks, and pale her hue;
And o'er her breast her white bared arm
With modest grace her drapery drew.

“Who art thou? and what dost thou here?
Speak! Can I help thee?” Then, “Alas!”
She said, “how own the name I bear—
So fallen, so changed from what I was.

“Once in the far and golden time,
When Freedom wore its fairest hues,
When glorious Greece was in its prime,
They called me by the name of Muse.

“My feet from worldly soil were free;
The Furies lent to me their rods.
My praise was Immortality;
My home—the temple of the Gods.

“All for my favors sought. To none
I gave them but the true and tried,—
Heroic, godlike men alone,
Whose life by Faith was purified.

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“Now in the public mart my strings
For very want I fain must strum,
And hide beneath a shawl my wings,
And sing, when I were better dumb,

“Must smile to hide my heart's despair,
Must starve, or cringe to greed and lust;
Of all who hear—ah! how rare
The few whom I can love and trust.

“The many mock my decent dress;
Their thoughts are low, their works are base;
They shock me with their vile caress,
Until, ashamed, I hide my face.

“Fallen so low, I stretch to thee
My hands, and cry, Oh! is there none
To lift me, save me, honor me,
As once in Greece in ages gone?

“No one, of all this venial throng
That take my name upon their lips,
To shield me from the shame and wrong
That shadow me in such eclipse?

“No one above this sordid mart,
With godlike spirit shrined in man,
Who with pure soul will worship Art,
Not woo her like a courtesan—

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“Not pandering to the world's low taste,
With skill to tempt and to degrade—
Not like a broker, greed-debased,
Who makes of Art a vulgar trade?”

“Yes—one at least, though weak and poor,”
I cried. “I pledge this heart of mine,
Content to labor, wait, endure,
To win at last one smile of thine.”

What sudden change! an aureole globed
That radiant face—a Grecian dress,
With pale and perfect draperies, robed
Her pure and stately loveliness.

Serene she smiled, and at her feet
Prostrate I fell, and bowed my head;
And silence came as calm and sweet
As silence to the peaceful dead.

Then, suddenly, a laugh pierced through
My ears—I raised my eyes—the Muse
Had vanished; in her stead a new
Strange figure stood, in high-heeled shoes.

A creature like a Biscuit rare,
Painted and dyed, hair, eyes and face—
Tight-laced—her back and bosom bare—
All chiffons, jewels, silk, and lace.

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With head thrown back and glance askant,
She laughed and leered and beckoned me;
“Great God!” I cried, “what dost thou want?
And who art thou?—and where is she?”

“She? Who? My queer old sister? Oh!
Dear solemn prude, pray who can tell?
Gone back to Greece, I hope. You know
That here she 's quite impossible.

“Poor thing, I pity her; but then
She 's such a prig—so tiresome, too,
And dresses so—and bores the men
About the Beautiful and True—

“Such silly rubbish—every word
Emphatic with a capital,
That really it is quite absurd;
We had to cut her, one and all.

“She had a grand career awhile
In Athens once, when she was young;
But here, we 've changed in taste and style,—
And she 's old, nervous, and unstrung.

“And now that we have shut her out,
Dressed in that old disgraceful shawl,
She wanders begging all about
And preaching—which won't do at all.

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“And so take care—you 're young, mon cher,
And just beginning in your art;
Don't be imposed upon by her,
But trust me if you want a start.

“I'm all the mode—her sails are furled.
Come down to me and have a chat;
I'll introduce you to the world,
And put you up to this and that.

“I 've lots of things to show you, too,
Not Greek—that wretched classic Greek—
But Biscuit, Sèvres, Ormolu,
And bric-à-brac, and statues chic.

“We 're all so free—no prudish gène.
Such fun, you know; and there you'll meet
Dukes, Bankers, Princes—all the men
And all the demi-monde élite—

“All purchasers. Such singing too—
Thérèse's style. Do all you can,
Broad as her songs are, they 're so true
You have to laugh—behind your fan.

“And then my pictures—all so bright
With brilliant colors; some so small
You need a lens to help your sight,
And wonder how they 're done at all.

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“Such costumes gay—such fights and feuds—
Such vases, silks, stuffs, furniture—
Such harems, baths, boudoirs—such nudes,
Smiling at you with such allure!

“You 're poor! I know you can't be flush:
Don't be so shy—oh, don't say ‘No!’
Pray take it—won't you? Pooh!—don't blush:
Ah, well!—at first you all say so!”

With that she finger-tipped a kiss,
Laughed, pirouetted on her toe,
Kicked out her train, and, with a hiss
Of rustling silks, turned round to go.

“Now don't forget—don't be a fool;
I count upon you! Well,—bye bye!
Sundays, you know—cards, dancing, pool,
And everything that 's chic and sly!

“Stop! here 's my card—I 'd quite forgot!”
With that she vanished; and I read
“Madame La Muse—née La Cocotte,
Rue de Parnasse”—and went to bed!

University of Virginia Library

SCHERZI.

SINGING AT TWILIGHT.