 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
121
PORTRAITS AND PERSONS.
123
PAN IN LOVE.
Stop running more. You must—indeed you shall.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers,
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear
Though you should scream with all your little voice.
I am a coarse, rough fellow, but I love
Such smooth, white-limbed, soft-footed things as you.
What shall I do to make you love me back,
And twine those arms around this hairy neck?
What shall I give you for a kiss? Come, sit
On these rough shaggy knees, and smooth my cheeks
With your soft hands. Bacchus is fairer far;
But he, the fickle, vain, conceited god,
Loves but himself, and changes every hour
For some new fancy. I will be more true,
And love forever. Ah! we ugly gods
Alone are constant, and that Venus knew
When she preferred to all the dandy crew
Stern, black, old Vulcan.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers,
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear
Though you should scream with all your little voice.
I am a coarse, rough fellow, but I love
Such smooth, white-limbed, soft-footed things as you.
What shall I do to make you love me back,
And twine those arms around this hairy neck?
What shall I give you for a kiss? Come, sit
On these rough shaggy knees, and smooth my cheeks
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But he, the fickle, vain, conceited god,
Loves but himself, and changes every hour
For some new fancy. I will be more true,
And love forever. Ah! we ugly gods
Alone are constant, and that Venus knew
When she preferred to all the dandy crew
Stern, black, old Vulcan.
Oh! dear little feet!
Dear little hands, so rosy, tapering, slight.
See, how they look against these hands and hoofs,
That never will be tired to work for you.
Dear little hands, so rosy, tapering, slight.
See, how they look against these hands and hoofs,
That never will be tired to work for you.
Nay! if you will not sit upon my knee,
Lie on that bank, and listen while I play
A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes.
In the full moonrise as I lay last night
Under the alders on Peneus' banks,
Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream, that welled
Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots,
I made the song the while I shaped the pipes.
'T is all of you and love, as you shall hear.
The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved
Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath,
Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins,
Hung motionless to listen; in the grass
The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells;
And even the nightingale, that all the eve
Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and thrilled,
Paused in his strain of love to list to mine.
Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this
He cannot shape, and better loves the clash
Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes.
Fair as he is without, he 's coarse within—
Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine;
And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round,
Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat.
But I have scores of songs that no one knows,
Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury—
Their strings can never sing like my sweet pipes—
Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur
Against the oak-trunks for delight, or stretch
Their flat sides for my pillow on the sward.
Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs
Leap when they hear, and from their noonday dreams
Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance
In the green shadows. Ay! and better songs,
Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs,
Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate
The droning bass of honey-seeking bees,
The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams,
The breezy alto of the alders' sighs,
And all the airy sounds that lull the grove
When noon falls fast asleep among the hills.
Not only these,—for I can pipe to you
Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause,
And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes;
Such songs—and you shall hear them, if you will—
That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear.
Lie on that bank, and listen while I play
A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes.
In the full moonrise as I lay last night
Under the alders on Peneus' banks,
Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream, that welled
Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots,
I made the song the while I shaped the pipes.
'T is all of you and love, as you shall hear.
The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved
Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath,
Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins,
Hung motionless to listen; in the grass
The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells;
And even the nightingale, that all the eve
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Paused in his strain of love to list to mine.
Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this
He cannot shape, and better loves the clash
Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes.
Fair as he is without, he 's coarse within—
Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine;
And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round,
Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat.
But I have scores of songs that no one knows,
Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury—
Their strings can never sing like my sweet pipes—
Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur
Against the oak-trunks for delight, or stretch
Their flat sides for my pillow on the sward.
Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs
Leap when they hear, and from their noonday dreams
Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance
In the green shadows. Ay! and better songs,
Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs,
Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate
The droning bass of honey-seeking bees,
The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams,
The breezy alto of the alders' sighs,
And all the airy sounds that lull the grove
When noon falls fast asleep among the hills.
Not only these,—for I can pipe to you
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And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes;
Such songs—and you shall hear them, if you will—
That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear.
If you'll but love me, every day I'll bring
The coyest flowers, such as you never saw,
To deck you with. I know their secret nooks—
They cannot hide themselves away from Pan.
And you shall have rare garlands; and your bed
Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er
With violets like your eyes—just for a kiss.
Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like,
And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go,
And not a beast shall hurt you—not a toad
But at your bidding give his jewel up.
The speckled shining snakes shall never bite,
But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms,
And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon.
You shall have berries ripe of every kind,
And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines,
And sun-flecked apricots, and honeyed dates,
And wine from bee-stung grapes drunk with the sun
(Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet).
And not a poisonous plant shall have the power
To tetter your white flesh, if you'll love Pan.
And then I'll tell you tales that no one knows;
Of what the pines talk in the summer nights
When far above you hear them murmuring
As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze—
And what the storm shrieks to the struggling oaks
As it flies through them hurrying to the sea
From mountain crags and cliffs. Or, when you 're sad,
I'll tell you tales that solemn cypresses
Have murmured to me. There 's not anything
Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines,
Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore,
Slipping from sight, but I can tell to you.
Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself,
Never can catch a syllable of this;
But with my shaggy ear against the grass
I hear the secrets hidden underground,
And know how in the inner forge of Earth,
The pulse-like hammers of creation beat.
Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see,
But no one knows such secrets as old Pan.
What shall I give you for a kiss? I must,
Will have it. See, these iris-colored shells,
So curiously veined with gleamy pearl—
Rare shells, that Venus covets, and would give
A thousand kisses for—shall all be yours;—
And these great pearls too, and red coral beads,
Worn round by the smooth sea,—you shall have all.
Strung on your neck, and, rolling there between
Your budding breasts, how pretty they will look!
Do not refuse old Pan one kiss. By Zeus,
How beautiful this soft and waving hair
(Not like my bristling curls)!—how it creeps round
Your shining shoulders, by the zephyr stirred,
As if it loved them! I can scarcely keep
My fingers from those shoulders' sweeps and curves.
My arms desire to clasp that lithe slight waist.
One kiss—one kiss—I will—nay, throw not back
That chin and throat, and, with that rosy mouth,
Laugh as you push me off. I must—I will.
You make me mad. My very fingers itch.
Come, or I'll butt my head against this tree,
And poor old Pan's pipes will be heard no more.
Don't laugh at me, and kick me in the breast
With those white feet; I'll bite them if you do!
You wilful minx, have pity on old Pan—
Have pity, or I'll seize you round the waist,
And, whether you will or not, I'll have my kiss.
The coyest flowers, such as you never saw,
To deck you with. I know their secret nooks—
They cannot hide themselves away from Pan.
And you shall have rare garlands; and your bed
Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er
With violets like your eyes—just for a kiss.
Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like,
And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go,
And not a beast shall hurt you—not a toad
But at your bidding give his jewel up.
The speckled shining snakes shall never bite,
But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms,
And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon.
You shall have berries ripe of every kind,
And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines,
And sun-flecked apricots, and honeyed dates,
And wine from bee-stung grapes drunk with the sun
(Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet).
And not a poisonous plant shall have the power
To tetter your white flesh, if you'll love Pan.
And then I'll tell you tales that no one knows;
Of what the pines talk in the summer nights
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As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze—
And what the storm shrieks to the struggling oaks
As it flies through them hurrying to the sea
From mountain crags and cliffs. Or, when you 're sad,
I'll tell you tales that solemn cypresses
Have murmured to me. There 's not anything
Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines,
Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore,
Slipping from sight, but I can tell to you.
Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself,
Never can catch a syllable of this;
But with my shaggy ear against the grass
I hear the secrets hidden underground,
And know how in the inner forge of Earth,
The pulse-like hammers of creation beat.
Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see,
But no one knows such secrets as old Pan.
What shall I give you for a kiss? I must,
Will have it. See, these iris-colored shells,
So curiously veined with gleamy pearl—
Rare shells, that Venus covets, and would give
A thousand kisses for—shall all be yours;—
And these great pearls too, and red coral beads,
Worn round by the smooth sea,—you shall have all.
Strung on your neck, and, rolling there between
Your budding breasts, how pretty they will look!
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How beautiful this soft and waving hair
(Not like my bristling curls)!—how it creeps round
Your shining shoulders, by the zephyr stirred,
As if it loved them! I can scarcely keep
My fingers from those shoulders' sweeps and curves.
My arms desire to clasp that lithe slight waist.
One kiss—one kiss—I will—nay, throw not back
That chin and throat, and, with that rosy mouth,
Laugh as you push me off. I must—I will.
You make me mad. My very fingers itch.
Come, or I'll butt my head against this tree,
And poor old Pan's pipes will be heard no more.
Don't laugh at me, and kick me in the breast
With those white feet; I'll bite them if you do!
You wilful minx, have pity on old Pan—
Have pity, or I'll seize you round the waist,
And, whether you will or not, I'll have my kiss.
129
CLEOPATRA.
DEDICATED TO J. L. M.
Here, Charmian, take my bracelets,
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows—
They are hot where I have lain:
Open the lattice wider,
A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odours
That over the garden blow.
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows—
They are hot where I have lain:
Open the lattice wider,
A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odours
That over the garden blow.
I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay;
Ah, me! the vision has vanished—
The music has died away.
The flame and the perfume have perished—
As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odour
Is now but an ashy hill.
And in his arms I lay;
Ah, me! the vision has vanished—
The music has died away.
The flame and the perfume have perished—
As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odour
Is now but an ashy hill.
Scatter upon me rose-leaves,
They cool me after my sleep,
And with sandal odours fan me
Till into my veins they creep;
Reach down the lute, and play me
A melancholy tune,
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.
They cool me after my sleep,
And with sandal odours fan me
Till into my veins they creep;
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A melancholy tune,
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.
There, drowsing in golden sunlight,
Loiters the slow smooth Nile,
Through slender papyri, that cover
The wary crocodile.
The lotus lolls on the water,
And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement
Never a ripple is rolled.
The twilight breeze is too lazy
Those feathery palms to wave,
And yon little cloud is as motionless
As a stone above a grave.
Loiters the slow smooth Nile,
Through slender papyri, that cover
The wary crocodile.
The lotus lolls on the water,
And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement
Never a ripple is rolled.
The twilight breeze is too lazy
Those feathery palms to wave,
And yon little cloud is as motionless
As a stone above a grave.
Ah, me! this lifeless nature
Oppresses my heart and brain!
Oh! for a storm and thunder—
For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute—I hate it!
Take rather his buckler and sword,
And crash them and clash them together
Till this sleeping world is stirred.
Oppresses my heart and brain!
Oh! for a storm and thunder—
For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute—I hate it!
Take rather his buckler and sword,
And crash them and clash them together
Till this sleeping world is stirred.
Hark! to my Indian beauty—
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers—
That flashes across the light.
Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, “Come, my love, come home!”
Shriek, “Antony! Antony! Antony!”
Till he hears you even in Rome.
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers—
That flashes across the light.
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To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, “Come, my love, come home!”
Shriek, “Antony! Antony! Antony!”
Till he hears you even in Rome.
There—leave me, and take from my chamber
That stupid little gazelle,
With its bright black eyes so meaningless,
And its silly tinkling bell!
Take him,—my nerves he vexes,—
The thing without blood or brain,—
Or, by the body of Isis,
I'll snap his thin neck in twain!
That stupid little gazelle,
With its bright black eyes so meaningless,
And its silly tinkling bell!
Take him,—my nerves he vexes,—
The thing without blood or brain,—
Or, by the body of Isis,
I'll snap his thin neck in twain!
Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendour of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthy forms expire;
And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crowned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendour of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthy forms expire;
And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crowned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.
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I will lie and dream of the past time,
Æons of thought away,
And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;
When, a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed
I wandered, where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started,
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.
I sucked in the noontide splendour,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on,
To brood in the trees' thick branches
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,
And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,
And struck at each other our massive arms—
How powerful he was and grand!
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely
As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,
With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,
For his love like his rage was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck
At times, in our play, drew blood.
Æons of thought away,
And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;
When, a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed
I wandered, where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started,
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.
I sucked in the noontide splendour,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on,
To brood in the trees' thick branches
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,
And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,
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How powerful he was and grand!
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely
As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,
With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,
For his love like his rage was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck
At times, in our play, drew blood.
Often another suitor—
For I was flexile and fair—
Fought for me in the moonlight,
While I lay couching there,
Till his blood was drained by the desert;
And, ruffled with triumph and power,
He licked me and lay beside me
To breathe him a vast half-hour.
Then down to the fountain we loitered,
Where the antelopes came to drink;
Like a bolt we sprang upon them,
Ere they had time to shrink,
We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted
Ere he disputed with him.
That was a life to live for!
Not this weak human life,
With its frivolous bloodless passions,
Its poor and petty strife!
For I was flexile and fair—
Fought for me in the moonlight,
While I lay couching there,
Till his blood was drained by the desert;
And, ruffled with triumph and power,
He licked me and lay beside me
To breathe him a vast half-hour.
Then down to the fountain we loitered,
Where the antelopes came to drink;
Like a bolt we sprang upon them,
Ere they had time to shrink,
We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted
Ere he disputed with him.
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Not this weak human life,
With its frivolous bloodless passions,
Its poor and petty strife!
Come to my arms, my hero,
The shadows of twilight grow,
And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow.
Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power,
As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink or cower.
Come, as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men,
When the tiger passions were in us,
And love as you loved me then!
The shadows of twilight grow,
And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow.
Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power,
As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink or cower.
Come, as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men,
When the tiger passions were in us,
And love as you loved me then!
135
MARCUS ANTONIUS.
DEDICATED TO L. C.
'T is vain, Fonteus!—As the half-tamed steed,
Scenting the desert, lashes madly out,
And strains and storms and struggles to be freed,
Shaking his rattling harness all about—
So, fiercer for restraint, here in my breast
Hot passion rages, firing every thought;
For what is honour, prudence, interest,
To the wild strength of love? Oh best of life,
My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife,
My Cleopatra! I desire thee so
That all restraint to the wild winds I throw.
Come what come will, come life, come death, to me,
'T is equal, if again I look on thee.
Away, Fonteus! tell her that I rage
With madness for her. Nothing can assuage
The strong desire, the torment, the fierce stress
That whirls my thoughts round, and inflames my brain,
But her great ardent eyes—dark eyes, that draw
My being to them with a subtle law
And an almost divine imperiousness.
Tell her I do not live until I feel
The thrill of her wild touch, that through each vein
Electric shoots its lightning; and again
Hear those low tones of hers, although they steal
As by some serpent-charm my will away,
And wreck my manhood.
Scenting the desert, lashes madly out,
And strains and storms and struggles to be freed,
Shaking his rattling harness all about—
So, fiercer for restraint, here in my breast
Hot passion rages, firing every thought;
For what is honour, prudence, interest,
To the wild strength of love? Oh best of life,
My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife,
My Cleopatra! I desire thee so
That all restraint to the wild winds I throw.
Come what come will, come life, come death, to me,
'T is equal, if again I look on thee.
Away, Fonteus! tell her that I rage
With madness for her. Nothing can assuage
The strong desire, the torment, the fierce stress
That whirls my thoughts round, and inflames my brain,
But her great ardent eyes—dark eyes, that draw
My being to them with a subtle law
And an almost divine imperiousness.
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The thrill of her wild touch, that through each vein
Electric shoots its lightning; and again
Hear those low tones of hers, although they steal
As by some serpent-charm my will away,
And wreck my manhood.
Ah! Octavia,
This lying galls me—this poor mean pretense
Of love—this putting every word to school—
When all at best is blank indifference.
Even hate for you is only cold and dull—
I hate you that I cannot hate you more,
Were you but savage, wicked to the core,
Less pious, prudish, prudent, made to rule,
I might have loved or hated more; but now
Nothing on earth seems half so deadly chill
As your insipid smile and placid brow,
Your glacial goodness and proprieties.
This lying galls me—this poor mean pretense
Of love—this putting every word to school—
When all at best is blank indifference.
Even hate for you is only cold and dull—
I hate you that I cannot hate you more,
Were you but savage, wicked to the core,
Less pious, prudish, prudent, made to rule,
I might have loved or hated more; but now
Nothing on earth seems half so deadly chill
As your insipid smile and placid brow,
Your glacial goodness and proprieties.
Tell my dear serpent I must see her—fill
My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes,
Though death, dishonour, anything you will,
Stand in the way! Ay, by my soul! disgrace
Is better in the sun of Egypt's face
Than pomp or power in this detested place.
Oh for the wine my queen alone can pour
From her rich nature! Let me starve no more
On this weak tepid drink that never warms
My life-blood: but away with shams and forms!
Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes
Is worth a score of Roman centuries.
Away, Fonteus! Tell her, till I see
Those eyes I do not live—that Rome to me
Is hateful,—tell her—oh! I know not what—
That every thought and feeling, space and spot,
Is like an ugly dream, where she is not;
All persons plagues; all living wearisome;
All talking empty; all these feasts and friends—
These slaves and courtiers, princes, palaces—
This Cæsar, with his selfish aims and ends,
His oily ways and sleek hypocrisies—
This Lepidus; all this dull Roman brood,
And worst of all Octavia, the cold prude,
With her meek manners and her voice subdued—
Are bonds and fetters, tedious as disease,
Not worth the parings of her finger-nails.
My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes,
Though death, dishonour, anything you will,
Stand in the way! Ay, by my soul! disgrace
Is better in the sun of Egypt's face
Than pomp or power in this detested place.
Oh for the wine my queen alone can pour
From her rich nature! Let me starve no more
On this weak tepid drink that never warms
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Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes
Is worth a score of Roman centuries.
Away, Fonteus! Tell her, till I see
Those eyes I do not live—that Rome to me
Is hateful,—tell her—oh! I know not what—
That every thought and feeling, space and spot,
Is like an ugly dream, where she is not;
All persons plagues; all living wearisome;
All talking empty; all these feasts and friends—
These slaves and courtiers, princes, palaces—
This Cæsar, with his selfish aims and ends,
His oily ways and sleek hypocrisies—
This Lepidus; all this dull Roman brood,
And worst of all Octavia, the cold prude,
With her meek manners and her voice subdued—
Are bonds and fetters, tedious as disease,
Not worth the parings of her finger-nails.
Oh for the breath of Egypt!—the soft nights
Of the voluptuous East—the dear delights
We tasted there—the lotus-perfumed gales
That dream along the low shores of the Nile,
And softly flutter in the languid sails!
Oh for the queen of all!—for the rich smile
That glows like autumn over her dark face—
For her large nature—her enchanting grace—
Her arms, that are away so many a mile!
Away, Fonteus!—lose no hour—make sail—
Weigh anchor on the instant—woo a gale
To blow you to her. Tell her I shall be
Close on your very heels across the sea,
Praying that Neptune send me storms as strong
As Passion is, to sweep me swift along,
Till the white spray sing whistling round my prow,
And the waves gurgle 'neath the keel's sharp plough.
Fly, fly, Fonteus! When I think of her
My soul within my body is astir!
My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow!
Love with its madness overwhelms me so
That I—oh! go, I say! Fonteus, go!
Of the voluptuous East—the dear delights
We tasted there—the lotus-perfumed gales
That dream along the low shores of the Nile,
And softly flutter in the languid sails!
Oh for the queen of all!—for the rich smile
That glows like autumn over her dark face—
For her large nature—her enchanting grace—
Her arms, that are away so many a mile!
Away, Fonteus!—lose no hour—make sail—
Weigh anchor on the instant—woo a gale
138
Close on your very heels across the sea,
Praying that Neptune send me storms as strong
As Passion is, to sweep me swift along,
Till the white spray sing whistling round my prow,
And the waves gurgle 'neath the keel's sharp plough.
Fly, fly, Fonteus! When I think of her
My soul within my body is astir!
My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow!
Love with its madness overwhelms me so
That I—oh! go, I say! Fonteus, go!
139
CASSANDRA.
DEDICATED TO H. C.
Why didst thou lift the veil, beloved one,
Divine Apollo, from these human eyes?
The phantom forms that from the Future rise
Appall me; all in vain I seek to shun
This fatal knowledge; horror-struck to see
The shadowy shapes of coming destiny
Steal forth unsummoned fierce with death and hate,
But powerless to avert the doom of Fate.
Ah! better blindness, better night, dark night!
Better dead loss of that supreme delight,
Thy love! better the worst that Time conceals
Than all the coming horrors it reveals.
Shroud me again in darkness—close the door
Of the dread Future—torture me no more
With these foul shapes of visionary crime—
These murders that stare through the veil of time,—
These horrors—drive these fearful sights away,
Or give me power the coming crime to stay.
Only in ignorance is joy; to rest
In blind fond trust upon the Present's breast.
'T is worse than death, far worse, to see, to know;
Take back the gift! We creatures here below
Need all our blindness, need the mortal veil
Which shuts the Future out, obscures the sense,
And hides us from our Fate. Not too much light
May man endure. Pure Truth is too intense,
It blinds us. Perfect Love at its full height
Kills with excess of rapture. We are made
With human senses, and we all need here
Illusions, veils, a tempering atmosphere,
And ignorance to shield us with its shade.
The Gods in heaven may see and know, nor fear
The face of Fate, serene, beyond all care;
But when to us poor mortals they appear,
Around your glory they a veil must wear,
Or who could look and live? And so to me
Divinest of the Gods you came; too bright
For all your mortal veil, suffused with light,
Radiant with splendours of divinity.
Divine Apollo, from these human eyes?
The phantom forms that from the Future rise
Appall me; all in vain I seek to shun
This fatal knowledge; horror-struck to see
The shadowy shapes of coming destiny
Steal forth unsummoned fierce with death and hate,
But powerless to avert the doom of Fate.
Ah! better blindness, better night, dark night!
Better dead loss of that supreme delight,
Thy love! better the worst that Time conceals
Than all the coming horrors it reveals.
Shroud me again in darkness—close the door
Of the dread Future—torture me no more
With these foul shapes of visionary crime—
These murders that stare through the veil of time,—
These horrors—drive these fearful sights away,
140
Only in ignorance is joy; to rest
In blind fond trust upon the Present's breast.
'T is worse than death, far worse, to see, to know;
Take back the gift! We creatures here below
Need all our blindness, need the mortal veil
Which shuts the Future out, obscures the sense,
And hides us from our Fate. Not too much light
May man endure. Pure Truth is too intense,
It blinds us. Perfect Love at its full height
Kills with excess of rapture. We are made
With human senses, and we all need here
Illusions, veils, a tempering atmosphere,
And ignorance to shield us with its shade.
The Gods in heaven may see and know, nor fear
The face of Fate, serene, beyond all care;
But when to us poor mortals they appear,
Around your glory they a veil must wear,
Or who could look and live? And so to me
Divinest of the Gods you came; too bright
For all your mortal veil, suffused with light,
Radiant with splendours of divinity.
Ah! what a price for Love I paid! No more,
Since that dread gift, the peace, the tranquil bliss
That once in my unburdened heart I bore!
No more the careless thoughtless happiness,
The maiden hope, the unreasoning faith, the scent
Of vague sweet feelings making redolent
The inmost chambers of my life; 't is o'er—
Fled—vanished. The soft veil is rent away.
Where'er I set my feet on the green grass
'T is stained with blood. The glory of the day
Is darkened with foul crimes. The shapes that pass
Before my scared and visionary eyes
No more are gentle dreams, but ghosts that rise
And mock and threaten from the unopened tomb
Of the black Future, and with voice of doom,
Faint, dim, but horrible, dismay my soul.
Since that dread gift, the peace, the tranquil bliss
That once in my unburdened heart I bore!
No more the careless thoughtless happiness,
The maiden hope, the unreasoning faith, the scent
Of vague sweet feelings making redolent
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Fled—vanished. The soft veil is rent away.
Where'er I set my feet on the green grass
'T is stained with blood. The glory of the day
Is darkened with foul crimes. The shapes that pass
Before my scared and visionary eyes
No more are gentle dreams, but ghosts that rise
And mock and threaten from the unopened tomb
Of the black Future, and with voice of doom,
Faint, dim, but horrible, dismay my soul.
Hark! as I speak—those voices—that fierce jar—
That murmurous tumult hurrying from afar—
What means it? Close my eyes, my ears control!
They come, still nearer, up the sounding stair.
What horror now is brooding o'er this place?
What dreadful crime? What does Medea there
In that dim chamber? See on her dark face
And serpent brow, rage, fury, love, despair!
What seeks she? There her children are at play
Laughing and talking. Not so fierce, I say,
You scare them with that passionate embrace!
Hark to those footsteps in the hall—the loud
Clear voice of Jason heard above the crowd.
Why does she push them now so stern away
And listening glance around,—then fixed and mute,
Her brow shut down, her mouth irresolute,
Her thin hands twitching at her robes the while,
As with some fearful purpose does she stand?
Why that triumphant glance—that hideous smile—
That poniard hidden in her mantle there,
That through the dropping folds now darts its gleam?
O Gods! O, all ye Gods! hold back her hand.
Spare them! oh spare them! O, Medea, spare!
You will not, dare not! ah, that sharp shrill scream!
Ah!—the red blood—'t is trickling down the floor!
Help! help! oh, hide me! Let me see no more!
That murmurous tumult hurrying from afar—
What means it? Close my eyes, my ears control!
They come, still nearer, up the sounding stair.
What horror now is brooding o'er this place?
What dreadful crime? What does Medea there
In that dim chamber? See on her dark face
And serpent brow, rage, fury, love, despair!
What seeks she? There her children are at play
Laughing and talking. Not so fierce, I say,
You scare them with that passionate embrace!
Hark to those footsteps in the hall—the loud
Clear voice of Jason heard above the crowd.
Why does she push them now so stern away
And listening glance around,—then fixed and mute,
142
Her thin hands twitching at her robes the while,
As with some fearful purpose does she stand?
Why that triumphant glance—that hideous smile—
That poniard hidden in her mantle there,
That through the dropping folds now darts its gleam?
O Gods! O, all ye Gods! hold back her hand.
Spare them! oh spare them! O, Medea, spare!
You will not, dare not! ah, that sharp shrill scream!
Ah!—the red blood—'t is trickling down the floor!
Help! help! oh, hide me! Let me see no more!
A chronological license has been taken in this poem, which it is hoped will be pardoned in view of the mythical character of the period.
143
ORESTES.
How tranquil is the night! how calm and deep
This sacred silence! Not an olive-leaf
Is stirring on the slopes; all is asleep—
All silent, save the distant drowsy streams
That down the hill-sides murmur in their dreams.
The vast sad sky all breathless broods above,
And peace and rest this solemn temple steep.
Here let us rest—it is the hour of love—
Forgetting human pain and human grief.
This sacred silence! Not an olive-leaf
Is stirring on the slopes; all is asleep—
All silent, save the distant drowsy streams
That down the hill-sides murmur in their dreams.
The vast sad sky all breathless broods above,
And peace and rest this solemn temple steep.
Here let us rest—it is the hour of love—
Forgetting human pain and human grief.
But see! half-hidden in the columned shade,
Who panting stands, with hollow eyes dismayed,
That glance around as if they feared to see
Some dreaded shape pursuing? Can it be
Orestes, with those cheeks so trenched and worn—
That brow with sorrow seamed, that face forlorn?
Ay, 't is Orestes! we are not alone.
What human place is free from human groan?
Ay, 't is Orestes! In the temple there,
Refuge he seeks from horror, from despair.
Look! where he listens, dreading still to hear
The avenging voices sounding in his ear—
The awful voices that, by day and night,
Pursue relentless his despairing flight.
Ah! vain the hope to flee from Nemesis!
He starts—again he hears the horrent hiss
Of the fierce Furies through the darkness creep.
And list! along the aisles the angry sweep,
The hurrying rush of trailing robes—as when,
Through shivering pines asleep in some dim glen,
Fierce Auster whispers. Yes, even here they chase
Their haunted victim—even this sacred place
Stays not their fatal footsteps. As they come,
Behold him with that stricken face of doom
Fly to the altar, and there falling prone,
Strike with his brow Apollo's feet of stone.
“Save me!” he cries; “Apollo! hear and save;
Not even the dead will sleep in their dark grave.
They come—the Furies! To this tortured breast
Not even night, the calm, the peaceful, can give rest.
Stretch forth thy hand, great God! and bid them cease.
Peace, O Apollo! give the victim peace!”
Who panting stands, with hollow eyes dismayed,
That glance around as if they feared to see
Some dreaded shape pursuing? Can it be
Orestes, with those cheeks so trenched and worn—
That brow with sorrow seamed, that face forlorn?
Ay, 't is Orestes! we are not alone.
What human place is free from human groan?
Ay, 't is Orestes! In the temple there,
Refuge he seeks from horror, from despair.
Look! where he listens, dreading still to hear
The avenging voices sounding in his ear—
The awful voices that, by day and night,
144
Ah! vain the hope to flee from Nemesis!
He starts—again he hears the horrent hiss
Of the fierce Furies through the darkness creep.
And list! along the aisles the angry sweep,
The hurrying rush of trailing robes—as when,
Through shivering pines asleep in some dim glen,
Fierce Auster whispers. Yes, even here they chase
Their haunted victim—even this sacred place
Stays not their fatal footsteps. As they come,
Behold him with that stricken face of doom
Fly to the altar, and there falling prone,
Strike with his brow Apollo's feet of stone.
“Save me!” he cries; “Apollo! hear and save;
Not even the dead will sleep in their dark grave.
They come—the Furies! To this tortured breast
Not even night, the calm, the peaceful, can give rest.
Stretch forth thy hand, great God! and bid them cease.
Peace, O Apollo! give the victim peace!”
See! the white arm above him seems to wave,
And all at once is silent as the grave,
And Sleep stoops down with noiseless wings outspread,
And brooding hovers o'er Orestes' head;
And like a gust that roars along the plain
Seaward, and dies far off, so dies the pain,
The deep remorse, that long his life hath stung,
And he again is guiltless, joyous, young.
Again he plays, as in the olden time,
Through the cool marble halls, unstained by crime.
Hope holds his hands, Joy strikes the sounding strings,
Love o'er him fluttering shakes his purple wings,
And Sorrow hides her face, and dark Death creeps
Into the shade, and every Fury sleeps.
And all at once is silent as the grave,
And Sleep stoops down with noiseless wings outspread,
And brooding hovers o'er Orestes' head;
And like a gust that roars along the plain
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The deep remorse, that long his life hath stung,
And he again is guiltless, joyous, young.
Again he plays, as in the olden time,
Through the cool marble halls, unstained by crime.
Hope holds his hands, Joy strikes the sounding strings,
Love o'er him fluttering shakes his purple wings,
And Sorrow hides her face, and dark Death creeps
Into the shade, and every Fury sleeps.
Sleep! sleep, Orestes! let thy torments cease!
Sleep! great Apollo grants thy prayer for peace.
Sleep! while the dreams of youth around thee play,
And the fierce Furies rest.—Let us away.
Sleep! great Apollo grants thy prayer for peace.
Sleep! while the dreams of youth around thee play,
And the fierce Furies rest.—Let us away.
146
PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE.
DEDICATED TO R. B.
A thousand silent years ago,
The twilight faint and pale
Was drawing o'er the sunset glow
Its soft and shadowy veil;
The twilight faint and pale
Was drawing o'er the sunset glow
Its soft and shadowy veil;
When from his work the Sculptor stayed
His hand, and turned to one
Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, “'T is done.
His hand, and turned to one
Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, “'T is done.
“Thus much is saved from chance and change,
That waits for me and thee;
Thus much—how little!—from the range
Of Death and Destiny.
That waits for me and thee;
Thus much—how little!—from the range
Of Death and Destiny.
“Phryne, thy human lips shall pale,
Thy rounded limbs decay,—
Nor love nor prayers can aught avail
To bid thy beauty stay;
Thy rounded limbs decay,—
Nor love nor prayers can aught avail
To bid thy beauty stay;
“But there thy smile for centuries
On marble lips shall live,—
For Art can grant what Love denies,
And fix the fugitive.
On marble lips shall live,—
For Art can grant what Love denies,
And fix the fugitive.
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“Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade
The youth of this cold bust;
When this quick brain and hand that made,
And thou and I art dust!
The youth of this cold bust;
When this quick brain and hand that made,
And thou and I art dust!
“When all our hopes and fears are dead,
And both our hearts are cold,
And love is like a tune that 's played,
And life a tale that 's told,
And both our hearts are cold,
And love is like a tune that 's played,
And life a tale that 's told,
“This senseless stone, so coldly fair,
That love nor life can warm,
The same enchanting look shall wear,
The same enchanting form.
That love nor life can warm,
The same enchanting look shall wear,
The same enchanting form.
“Its peace no sorrow shall destroy;
Its beauty age shall spare
The bitterness of vanished joy,
The wearing waste of care.
Its beauty age shall spare
The bitterness of vanished joy,
The wearing waste of care.
“And there upon that silent face
Shall unborn ages see
Perennial youth, perennial grace,
And sealed serenity.
Shall unborn ages see
Perennial youth, perennial grace,
And sealed serenity.
“And strangers, when we sleep in peace,
Shall say, not quite unmoved,
‘So smiled upon Praxiteles
The Phryne whom he loved!’”
Shall say, not quite unmoved,
‘So smiled upon Praxiteles
The Phryne whom he loved!’”
148
CHERSIPHRON.
When to their utmost we have tasked our powers,
And Nemesis still frowns and shakes her head;
When, wearied out and baffled, we confess
Our utter weakness, and the tired hand drops,
And Hope flees from us, and in blank despair
We sink to earth, the face so stern before
August will smile—the hand before withdrawn
Reach out the help we vainly plead for,
Take up our task, and in a moment do
What all our strength was powerless to achieve.
And Nemesis still frowns and shakes her head;
When, wearied out and baffled, we confess
Our utter weakness, and the tired hand drops,
And Hope flees from us, and in blank despair
We sink to earth, the face so stern before
August will smile—the hand before withdrawn
Reach out the help we vainly plead for,
Take up our task, and in a moment do
What all our strength was powerless to achieve.
Unless the Gods smile, human toil is vain.
The crowning blessing of all work is drawn
Not from ourselves, but from the powers above.
The crowning blessing of all work is drawn
Not from ourselves, but from the powers above.
And this none better knew then Chersiphron,
When on the plains of Ephesus he reared
The splendid temple built to Artemis.
When on the plains of Ephesus he reared
The splendid temple built to Artemis.
With patient labour he had placed at last
The solid jambs on either side the door,—
And now for many a weary day he strove
With many a plan and many a fresh device,
Still seeking and still failing, on these jambs
Level to lay the lintel's massive weight.
Still it defied him,—and worn out at last,
Along the steps he laid him down at night.
Sleep would not come. With dull distracting pain
The problem hunted through his feverish thoughts,
Till in his dark despair he longed for Death,
And threatened his own life with his own hand.
The solid jambs on either side the door,—
And now for many a weary day he strove
With many a plan and many a fresh device,
Still seeking and still failing, on these jambs
149
Still it defied him,—and worn out at last,
Along the steps he laid him down at night.
Sleep would not come. With dull distracting pain
The problem hunted through his feverish thoughts,
Till in his dark despair he longed for Death,
And threatened his own life with his own hand.
Peace came at last upon him—and he slept;
And in his sleep before his dreaming eyes
He saw the form divine of Artemis:
O'er him she bent, and smiled, and softly said,
“Live, Chersiphron! Who labour for the Gods,
The Gods reward. Behold, your work is done!”
And in his sleep before his dreaming eyes
He saw the form divine of Artemis:
O'er him she bent, and smiled, and softly said,
“Live, Chersiphron! Who labour for the Gods,
The Gods reward. Behold, your work is done!”
Then, like a mist that melts into the sky,
She vanished—and awaking, he beheld,
Laid by her hand above the entrance-door,
The ponderous lintel level on the jambs.
She vanished—and awaking, he beheld,
Laid by her hand above the entrance-door,
The ponderous lintel level on the jambs.
150
TANTALUS.
I at the banquet of the Gods have sate
Above the clouds that shroud these earthly plains,
Their nectar quaffed, and their ambrosia ate,
And felt the Olympian ichor in my veins.
Above the clouds that shroud these earthly plains,
Their nectar quaffed, and their ambrosia ate,
And felt the Olympian ichor in my veins.
Apollo, like a glory in a gloom,
Jove's thund'rous brow, and Juno's face serene,
Chaste Dian's grace,—the auroral blush and bloom
That Venus owns,—these mortal eyes have seen.
Jove's thund'rous brow, and Juno's face serene,
Chaste Dian's grace,—the auroral blush and bloom
That Venus owns,—these mortal eyes have seen.
Mad with desire I strove the charm to seize
That should again renew to sense and soul
On earth below those heavenly ecstasies—
And I their nectar and ambrosia stole.
That should again renew to sense and soul
On earth below those heavenly ecstasies—
And I their nectar and ambrosia stole.
But who against the Gods shall e'er prevail?
The bliss of heaven on earth we may not own,
Stale tastes the nectar here, the ambrosia stale,
The ethereal flavor lost, the aroma flown.
The bliss of heaven on earth we may not own,
Stale tastes the nectar here, the ambrosia stale,
The ethereal flavor lost, the aroma flown.
And so the Gods condemn me here to stand
Thirsting within the stream that from me flees,—
Hungering 'mid fruits ambrosial that my hand
Forever vainly reaches out to seize.
Thirsting within the stream that from me flees,—
151
Forever vainly reaches out to seize.
My sense the music of Apollo haunts,
But dim and distant and beyond my reach;
I hear afar the Gods' grand utterance
But cannot shape it into mortal speech.
But dim and distant and beyond my reach;
I hear afar the Gods' grand utterance
But cannot shape it into mortal speech.
In silence still I feel as in a dream
Their dim mysterious whisperings everywhere,—
On the lone hills,—in forest, reed, and stream,—
In night's low breathings, in the sea's despair.
Their dim mysterious whisperings everywhere,—
On the lone hills,—in forest, reed, and stream,—
In night's low breathings, in the sea's despair.
So taunting ever with half-confidence
That wins the listening ear, but will not speak,
Pleasing and puzzling all the soul and sense,
The Gods forever mock us mortals weak.
That wins the listening ear, but will not speak,
Pleasing and puzzling all the soul and sense,
The Gods forever mock us mortals weak.
O Poets, in whatever realm or clime,
Pity me—Tantalus—for you must feel
How nature lures us on with dreams sublime,
And hints the secret she will ne'er reveal.
Pity me—Tantalus—for you must feel
How nature lures us on with dreams sublime,
And hints the secret she will ne'er reveal.
152
PADRE BANDELLI PROSES TO THE DUKE LUDOVICO SFORZA ABOUT LEONARDO DA VINCI.
Two steps, your Highness—let me go before,
And let some light down this dark corridor;
Ser Leonardo keeps the only key
To the main entrance here so jealously,
That we must creep in at this secret door
If we his great Cenacolo would see.
And let some light down this dark corridor;
Ser Leonardo keeps the only key
To the main entrance here so jealously,
That we must creep in at this secret door
If we his great Cenacolo would see.
The work shows talent—that I must confess;
The heads, too, are expressive, every one;
But, with his idling and fastidiousness,
I fear his picture never will be done.
I pray your Highness' pardon for my zeal—
Were it for sake of us poor Frati here,
Despite the inconvenience we must feel,
Kept out from our refectory now a year
And eight long months (though that, of course, for us
Whose lives to mortify the flesh are vowed,
Even to mention seems ridiculous)—
Were it for us alone, we all had bowed;
But when we see your Highness set at nought,
Who ordered this great picture to be wrought,
We cannot rest content, for well we know
What duty to our gracious prince we owe.
And I, the unworthy prior here—(God knows
How much I feel my own unworthiness,
But He hath power the meanest hand to bless;
And if our convent prospereth in aught,
Not mine, but His, the praise, who all bestows)—
But being the prior and the head, and so
Charged to your interests, and theirs, I thought
My duty—an unpleasant one, in sooth—
Was simply to acquaint you with the truth,
And pray your Highness with your eyes to see
How things go on in our refectory;
And then your Highness only has to say
Unto this painter—“Sir, no more delay!”
And all is done, for you he must obey.
The heads, too, are expressive, every one;
But, with his idling and fastidiousness,
I fear his picture never will be done.
I pray your Highness' pardon for my zeal—
Were it for sake of us poor Frati here,
Despite the inconvenience we must feel,
Kept out from our refectory now a year
And eight long months (though that, of course, for us
Whose lives to mortify the flesh are vowed,
Even to mention seems ridiculous)—
Were it for us alone, we all had bowed;
But when we see your Highness set at nought,
Who ordered this great picture to be wrought,
We cannot rest content, for well we know
153
And I, the unworthy prior here—(God knows
How much I feel my own unworthiness,
But He hath power the meanest hand to bless;
And if our convent prospereth in aught,
Not mine, but His, the praise, who all bestows)—
But being the prior and the head, and so
Charged to your interests, and theirs, I thought
My duty—an unpleasant one, in sooth—
Was simply to acquaint you with the truth,
And pray your Highness with your eyes to see
How things go on in our refectory;
And then your Highness only has to say
Unto this painter—“Sir, no more delay!”
And all is done, for you he must obey.
'T is twenty months since first upon the wall
This Leonardo smoothed his plaster; then
He spent two months ere he began to scrawl
His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when,
Seized by some mad whim, he erased them all.
As he began the first month that he came,
So he went on, month after month the same.
At times, when he had worked from morn to night
For weeks and weeks on some apostle's head,
In one hour, as it were from sudden spite,
He 'd wipe it out. When I remonstrated,
Saying, “Ser Leonardo, you erase
More than you leave—that 's not the way to paint;
Before you finish we shall all be dead;”
Smiling, he turns (he has a pleasant face,
Though he would try the patience of a saint
With all his wilful ways), and calmly said,
“I wiped it out because it was not right;
I wish it had been, for your sake, no less
Than for this pious convent's; and indeed,
The simple truth, good Padre, to confess,
I 've not the least objection to succeed:
But I must please myself as well as you,
Since I must answer for the work I do.”
This Leonardo smoothed his plaster; then
He spent two months ere he began to scrawl
His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when,
Seized by some mad whim, he erased them all.
As he began the first month that he came,
So he went on, month after month the same.
At times, when he had worked from morn to night
For weeks and weeks on some apostle's head,
In one hour, as it were from sudden spite,
He 'd wipe it out. When I remonstrated,
Saying, “Ser Leonardo, you erase
More than you leave—that 's not the way to paint;
154
Smiling, he turns (he has a pleasant face,
Though he would try the patience of a saint
With all his wilful ways), and calmly said,
“I wiped it out because it was not right;
I wish it had been, for your sake, no less
Than for this pious convent's; and indeed,
The simple truth, good Padre, to confess,
I 've not the least objection to succeed:
But I must please myself as well as you,
Since I must answer for the work I do.”
There was St. John's head: that I verily thought
He 'd never finish. Twenty times at least
I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought,
Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased
To work at all—went off and locked the door—
Was gone three days—then came and sat before
The picture full an hour—then calmly rose
And scratched out in a trice mouth, eyes, and nose.
This is sheer folly, as it seems to me,
Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay
A fixed sum to him—so much every day?
If so, the reason 's very clear to see.
No? Then his brain is touched assuredly.
He 'd never finish. Twenty times at least
I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought,
Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased
To work at all—went off and locked the door—
Was gone three days—then came and sat before
The picture full an hour—then calmly rose
And scratched out in a trice mouth, eyes, and nose.
This is sheer folly, as it seems to me,
Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay
A fixed sum to him—so much every day?
If so, the reason 's very clear to see.
No? Then his brain is touched assuredly.
At last, however, as you see, 't is done—
All but our Lord's head, and the Judas there.
A month ago he finished the St. John,
And has not touched it since, that I'm aware;
And now, he neither seems to think or care
About the rest, but wanders up and down
The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown,
Picking the black stones out to step upon;
Or through the garden paces listlessly
With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour,
While now and then he stoops and picks a flower,
And smells it, as it were, abstractedly.
What he is doing is a plague to me!
Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot,
His hands behind him, just as if he saw
Some curious thing upon its leaves; and then,
With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought
Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot,
He takes a little tablet out to draw,
Then, muttering to himself, walks on again.
He is the very oddest man of men!
Brother Anselmo tells me that the book
('T was left by chance upon the bench one day,
And in its leaves our brother got a look)
Is scribbled over with all sorts of things,—
Notes about colours, how to mix and lay,
With plans of flying figures, frames for wings,
Caricatures and forts and scaffoldings.
The skeletons of men and beasts and birds,
Engines, and cabalistic signs and words,
Some written backwards, notes of music, lyres,
And wheels with boilers under them and fires,
A sort of lute made of a horse's skull,
Sonnets, and other idle scraps of rhyme,—
Of things like this the book was scribbled full.
I pray your Highness, now, is this the way,
Instead of painting every day all day,
For him to trifle with our precious time?
All but our Lord's head, and the Judas there.
155
And has not touched it since, that I'm aware;
And now, he neither seems to think or care
About the rest, but wanders up and down
The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown,
Picking the black stones out to step upon;
Or through the garden paces listlessly
With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour,
While now and then he stoops and picks a flower,
And smells it, as it were, abstractedly.
What he is doing is a plague to me!
Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot,
His hands behind him, just as if he saw
Some curious thing upon its leaves; and then,
With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought
Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot,
He takes a little tablet out to draw,
Then, muttering to himself, walks on again.
He is the very oddest man of men!
Brother Anselmo tells me that the book
('T was left by chance upon the bench one day,
And in its leaves our brother got a look)
Is scribbled over with all sorts of things,—
Notes about colours, how to mix and lay,
With plans of flying figures, frames for wings,
Caricatures and forts and scaffoldings.
The skeletons of men and beasts and birds,
Engines, and cabalistic signs and words,
Some written backwards, notes of music, lyres,
And wheels with boilers under them and fires,
156
Sonnets, and other idle scraps of rhyme,—
Of things like this the book was scribbled full.
I pray your Highness, now, is this the way,
Instead of painting every day all day,
For him to trifle with our precious time?
Ah! there he is now—Would your Highness look
Behind that pillar in the furthest nook,
That is his velvet cap and flowing robe.
See how he pulls his beard, as up and down
He seems to count the stones he treads upon!
'T would irk the patience of the good man Job
To see him idling thus his time away,
As if our Lord and Judas both were done,
And there was nought to do but muse and stray
Along the cloisters. May I dare to pray
Your Highness would vouchsafe one word to say;
For when I speak he only answers me,
“Padre Bandelli, go and say your mass—
That 's what you understand—and let me pass;
I am not idle, though I seem to be.”
“Not idle! then I'm nothing but an ass.”
Thus once I spoke, for he annoyed me so;
At which he answered, smiling, “Oh no, no:
Padre, you 're very wise, as all men know.”
I mention this to show what pleasant ways
This painter has, and not that I the praise
Accepted as at all deserved by me.
God save us from vain pride, and help us through
Our daily work in due humility!
Not mine the praise for what I have, for He
Hath given all! So I began anew:
“Not idle! Well, I know not what you do!
You do not paint our picture, that I see.”
To which he said, “A picture is not wrought
By hands alone, good Padre, but by thought.
In the interior life it first must start,
And grow to form and colour in the soul;
There once conceived and rounded to a whole,
The rest is but the handicraft of art.
While I seem idle, then my soul creates;
While I am painting, then my hand translates.”
Now this, I say, is nonsense, sheer enough,
Or else a metaphysical excuse
For idleness, and he should not abuse
Your Highness by this sort of canting stuff.
Look at him, sauntering there in his long dress—
If he is working, what is idleness?
Behind that pillar in the furthest nook,
That is his velvet cap and flowing robe.
See how he pulls his beard, as up and down
He seems to count the stones he treads upon!
'T would irk the patience of the good man Job
To see him idling thus his time away,
As if our Lord and Judas both were done,
And there was nought to do but muse and stray
Along the cloisters. May I dare to pray
Your Highness would vouchsafe one word to say;
For when I speak he only answers me,
“Padre Bandelli, go and say your mass—
That 's what you understand—and let me pass;
I am not idle, though I seem to be.”
“Not idle! then I'm nothing but an ass.”
Thus once I spoke, for he annoyed me so;
At which he answered, smiling, “Oh no, no:
Padre, you 're very wise, as all men know.”
I mention this to show what pleasant ways
This painter has, and not that I the praise
Accepted as at all deserved by me.
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Our daily work in due humility!
Not mine the praise for what I have, for He
Hath given all! So I began anew:
“Not idle! Well, I know not what you do!
You do not paint our picture, that I see.”
To which he said, “A picture is not wrought
By hands alone, good Padre, but by thought.
In the interior life it first must start,
And grow to form and colour in the soul;
There once conceived and rounded to a whole,
The rest is but the handicraft of art.
While I seem idle, then my soul creates;
While I am painting, then my hand translates.”
Now this, I say, is nonsense, sheer enough,
Or else a metaphysical excuse
For idleness, and he should not abuse
Your Highness by this sort of canting stuff.
Look at him, sauntering there in his long dress—
If he is working, what is idleness?
Not there, your Highness,—on the other side
Our painter 's walking; he you look at now
Is a poor brother, pious, void of pride,
Who there performs a penitential vow.
He, like Ser Leonardo, does not stroll
Idly, but as he walks recites his prayers,
And reads his breviary; and he wears
A haircloth 'neath his serge to save his soul.
Ah! weak is man, he falls in many snares;
And we with prayer must work, would we control
Those idle thoughts were Satan sows his tares.
Our painter 's walking; he you look at now
Is a poor brother, pious, void of pride,
Who there performs a penitential vow.
He, like Ser Leonardo, does not stroll
Idly, but as he walks recites his prayers,
And reads his breviary; and he wears
A haircloth 'neath his serge to save his soul.
Ah! weak is man, he falls in many snares;
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Those idle thoughts were Satan sows his tares.
But, as I was observing, there have passed
Some twenty long and weary months since he
First turned us out of our refectory,
And who knows how much longer this may last?
Yet if our painter worked there steadily,
I would say nothing; but the work stands still,
While he goes idling round the cloisters' shade.
Pleasant enough for him—but is he paid
For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill?
Some twenty long and weary months since he
First turned us out of our refectory,
And who knows how much longer this may last?
Yet if our painter worked there steadily,
I would say nothing; but the work stands still,
While he goes idling round the cloisters' shade.
Pleasant enough for him—but is he paid
For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill?
I crave your pardon; if I speak amiss,
Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make
That I have spoken for your Highness' sake,
And not that us it inconveniences,
Although it is a scandal to us all
To see this picture half-done on the wall.
A word from your most gracious lips, I feel,
Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo's zeal,
And we should soon see o'er our daily board,
The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord.
Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make
That I have spoken for your Highness' sake,
And not that us it inconveniences,
Although it is a scandal to us all
To see this picture half-done on the wall.
A word from your most gracious lips, I feel,
Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo's zeal,
And we should soon see o'er our daily board,
The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord.
But he approaches, in his hand the book;
Into its pages should your Highness look,
They would amuse you by their strange devices.
Your gracious presence now he recognizes;
That smile and bow and lifted cap I see
Are for his Prince and Patron, not for me.
Into its pages should your Highness look,
They would amuse you by their strange devices.
Your gracious presence now he recognizes;
That smile and bow and lifted cap I see
Are for his Prince and Patron, not for me.
159
LEONARDO DA VINCI POETIZES TO THE DUKE IN HIS OWN DEFENCE.
Padre Bandelli, then, complains of me
Because, forsooth, I have not drawn a line
Upon the Saviour's head; perhaps, then, he
Could without trouble paint that head divine.
But think, O Signor Duca, what should be
The pure perfection of our Saviour's face—
What sorrowing majesty, what noble grace,
At that dread moment when He brake the bread,
And those submissive words of pathos said,
“By one among you I shall be betrayed,”—
And say if 't is an easy task to find,
Even among the best that walk this earth,
The fitting type of that divinest worth,
That has its image solely in the mind.
Vainly my pencil struggles to express
The sorrowing grandeur of such holiness.
In patient thought, in ever-seeking prayer,
I strive to shape that glorious face within,
But the soul's mirror, dulled and dimmed by sin,
Reflects not yet the perfect image there.
Can the hand do before the soul has wrought?
Is not our art the servant of our thought?
And Judas, too,—the basest face I see
Will not contain his utter infamy;
Among the dregs and offal of mankind,
Vainly I seek an utter wretch to find.
He who for thirty silver coins would sell
His Lord must be the Devil's miracle.
Padre Bandelli thinks it easy is
To find the type of him who with a kiss
Betrayed his Lord. Well, what I can I'll do;
And if it please his reverence and you,
For Judas' face I'm willing to paint his.
Because, forsooth, I have not drawn a line
Upon the Saviour's head; perhaps, then, he
Could without trouble paint that head divine.
But think, O Signor Duca, what should be
The pure perfection of our Saviour's face—
What sorrowing majesty, what noble grace,
At that dread moment when He brake the bread,
And those submissive words of pathos said,
“By one among you I shall be betrayed,”—
And say if 't is an easy task to find,
Even among the best that walk this earth,
The fitting type of that divinest worth,
That has its image solely in the mind.
Vainly my pencil struggles to express
The sorrowing grandeur of such holiness.
In patient thought, in ever-seeking prayer,
I strive to shape that glorious face within,
But the soul's mirror, dulled and dimmed by sin,
Reflects not yet the perfect image there.
Can the hand do before the soul has wrought?
Is not our art the servant of our thought?
160
Will not contain his utter infamy;
Among the dregs and offal of mankind,
Vainly I seek an utter wretch to find.
He who for thirty silver coins would sell
His Lord must be the Devil's miracle.
Padre Bandelli thinks it easy is
To find the type of him who with a kiss
Betrayed his Lord. Well, what I can I'll do;
And if it please his reverence and you,
For Judas' face I'm willing to paint his.
Padre Bandelli is a sort of man,
Joking apart, whose little round of thought
Is like his life, the measure of a span.
He knows and does the duties he is taught,—
Prays, preaches, eats, and sleeps in dull content;
Does the day's work, and deems it excellent;
Says he 's a sinner, but we 're sinners all,
And puts his own sin down to Adam's fall.
Christ, at the last day, others may reject,—
Poor painters, or great dukes with their state cares;
But that, with all his masses, fasts, and prayers,
A convent's prior should not be elect,
Padre Bandelli has not half a doubt—
'T were a strange heaven, indeed, with him left out.
Him the imagination does not tease
With hungry cravings, restless impulses;
Him no despairing days the Furies bring,
No torturing doubts, no anxious questioning;
But day by day his ordered time is spent,
Pacing his petty round of fixed routine.
How should he know the artist's strain within,
His vexing and fastidious discontent?
Art he considers as a sort of trade,
Like laying bricks: If one can lay a yard
In one good hour, how can it be so hard
In two good hours, that two yards should be laid?
Joking apart, whose little round of thought
Is like his life, the measure of a span.
He knows and does the duties he is taught,—
Prays, preaches, eats, and sleeps in dull content;
Does the day's work, and deems it excellent;
Says he 's a sinner, but we 're sinners all,
And puts his own sin down to Adam's fall.
Christ, at the last day, others may reject,—
Poor painters, or great dukes with their state cares;
But that, with all his masses, fasts, and prayers,
A convent's prior should not be elect,
Padre Bandelli has not half a doubt—
'T were a strange heaven, indeed, with him left out.
Him the imagination does not tease
With hungry cravings, restless impulses;
161
No torturing doubts, no anxious questioning;
But day by day his ordered time is spent,
Pacing his petty round of fixed routine.
How should he know the artist's strain within,
His vexing and fastidious discontent?
Art he considers as a sort of trade,
Like laying bricks: If one can lay a yard
In one good hour, how can it be so hard
In two good hours, that two yards should be laid?
But, Signor Duca, you can apprehend
The artist's soul—how there is ne'er an end
Of climbing fancies, longings, and desires,
That burn within him like consuming fires;
How Beauty beckons, and tormenting flees
Just as his hand her shadowy shape would seize.
How sweet and fair the inward vision gleams!
How dull and base the painted copy seems!
We are like Danaus' daughters—all in vain
We strive to fill our vases. Human art
Through myriad leaks lets out the spirit's part,
And nothing but the earthly dregs remain.
The artist's soul—how there is ne'er an end
Of climbing fancies, longings, and desires,
That burn within him like consuming fires;
How Beauty beckons, and tormenting flees
Just as his hand her shadowy shape would seize.
How sweet and fair the inward vision gleams!
How dull and base the painted copy seems!
We are like Danaus' daughters—all in vain
We strive to fill our vases. Human art
Through myriad leaks lets out the spirit's part,
And nothing but the earthly dregs remain.
But who can force the spirit to conceive?
Its lofty empire is above our will:
Trained though we be, we only can fulfil
Its orders, and a joyous welcome give.
Oft when the music waits, the room is decked,
And hope looks out from the expectant breast,
Vainly we wait to greet the invited guest.
Oft when its presence least our souls expect,
Sudden, unsummoned, there it stands, as Eve
Stood before Adam,—as in twilight sky
The first young star,—half joy, half mystery.
Its lofty empire is above our will:
Trained though we be, we only can fulfil
Its orders, and a joyous welcome give.
Oft when the music waits, the room is decked,
And hope looks out from the expectant breast,
162
Oft when its presence least our souls expect,
Sudden, unsummoned, there it stands, as Eve
Stood before Adam,—as in twilight sky
The first young star,—half joy, half mystery.
The wilful work built by the conscious brain
Is but the humble handicraft of art;
It has its growth in toil, its birth in pain.
The Imagination, silent and apart
Above the Will, beyond the conscious eye,
Fashions in joyous ease and as in play
Its fine creations,—mixing up alway
The real and the ideal, heaven and earth,
Darkness and sunshine; and then, pushing forth
Sudden upon the field of consciousness
Its world of wonder, leaves to us the stress,
By patient art, to copy its pure grace,
And catch the perfect features of its face.
From hand to spirit must the human chain
Be closely linked, and thence to the divine
Stretch up, through feeling, its electric line,
To draw heaven down, or all our art is vain.
For in its loftiest mood the soul obeys
A higher power that shapes our thoughts, and sways
Their motions, when by love and strong desire
We are uplifted. From a source unknown
The power descends—with its ethereal fire
Inflames us—not possessing but possessed
We do its bidding; but we do not own
The grace that in those happy hours is given,
More than its strings the music of the lyre—
More than the shower the rainbow lent by heaven.
Nature and man are only organ-keys—
Mere soundless pipes—despite our vaunted skill—
Till, with its breath, the power above us fill
The stops, and touch us to its harmonies.
Is but the humble handicraft of art;
It has its growth in toil, its birth in pain.
The Imagination, silent and apart
Above the Will, beyond the conscious eye,
Fashions in joyous ease and as in play
Its fine creations,—mixing up alway
The real and the ideal, heaven and earth,
Darkness and sunshine; and then, pushing forth
Sudden upon the field of consciousness
Its world of wonder, leaves to us the stress,
By patient art, to copy its pure grace,
And catch the perfect features of its face.
From hand to spirit must the human chain
Be closely linked, and thence to the divine
Stretch up, through feeling, its electric line,
To draw heaven down, or all our art is vain.
For in its loftiest mood the soul obeys
A higher power that shapes our thoughts, and sways
Their motions, when by love and strong desire
We are uplifted. From a source unknown
The power descends—with its ethereal fire
Inflames us—not possessing but possessed
163
The grace that in those happy hours is given,
More than its strings the music of the lyre—
More than the shower the rainbow lent by heaven.
Nature and man are only organ-keys—
Mere soundless pipes—despite our vaunted skill—
Till, with its breath, the power above us fill
The stops, and touch us to its harmonies.
O Signor Duca, as the woman bears
Her child, not in a moment nor a day,
So doth the soul the germ that God doth lay
Within it, with as many pains and cares.
From the whole being it absorbs and draws
Its form and life—on all we are and see
It feeds by subtle sympathetic laws;
Each sense it stirs, it fires each faculty
To hunt the outer world, and thence to seize
Food for assimilation. By degrees
Perfect grows at last in every part,
And then is born into the world of art.
Her child, not in a moment nor a day,
So doth the soul the germ that God doth lay
Within it, with as many pains and cares.
From the whole being it absorbs and draws
Its form and life—on all we are and see
It feeds by subtle sympathetic laws;
Each sense it stirs, it fires each faculty
To hunt the outer world, and thence to seize
Food for assimilation. By degrees
Perfect grows at last in every part,
And then is born into the world of art.
In facile natures fancies quickly grow,
But such quick fancies have but little root.
Soon the narcissus flowers and dies, but slow
The tree whose blossoms shall mature to fruit.
Grace is a moment's happy fortune, Power
A life's slow growth; and we for many an hour
Must strain and toil, and wait and weep, if we
The perfect fruit of all we are would see.
Therefore I wait. Within my earnest thought
For years upon this picture I have wrought,
Yet still it is not ripe; I dare not paint
Till all is ordered and matured within.
Hand-work and head-work have an earthly taint,
But when the soul commands I shall begin.
But such quick fancies have but little root.
Soon the narcissus flowers and dies, but slow
The tree whose blossoms shall mature to fruit.
Grace is a moment's happy fortune, Power
A life's slow growth; and we for many an hour
Must strain and toil, and wait and weep, if we
The perfect fruit of all we are would see.
164
For years upon this picture I have wrought,
Yet still it is not ripe; I dare not paint
Till all is ordered and matured within.
Hand-work and head-work have an earthly taint,
But when the soul commands I shall begin.
On themes like these I should not dare to dwell
With our good Prior—they to him would be
Mere nonsense; he must touch and taste and see;
And facts, he says, are never mystical.
Now, the fact is, our worthy Prior says,
The convent is annoyed by my delays;
Nor can he see why I for hours and days
Should muse and dream and idle here around.
I have not made a face he has not found
Quite good enough before it was half-done.
“Don't bother more,” he says, “let it alone.”
What can one say to such a connoisseur?
How could a Prior and a critic err?
With our good Prior—they to him would be
Mere nonsense; he must touch and taste and see;
And facts, he says, are never mystical.
Now, the fact is, our worthy Prior says,
The convent is annoyed by my delays;
Nor can he see why I for hours and days
Should muse and dream and idle here around.
I have not made a face he has not found
Quite good enough before it was half-done.
“Don't bother more,” he says, “let it alone.”
What can one say to such a connoisseur?
How could a Prior and a critic err?
But, not to be more tedious, I confess
I am disturbed to think I so distress
The worthy Prior. Yet 't were wholly vain
To him an artist's feelings to explain;
But, Signor Duca, you will understand,
And so I treat on higher themes with you.
The work you order I shall strive to do
With all my soul, not merely with my hand.
I am disturbed to think I so distress
The worthy Prior. Yet 't were wholly vain
To him an artist's feelings to explain;
But, Signor Duca, you will understand,
And so I treat on higher themes with you.
The work you order I shall strive to do
With all my soul, not merely with my hand.
165
A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM:
IN WHICH FEDERIGO DI MONTAFELTRO, DUKE OF URBINO, GIVES HIS VIEWS OF RAFFAELLE.
DEDICATED TO H. G. W.
Oh! I admit his talent,—there's no lack
Of facile talent; what in him I blame
Is that he travels in his master's track
With such a slavish, imitative aim.
'T is Perugino all, from head to foot:
Angels the same, with their affected grace,
Playing the lyre with sideway upturned face;
Round-faced, small-eyed Madonnas,—all the same.
Landscapes mere copies; subjects, branch and root,
His master's subjects,—not an arch or shaft
Of all his architecture, but you see
That too is copied. Every little shoot
Upon his genius is his master's graft.
And yet, through all, there 's clear ability.
Why will he never grow his special fruit?
Of facile talent; what in him I blame
Is that he travels in his master's track
With such a slavish, imitative aim.
'T is Perugino all, from head to foot:
Angels the same, with their affected grace,
Playing the lyre with sideway upturned face;
Round-faced, small-eyed Madonnas,—all the same.
Landscapes mere copies; subjects, branch and root,
His master's subjects,—not an arch or shaft
Of all his architecture, but you see
That too is copied. Every little shoot
Upon his genius is his master's graft.
And yet, through all, there 's clear ability.
Why will he never grow his special fruit?
Lately he 's striven to effect a change,
But still an imitator he must go,
From peaceful Perugino's timid range
To the extravagance of Angelo,
Behind them both, of course, in both their ways;
For, as uncompromising Michael says,
“Who follows after, cannot go before.”
But still an imitator he must go,
166
To the extravagance of Angelo,
Behind them both, of course, in both their ways;
For, as uncompromising Michael says,
“Who follows after, cannot go before.”
Then why, too, will he try so many things?
Instead of sticking to one single art,
He must be studying music, twanging strings,
And writing sonnets, with their “heart and dart.”
Lately, he 's setting up for architect,
And planning palaces; and, as I learn,
Has made a statue,—every art in turn,—
Like Leonardo (and you recollect,
How with his many arts even he was wrecked);
But if he failed, what can this youth expect?
Instead of sticking to one single art,
He must be studying music, twanging strings,
And writing sonnets, with their “heart and dart.”
Lately, he 's setting up for architect,
And planning palaces; and, as I learn,
Has made a statue,—every art in turn,—
Like Leonardo (and you recollect,
How with his many arts even he was wrecked);
But if he failed, what can this youth expect?
A touch of this same vice his father had:
He laid aside the brush to use the pen;
And though he praised my deeds,—and I, of men,
Should be the last to call the praising bad,
Though overpraised,—yet, be the truth confest,
No man in more than one art can be best.
He laid aside the brush to use the pen;
And though he praised my deeds,—and I, of men,
Should be the last to call the praising bad,
Though overpraised,—yet, be the truth confest,
No man in more than one art can be best.
'T was but the other day I spoke to him,
With earnest hope to make him change his course;
I told him he would dissipate his force
By following the lead of every whim,
And (for I like the youth, and recognize
In all his efforts good abilities)
I urged upon him not to skip and skim
In many arts, but give himself to one,
For life was quite too short for everything,
And doing all things, nothing gets well done.
With earnest hope to make him change his course;
I told him he would dissipate his force
By following the lead of every whim,
167
In all his efforts good abilities)
I urged upon him not to skip and skim
In many arts, but give himself to one,
For life was quite too short for everything,
And doing all things, nothing gets well done.
He thanked me for my kindness, disagreed
With my conclusions in a modest way
(He 's modest, that 't is only just to say);
But in a letter that he sends to-day
Here is his answer. Listen, while I read.
With my conclusions in a modest way
(He 's modest, that 't is only just to say);
But in a letter that he sends to-day
Here is his answer. Listen, while I read.
“Most noble sir,”—and so on, and so on,—
“A thousand thanks,”—hem—hem,—“in one so high,”
“Learned in art,”—et cetera,—“I shall try”—
Oh! that 's about his picture,—“critic's eye;”
“Patron,”—pho, pho—where has the passage gone?
Ah! here we come to it at last: “You thought,”
He says, “that in too many arts I wrought;
And you advised me to stick close to one.
Thanks for your gracious counsel, all too kind;
And answering, if I chance to speak my mind
Too boldly, pardon. Yet it seems to me
All arts are one,—all branches on one tree;
All fingers, as it were, upon one hand.
You ask me to be thumb alone; but pray,
Reft of the answering fingers Nature planned,
Is not the hand deformed for work or play?
Or rather take, to illustrate my thought,
Music, the only art to science wrought,
The ideal art, that underlies the whole,
Interprets all, and is of all the soul.
Each art is, so to speak, a separate tone;
The perfect chord results from all in one.
Strike one, and as its last vibrations die,
Listen,—from all the other tones a cry
Wails forth, half-longing and half-prophecy.
So does the complement, the hint, the germ
Of every art within the others lie,
And in their inner essence all unite;
For what is melody but fluid form,
Or form, but fixed and stationed melody?
Colours are but the silent chords of light,
Touched by the painter into tone and key,
And harmonized in every changeful hue.
So colours live in sound,—the trumpet blows
Its scarlet, and the flute its tender blue;
The perfect statue, in its pale repose,
Has for the soul a melody divine,
That lingers dreaming round each subtle line,
And stills the gazer lest its charm he lose.
So rhythmic words, strung by the poet, own
Music and form and colour—every sense
Rhymes with the rest;—'t is in the means alone
The various arts receive their difference.”
“A thousand thanks,”—hem—hem,—“in one so high,”
“Learned in art,”—et cetera,—“I shall try”—
Oh! that 's about his picture,—“critic's eye;”
“Patron,”—pho, pho—where has the passage gone?
Ah! here we come to it at last: “You thought,”
He says, “that in too many arts I wrought;
And you advised me to stick close to one.
Thanks for your gracious counsel, all too kind;
And answering, if I chance to speak my mind
Too boldly, pardon. Yet it seems to me
All arts are one,—all branches on one tree;
All fingers, as it were, upon one hand.
You ask me to be thumb alone; but pray,
Reft of the answering fingers Nature planned,
Is not the hand deformed for work or play?
168
Music, the only art to science wrought,
The ideal art, that underlies the whole,
Interprets all, and is of all the soul.
Each art is, so to speak, a separate tone;
The perfect chord results from all in one.
Strike one, and as its last vibrations die,
Listen,—from all the other tones a cry
Wails forth, half-longing and half-prophecy.
So does the complement, the hint, the germ
Of every art within the others lie,
And in their inner essence all unite;
For what is melody but fluid form,
Or form, but fixed and stationed melody?
Colours are but the silent chords of light,
Touched by the painter into tone and key,
And harmonized in every changeful hue.
So colours live in sound,—the trumpet blows
Its scarlet, and the flute its tender blue;
The perfect statue, in its pale repose,
Has for the soul a melody divine,
That lingers dreaming round each subtle line,
And stills the gazer lest its charm he lose.
So rhythmic words, strung by the poet, own
Music and form and colour—every sense
Rhymes with the rest;—'t is in the means alone
The various arts receive their difference.”
Vague, idle talk! such stuff as this I call;
Pretty for girls—quite metaphysical,
Almost poetic, if you will; but then,
For you and me, or any reasoning men,
All visionary, vague, impractical.
Such silly jargon lacks all common-sense;
How can he dream it helps him paint, to know
The way to tinkle on ten instruments?
Or does he fancy writing rhymes assists
In laying colours? Bah! he 's in the mists.
Pretty for girls—quite metaphysical,
169
For you and me, or any reasoning men,
All visionary, vague, impractical.
Such silly jargon lacks all common-sense;
How can he dream it helps him paint, to know
The way to tinkle on ten instruments?
Or does he fancy writing rhymes assists
In laying colours? Bah! he 's in the mists.
But let 's go on. Here 's something, I admit,
That shows a less deficiency of wit.
That shows a less deficiency of wit.
“Life is too short perfection to attain.
We all are maimed; and do the best we can,
Each trade deforms us with the overstrain
Of some too favoured faculty or sense,
O'er-fostered at the others' vast expense.
Yet why should one Art be the others' bane?
The perfect artist should be perfect man.
Oh! let at least our theory be grand,
To make a whole man, not to train a hand;
Rearing our temple, let it be our pride
Nought to neglect, but build with patient care
A perfect temple, finished everywhere,
And not a mere façade with one good side.”
We all are maimed; and do the best we can,
Each trade deforms us with the overstrain
Of some too favoured faculty or sense,
O'er-fostered at the others' vast expense.
Yet why should one Art be the others' bane?
The perfect artist should be perfect man.
Oh! let at least our theory be grand,
To make a whole man, not to train a hand;
Rearing our temple, let it be our pride
Nought to neglect, but build with patient care
A perfect temple, finished everywhere,
And not a mere façade with one good side.”
Of course, of course, if we were gods; but then,
Life is so short, and we are only men.
These youths, these youths—there 's really something great
In their ambitions. Let our friend but wait,
And Time will snuff his dreams out, one by one.
I had such dreams once. How they all have gone!
Life is so short, and we are only men.
These youths, these youths—there 's really something great
170
And Time will snuff his dreams out, one by one.
I had such dreams once. How they all have gone!
“If I the model of a man should seek,
Where should I find him? Though the black-smith's arm
Is muscled well, his lower limbs are weak,
His shoulders curved. The student shall I take?
His o'erworked brain has cost his body harm.
No; he alone will serve who equal strain
Has given each, the body and the brain;
One who, like you, most gracious Duke, has known
The whole man into consonance to train.
Grace from consent of every force is shown,
Not where one's loss has been another's gain.”
Where should I find him? Though the black-smith's arm
Is muscled well, his lower limbs are weak,
His shoulders curved. The student shall I take?
His o'erworked brain has cost his body harm.
No; he alone will serve who equal strain
Has given each, the body and the brain;
One who, like you, most gracious Duke, has known
The whole man into consonance to train.
Grace from consent of every force is shown,
Not where one's loss has been another's gain.”
Well put, my Raffaelle; it will never do
To such an argument to say, “Not true.”
To such an argument to say, “Not true.”
“Besides, the varied tasking of the mind
Not only makes us sane, but keeps us strong.
The noblest faculty when strained too long
Turns to convention,—wearied, seeks to find
In repetition solace and repose.
'T is only the fresh arm that strikes great blows.
Fallow and change we need, not constant toil,
Not always the same crop on the same soil.
To stretch our powers demands an earnest strain.
And rest, to strengthen what by work we gain.
Sleeping, the body grows in thews and brain.”
Not only makes us sane, but keeps us strong.
The noblest faculty when strained too long
Turns to convention,—wearied, seeks to find
In repetition solace and repose.
'T is only the fresh arm that strikes great blows.
Fallow and change we need, not constant toil,
Not always the same crop on the same soil.
171
And rest, to strengthen what by work we gain.
Sleeping, the body grows in thews and brain.”
That 's true, at least—the body must have sleep!
I'm glad to find one statement here at last
With which I can most cordially agree.
Shall I read more, or is your patience past?
Oh!—as to his originality,
Here are a few words taken from a heap.
One moment first,—here 's something not to skip.
I'm glad to find one statement here at last
With which I can most cordially agree.
Shall I read more, or is your patience past?
Oh!—as to his originality,
Here are a few words taken from a heap.
One moment first,—here 's something not to skip.
“But please remember, of the famous names,
Who is there hath confined him to one art,—
Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No,—
Or our great living master, Angelo,—
These are whole men, whose rounded knowledge shames
Our narrow study of a single part;
Not merely painters, dwarfed in all their aims,
But men who painted, builded, carved, and wrote:
Whole diapasons—not a separate note.”
Who is there hath confined him to one art,—
Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No,—
Or our great living master, Angelo,—
These are whole men, whose rounded knowledge shames
Our narrow study of a single part;
Not merely painters, dwarfed in all their aims,
But men who painted, builded, carved, and wrote:
Whole diapasons—not a separate note.”
Now for that other passage,—let us see
His thoughts about originality.
His thoughts about originality.
“In one sense no man is original,—
Borrowers and beggars are we, one and all.
Art, Science, Thought, grow up from age to age,
And all are palimpsests upon Time's page.
Our loftiest pedestals are tombs;—the seed
Sown by the dead and living in us grow;
And what we are is tinged by what we know.
As from the air our sustenance we draw,
So from all thought our private thought we feed,
Germs strewn from other minds within us breed,
And no one is his own unaided law.
Nor from the age alone we take our hue,
But by the narrower mould of accident
A form and colour to our life is lent;
As under blue sky grows the water blue,
Or clouds unto the mountain's shape are bent.
Borrowers and beggars are we, one and all.
Art, Science, Thought, grow up from age to age,
And all are palimpsests upon Time's page.
Our loftiest pedestals are tombs;—the seed
172
And what we are is tinged by what we know.
As from the air our sustenance we draw,
So from all thought our private thought we feed,
Germs strewn from other minds within us breed,
And no one is his own unaided law.
Nor from the age alone we take our hue,
But by the narrower mould of accident
A form and colour to our life is lent;
As under blue sky grows the water blue,
Or clouds unto the mountain's shape are bent.
“Yet each man, following his sympathies,
Unto himself assimilating all,
Using men's thoughts and forms as steps to rise,
Who speaks at last his individual word,
The free result of all things seen and heard,
Is in the noblest sense original.
Each to himself must be his final rule,
Supreme dictator, to reject or use,
Employing what he takes but as his tool.
But he who, self-sufficient, dares refuse
All aid of men, must be a god or fool.
Unto himself assimilating all,
Using men's thoughts and forms as steps to rise,
Who speaks at last his individual word,
The free result of all things seen and heard,
Is in the noblest sense original.
Each to himself must be his final rule,
Supreme dictator, to reject or use,
Employing what he takes but as his tool.
But he who, self-sufficient, dares refuse
All aid of men, must be a god or fool.
“I took Lippino's figure for St. Paul:
What then? I made it, in the taking, mine,
And gave it new life in a new design.
I worked in Perugino's style, but all
My own my pictures were in every line.
By sympathy of feeling and of thought,
Not coldly copying, in his forms I wrought.
The theme of the Entombment, I admit,
Was from an old sarcophagus of stone;
But to another purpose using it,
Its new expression made it all my own.
From all great men and minds I freely learn,
Orcagna, Giotto, Michael, each in turn,
Thank them for help, and taking what I find,
Stamp on their forms the pressure of my mind.
Well! who that ever lived did not the same?
Name me of all the great names but one name—
Old Homer? Phidias? Virgil?—and more low
In time, not power, Da Vinci? Angelo?
'T is the small nature dares not to receive,
Having no wealth within from which to give.
The greatest minds the greatest debts may owe,
And by their taking make a thing to live.
What then? I made it, in the taking, mine,
And gave it new life in a new design.
I worked in Perugino's style, but all
My own my pictures were in every line.
By sympathy of feeling and of thought,
173
The theme of the Entombment, I admit,
Was from an old sarcophagus of stone;
But to another purpose using it,
Its new expression made it all my own.
From all great men and minds I freely learn,
Orcagna, Giotto, Michael, each in turn,
Thank them for help, and taking what I find,
Stamp on their forms the pressure of my mind.
Well! who that ever lived did not the same?
Name me of all the great names but one name—
Old Homer? Phidias? Virgil?—and more low
In time, not power, Da Vinci? Angelo?
'T is the small nature dares not to receive,
Having no wealth within from which to give.
The greatest minds the greatest debts may owe,
And by their taking make a thing to live.
“Did our Da Vinci scorn, with studious zeal,
Masaccio's nature, Lippi's strength to steal?
Is Giotto's campanile, soaring there
Like music up into our Florence air,
Unfathered by an ancestry of towers?
Or is the round of great St. Peter's dome,
That Michael now is swinging over Rome,
Without a debt to this grand dome of ours?
And Brunelleschi, did he never see
The globed Pantheon's massive dignity?
These men are copyists, then! But, after all,
If these are not, who is original?
“Look round upon our Florence—each to each
See! how her earnest minds and hearts unite,
And buttressed thus in strength attain a height
Which none could ever hope alone to reach!
Or, like a serried phalanx all inspired
By one great hope, and moving to one end,
How strength and daring each to each they lend,
As on they press, undaunted and untired!
Each fighting for the truth, and one for all,
With no mean pride to be original.”
Masaccio's nature, Lippi's strength to steal?
Is Giotto's campanile, soaring there
Like music up into our Florence air,
Unfathered by an ancestry of towers?
Or is the round of great St. Peter's dome,
That Michael now is swinging over Rome,
Without a debt to this grand dome of ours?
And Brunelleschi, did he never see
The globed Pantheon's massive dignity?
These men are copyists, then! But, after all,
If these are not, who is original?
174
See! how her earnest minds and hearts unite,
And buttressed thus in strength attain a height
Which none could ever hope alone to reach!
Or, like a serried phalanx all inspired
By one great hope, and moving to one end,
How strength and daring each to each they lend,
As on they press, undaunted and untired!
Each fighting for the truth, and one for all,
With no mean pride to be original.”
Well! here the true and false are mixed with skill;
But let him talk and reason as he will,
I'm of the same opinion as before;—
A man must strive to be original,
And give himself to one art, not to all.
Besides, the names and facts he numbers o'er
Prove but the rule, being exceptions still.
But, after all, the subject is a bore;
And, Signor Sanzio, you and all your talk
(Which, I'll confess, is not entirely ill)
Have our permission to withdraw.
But let him talk and reason as he will,
I'm of the same opinion as before;—
A man must strive to be original,
And give himself to one art, not to all.
Besides, the names and facts he numbers o'er
Prove but the rule, being exceptions still.
But, after all, the subject is a bore;
And, Signor Sanzio, you and all your talk
(Which, I'll confess, is not entirely ill)
Have our permission to withdraw.
Pray walk
Upon the balcony. Is any sight
More fair than Florence in this hazy light,
Sleeping all silent in the afternoon,
Like the enchanted beauty, full of rest,
Her bride-like veil spread careless on her breast?
Our June this year has been a peerless June.
Upon the balcony. Is any sight
More fair than Florence in this hazy light,
Sleeping all silent in the afternoon,
Like the enchanted beauty, full of rest,
Her bride-like veil spread careless on her breast?
Our June this year has been a peerless June.
175
IN THE ANTECHAMBER OF MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO.
Our master will be Cardinal erelong—
Is he not made for one?—so smooth and plump,
With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes,
Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet,
Which only need red stockings. Even now
He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait
Upon his tender toes, while you behind
Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off,
The pious footsteps of the holy man.
How many years have you thus stalked along
Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasseled hat,
In your stiff lace and livery, trained to pause
Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix
His Fifthly on his fingers to some dull
Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side?
Then, when that point is drilled into his brain
(Proving the blessedness of poverty,
Or how the Devil has no cursed wiles
To lure the world to hell like liberty—
The only one great good being obedience),
Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk
That streams behind, and on you march again;
While the gilt carriage lumbers in the rear,
And the black stallions nod their tufted crests.
Is he not made for one?—so smooth and plump,
With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes,
Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet,
Which only need red stockings. Even now
He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait
Upon his tender toes, while you behind
Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off,
The pious footsteps of the holy man.
How many years have you thus stalked along
Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasseled hat,
In your stiff lace and livery, trained to pause
Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix
His Fifthly on his fingers to some dull
Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side?
Then, when that point is drilled into his brain
(Proving the blessedness of poverty,
Or how the Devil has no cursed wiles
To lure the world to hell like liberty—
The only one great good being obedience),
Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk
That streams behind, and on you march again;
176
And the black stallions nod their tufted crests.
Yours is a noble station, clinging there
Behind it as you clatter through the town,
Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar,
The mark and sneer of half the world you meet.
Ah, well! 't is wretched business yours and mine;
I know not which is worst—but then it pays;
The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt
To those who win? Though now the stakes are small,
We'll hold the court-cards when the suit is red;—
And so it will be soon; why, even now
I seem to see red stockings on his legs;—
And yesterday I said, “Your Eminence,”
As if I thought he now was Cardinal—
“Your Eminence,” indeed! At that he smiled
That oily smile of his, and rubbed his hands—
Those thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring
Flashes ('t is worth at least a thousand crowns)—
And said, “Good Giacomo, not ‘Eminence,’
I'm but a Monsignore, all 's too much
For my deserts.” Then I, “Your ‘Reverence’
Ought to be ‘Eminence,’ and will be soon;
The tassel 's almost old upon your hat.”
“Sei matto, Giacomo,” he said, and smiled.
You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er
His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you,
“Am I not kind and good?” and all the while
Your soul protests, and calls out “Knave and cheat.”
But, then, how can one call him by such names,
When, even with that smile upon his face,
He slips a scudo in one's hand and says,
“Go, Giacomo, and drink my health with this”?
What can one do but bow and try to blush?
“Oh—Reverenza—thanks—you are too good.”
Behind it as you clatter through the town,
Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar,
The mark and sneer of half the world you meet.
Ah, well! 't is wretched business yours and mine;
I know not which is worst—but then it pays;
The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt
To those who win? Though now the stakes are small,
We'll hold the court-cards when the suit is red;—
And so it will be soon; why, even now
I seem to see red stockings on his legs;—
And yesterday I said, “Your Eminence,”
As if I thought he now was Cardinal—
“Your Eminence,” indeed! At that he smiled
That oily smile of his, and rubbed his hands—
Those thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring
Flashes ('t is worth at least a thousand crowns)—
And said, “Good Giacomo, not ‘Eminence,’
I'm but a Monsignore, all 's too much
For my deserts.” Then I, “Your ‘Reverence’
Ought to be ‘Eminence,’ and will be soon;
The tassel 's almost old upon your hat.”
“Sei matto, Giacomo,” he said, and smiled.
You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er
His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you,
177
Your soul protests, and calls out “Knave and cheat.”
But, then, how can one call him by such names,
When, even with that smile upon his face,
He slips a scudo in one's hand and says,
“Go, Giacomo, and drink my health with this”?
What can one do but bow and try to blush?
“Oh—Reverenza—thanks—you are too good.”
Dear man! sweet man! in all those troublous times
What zeal was his!—how earnestly he worked!
Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice,
His virtuous deeds, above this world's reward—
Done for pure Christian duty—done, of course,
For Holy Church—all was for Holy Church—
(Without a notion of this world's reward)—
All for the good of souls and Holy Church—
(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)—
All to bring sinners back again to God,
And from the harvest root the devil's tares—
In omnia sæcula—amen—amen.
We don't forget—well! you know whom I mean;
No need to mention names, though no one 's nigh;
We don't forget him whose anointed hands
Were flayed by order of his Reverence,
Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down
Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through
The half-closed blind, saw him throw up his hands
And forward fall upon his face, and writhe,
When the sharp volley rang against the walls.
What zeal was his!—how earnestly he worked!
Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice,
His virtuous deeds, above this world's reward—
Done for pure Christian duty—done, of course,
For Holy Church—all was for Holy Church—
(Without a notion of this world's reward)—
All for the good of souls and Holy Church—
(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)—
All to bring sinners back again to God,
And from the harvest root the devil's tares—
In omnia sæcula—amen—amen.
We don't forget—well! you know whom I mean;
No need to mention names, though no one 's nigh;
We don't forget him whose anointed hands
Were flayed by order of his Reverence,
Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down
Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through
The half-closed blind, saw him throw up his hands
178
When the sharp volley rang against the walls.
Those oily fingers wrote that sentence down!
That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone,
While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom.
Who could help weeping when that pious man,
Professing horror at his victim's crime,
And bidding him confess and pray to God,
And saying, “God would pardon him, perhaps,
As he himself would, if the power were his,
But, being the instrument of Church and State,
No choice was given,” with his priestly foot
Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave?
That bloody stain is still upon the walls,
Of the same colour as the scarlet hat
Our master soon will wear; and, after all,
Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul,
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire?
He shall be raised who doth abase himself!
The good and faithful servant shall be made
The ruler over many! Ah! my friend,
He nothing lost by all those deeds of his.
He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice—
'T was all for Holy Church. His secret life,
Perhaps, was not quite perfect? Who of you
Is without sin let him first cast a stone;—
No one, you see; so let us think no more
Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less
At all his compliments and unctuous words
As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes
He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,—
Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance,
He is so modest,—and with undertone
Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands,
While with her fan she covers half her face?
He knows as well as any man that lives
How far to venture;—covers his foul jokes
With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them;—
Treads on the edge of scandal—not a chance
He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals
Of innuendo;—in pure earnestness
(Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands
And holds them—presses them, as to enforce
His argument;—for this, our Monsignore,
Lifted above temptation, with, of course,
No carnal thought, may do before the world—
Because it must be done through innocence.
Fie on his foul mouth who should hint 't was wrong!
Who 'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man?
He would go home and pray for that lost soul!
That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone,
While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom.
Who could help weeping when that pious man,
Professing horror at his victim's crime,
And bidding him confess and pray to God,
And saying, “God would pardon him, perhaps,
As he himself would, if the power were his,
But, being the instrument of Church and State,
No choice was given,” with his priestly foot
Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave?
That bloody stain is still upon the walls,
Of the same colour as the scarlet hat
Our master soon will wear; and, after all,
Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul,
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire?
He shall be raised who doth abase himself!
The good and faithful servant shall be made
The ruler over many! Ah! my friend,
He nothing lost by all those deeds of his.
He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice—
'T was all for Holy Church. His secret life,
Perhaps, was not quite perfect? Who of you
Is without sin let him first cast a stone;—
No one, you see; so let us think no more
Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less
179
As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes
He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,—
Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance,
He is so modest,—and with undertone
Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands,
While with her fan she covers half her face?
He knows as well as any man that lives
How far to venture;—covers his foul jokes
With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them;—
Treads on the edge of scandal—not a chance
He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals
Of innuendo;—in pure earnestness
(Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands
And holds them—presses them, as to enforce
His argument;—for this, our Monsignore,
Lifted above temptation, with, of course,
No carnal thought, may do before the world—
Because it must be done through innocence.
Fie on his foul mouth who should hint 't was wrong!
Who 'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man?
He would go home and pray for that lost soul!
And yet, how can a woman pure in heart,
Without disgust, accept his compliments,
And let him feed on her his gloating eyes?
Of course, it 's just because she 's innocent.
Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor,
Not fat and oily like his Reverence,
And so I can't endure his nauseous ways;—
All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think,
Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus,
And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring,
Show his silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons,
And fish for women with a net like this?
Without disgust, accept his compliments,
And let him feed on her his gloating eyes?
Of course, it 's just because she 's innocent.
Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor,
Not fat and oily like his Reverence,
180
All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think,
Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus,
And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring,
Show his silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons,
And fish for women with a net like this?
Those soft fat hands—those sweet anointed hands—
Those hands that wear the glittering emerald ring—
Those hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayer—
Those hands that fondle high-born ladies' hands—
Those hands that give their blessing to the poor—
Those hateful, hideous hands are red with blood!
Think! Principessa, when you kiss those hands—
Think! Novice, when those hands upon your head
Are laid in consecration—think of this!
Those hands that wear the glittering emerald ring—
Those hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayer—
Those hands that fondle high-born ladies' hands—
Those hands that give their blessing to the poor—
Those hateful, hideous hands are red with blood!
Think! Principessa, when you kiss those hands—
Think! Novice, when those hands upon your head
Are laid in consecration—think of this!
Stop, Master Giacomo! don't get too warm!
When Monsignore gave you yesterday,
With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands,
Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not?
Yes! I confess! the world will be the world!
One must not ask too much of mortal man,
Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo!
But yet we cannot always keep a curb
Upon our feelings, school them as we will;
And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day,
Detest at times my very self, and grow
So restless 'neath my rank hypocrisy,
I must break loose and fling out like a horse
In useless kicks, or else I should go mad.
God knows I hate this man, and so at times,
Rather than take him by the throat, I come
And pour my passion out in idle words;
They ease me. You 're my friend; but if I thought
A word of this would reach his ears; but, no!
We know each other both too well for that.
When Monsignore gave you yesterday,
With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands,
Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not?
Yes! I confess! the world will be the world!
One must not ask too much of mortal man,
Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo!
But yet we cannot always keep a curb
Upon our feelings, school them as we will;
And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day,
181
So restless 'neath my rank hypocrisy,
I must break loose and fling out like a horse
In useless kicks, or else I should go mad.
God knows I hate this man, and so at times,
Rather than take him by the throat, I come
And pour my passion out in idle words;
They ease me. You 're my friend; but if I thought
A word of this would reach his ears; but, no!
We know each other both too well for that.
One or two questions I should like to ask,
If Monsignore would but answer them,
As this—what Sora Lisa says to him
At her confession, once a-week at least
(For Monsignore, having her soul in charge,
When she don't come to him, must go to her).
She used to be so poor, but times are changed,
And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now;
And those old gowns, by some “Hey, presto, change,”
Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears
Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows,
When she 's the mind, in her own opera box.
Well! well! the office that his Reverence
Gave her poor husband from pure love of him
May pay for these; and if it don't, why then,
It don't—what business is it of ours?
And then, who knows, some uncle may have died
(Uncles are always dying for such folks)
And made her rich;—why should we peep and pry?
With Monsignore her soul is safe at least.
If Monsignore would but answer them,
As this—what Sora Lisa says to him
At her confession, once a-week at least
(For Monsignore, having her soul in charge,
When she don't come to him, must go to her).
She used to be so poor, but times are changed,
And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now;
And those old gowns, by some “Hey, presto, change,”
Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears
Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows,
When she 's the mind, in her own opera box.
Well! well! the office that his Reverence
Gave her poor husband from pure love of him
May pay for these; and if it don't, why then,
It don't—what business is it of ours?
And then, who knows, some uncle may have died
182
And made her rich;—why should we peep and pry?
With Monsignore her soul is safe at least.
And this reminds me—did you ever know
Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl,
With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook
Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?—
She that was Monsignore's friend while yet
He was a humble Abbé—born indeed
In the same town and came to live in Rome?
Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared
Some ten years back, and God knows how or why?
Well, Nina,—are you sure there 's no one near?—
Nina—
Per Dio! how his stinging bell
Startled my blood, as if his Reverence
Cried out, “You, Giacomo; what, there again
At your old trick of talking? Hold your tongue!”
And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;—
Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence.
Nature, as Monsignore often says,
Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue,
As if to say, “Tell half you see and hear;”
And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on,
After such lessons. There, he rings again!
Vengo—per Dio—Vengo subito.
Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl,
With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook
Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?—
She that was Monsignore's friend while yet
He was a humble Abbé—born indeed
In the same town and came to live in Rome?
Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared
Some ten years back, and God knows how or why?
Well, Nina,—are you sure there 's no one near?—
Nina—
Per Dio! how his stinging bell
Startled my blood, as if his Reverence
Cried out, “You, Giacomo; what, there again
At your old trick of talking? Hold your tongue!”
And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;—
Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence.
Nature, as Monsignore often says,
Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue,
As if to say, “Tell half you see and hear;”
And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on,
After such lessons. There, he rings again!
Vengo—per Dio—Vengo subito.
183
THE LESSON OF MONSIGNORE GALEOTTO.
“Now, certainly, he was a fayre prelat.”—
Chaucer.
Chaucer.
Let us walk up this alley, in the shade
Of the green ilexes, whose boughs have made
An arching gallery of cool privacy.
The garden 's hot—the sun has got so high
It burns into our faces o'er the wall
Of our clipped hedges, and begins to fall
So fierce on the white pebbles of the walk,
Its glare is painful—We shall better talk
Beneath the ilexes,—where it is cool.
Of the green ilexes, whose boughs have made
An arching gallery of cool privacy.
The garden 's hot—the sun has got so high
It burns into our faces o'er the wall
Of our clipped hedges, and begins to fall
So fierce on the white pebbles of the walk,
Its glare is painful—We shall better talk
Beneath the ilexes,—where it is cool.
Well, as I said, Filippo, you must school
Your temper, must not speak so harsh and quick;
Men are not driven, ox-like, with a stick,
Nor goaded to compliance with our will;
They must be humoured, flattered—seeming still
To yield to them, with humble air admit
Their power of argument, their sense, their wit,—
But, if you might suggest, that so and so,
Perhaps, would make a difference, although
You would not place at all your casual thought
Against their better judgment ... Men are caught
By springes like to these—they can be tricked
Always, by some decoy,—to contradict
Is simply stupid—and the dogmatist
Makes one, half ready to agree, resist.
Your temper, must not speak so harsh and quick;
Men are not driven, ox-like, with a stick,
Nor goaded to compliance with our will;
They must be humoured, flattered—seeming still
To yield to them, with humble air admit
Their power of argument, their sense, their wit,—
But, if you might suggest, that so and so,
Perhaps, would make a difference, although
You would not place at all your casual thought
184
By springes like to these—they can be tricked
Always, by some decoy,—to contradict
Is simply stupid—and the dogmatist
Makes one, half ready to agree, resist.
I cannot bear that sharp decisive way
With which you speak—you think so—but why say,
Though true, exactly what you think or feel;
Who plays his cards well, must and should conceal
His hand from his antagonist,—and all
Are our antagonists in life—A brawl
Is a fool's madness—but, no less a fool
Is he who knows not how his tongue to school,
So as to seem, at least, to give assent
Unto the wit, if not the argument.
Silence is golden—always seek to know
The other's thoughts and views before you show
Your own—you then have ground whereon to act,
Not blindly, but with wisdom's weapon, tact.
There is no use to lie—oh, that indeed,
In the long run is sure not to succeed;
Lying is gross—yet, I am bound to say,
That truth sometimes may lead us most astray;
When rightly used it is the best of charms,
When wrongly, the most dangerous of arms,—
Not for all time and place—for instance, you
Foil your own aims, sometimes, by being true
To your quick impulse;—where 's the use to speak
The truth, when speaking it will make you weak?
Wait for occasion—oft with a false key
We take the stronghold of the enemy,
Which, if we ventured rashly to attack,
With angry force would rise to beat us back;
Let your mind run before your tongue,—a man
Who has a tongue should also have a plan.
With which you speak—you think so—but why say,
Though true, exactly what you think or feel;
Who plays his cards well, must and should conceal
His hand from his antagonist,—and all
Are our antagonists in life—A brawl
Is a fool's madness—but, no less a fool
Is he who knows not how his tongue to school,
So as to seem, at least, to give assent
Unto the wit, if not the argument.
Silence is golden—always seek to know
The other's thoughts and views before you show
Your own—you then have ground whereon to act,
Not blindly, but with wisdom's weapon, tact.
There is no use to lie—oh, that indeed,
In the long run is sure not to succeed;
Lying is gross—yet, I am bound to say,
That truth sometimes may lead us most astray;
When rightly used it is the best of charms,
When wrongly, the most dangerous of arms,—
185
Foil your own aims, sometimes, by being true
To your quick impulse;—where 's the use to speak
The truth, when speaking it will make you weak?
Wait for occasion—oft with a false key
We take the stronghold of the enemy,
Which, if we ventured rashly to attack,
With angry force would rise to beat us back;
Let your mind run before your tongue,—a man
Who has a tongue should also have a plan.
You are too honest, dear Filippo—trust
The world too freely; you are young, and must
Curb those warm impulses that from your heart
Start wild, and train them down by thought and art;
Must learn your daring spirit to repress;
Submit to rule and law, and question less.
You claim your single right of thought, deny
The Church its dogma and authority,
Cry, “Truth is living, absolutely needs
Freedom, and only petrifies in creeds;”—
But Truth is not a veering vane, that goes
A different way with every wind that blows,
A mere kaleidoscopic glass, that takes
New hues, new figures, with each hand that shakes.
No! but a fountain once to man unsealed,
Whose living waters God himself revealed
Unto the Church,—whose forms, like vases, give
But shape to the pure waters they receive.
The world too freely; you are young, and must
Curb those warm impulses that from your heart
Start wild, and train them down by thought and art;
Must learn your daring spirit to repress;
Submit to rule and law, and question less.
You claim your single right of thought, deny
The Church its dogma and authority,
Cry, “Truth is living, absolutely needs
Freedom, and only petrifies in creeds;”—
But Truth is not a veering vane, that goes
A different way with every wind that blows,
A mere kaleidoscopic glass, that takes
New hues, new figures, with each hand that shakes.
No! but a fountain once to man unsealed,
Whose living waters God himself revealed
186
But shape to the pure waters they receive.
You “think,”—well, would you with your single thought
Reverse what all the Fathers wise have taught,
After long centuries' thinking, and confront
Your eager judgment to the opposing brunt
Of their slow wisdom?—Dear Filippo, see
How we have thriven on our policy,
We work together, not for separate pelf,
As you would act, you only for yourself,
But to exalt the Church—the Church!—is not
That thought alone worth every other thought?
And you have talents that might raise you high,
Will raise you, if you will not so defy
Those wise injunctions we must all obey,
Hard though it seem at first to all. Pray, pray
For more humility. Some future day,
When from that brow its curls are worn away,
The scarlet cap its baldness shall conceal,
The triple crown, perhaps—nay! nay! you feel,
I know, at present, as all young men do
To whom the world and thought itself is new,
You would choose rather “Liberty and Truth,”
For so you name the Folly we call Youth,
Than wed obedience, crush that fierce will down,
And hold Rome's keys, and wear the triple crown.
Reverse what all the Fathers wise have taught,
After long centuries' thinking, and confront
Your eager judgment to the opposing brunt
Of their slow wisdom?—Dear Filippo, see
How we have thriven on our policy,
We work together, not for separate pelf,
As you would act, you only for yourself,
But to exalt the Church—the Church!—is not
That thought alone worth every other thought?
And you have talents that might raise you high,
Will raise you, if you will not so defy
Those wise injunctions we must all obey,
Hard though it seem at first to all. Pray, pray
For more humility. Some future day,
When from that brow its curls are worn away,
The scarlet cap its baldness shall conceal,
The triple crown, perhaps—nay! nay! you feel,
I know, at present, as all young men do
To whom the world and thought itself is new,
You would choose rather “Liberty and Truth,”
For so you name the Folly we call Youth,
Than wed obedience, crush that fierce will down,
And hold Rome's keys, and wear the triple crown.
Well, 't is a grand ambition—Liberty,
If it were possible—yet, trust to me,
It is not possible;—obedience—law—
Self-abnegation—these alone can draw
The whole world after them. Where all agree,
Work with one will, one hope, one energy,
Blindly obedient, nothing can resist; but what
Is Liberty but anarchy of thought,—
Each separate will of that great swarming mass
You call the people, struggling to surpass
All other wills, and in blind ignorance
Wanting—yet never knowing what it wants.
The beasts alone are free, in your grand sense;
But man's true freedom is obedience,
Where all wills bend unto a settled law,
A single purpose, and together draw
For some high object—Ah! your liberty,
Filippo dear, is but a troubled sea,
Vexed with wild currents, lashed by frequent gales,
Where the best ship must down with masts and sails,
Fling its rich cargo to the engulfing waves,
And creep at last to port, with what it saves.
If it were possible—yet, trust to me,
187
Self-abnegation—these alone can draw
The whole world after them. Where all agree,
Work with one will, one hope, one energy,
Blindly obedient, nothing can resist; but what
Is Liberty but anarchy of thought,—
Each separate will of that great swarming mass
You call the people, struggling to surpass
All other wills, and in blind ignorance
Wanting—yet never knowing what it wants.
The beasts alone are free, in your grand sense;
But man's true freedom is obedience,
Where all wills bend unto a settled law,
A single purpose, and together draw
For some high object—Ah! your liberty,
Filippo dear, is but a troubled sea,
Vexed with wild currents, lashed by frequent gales,
Where the best ship must down with masts and sails,
Fling its rich cargo to the engulfing waves,
And creep at last to port, with what it saves.
Besides! what gain the nations that are free?
Rest, joy, content?—No, everywhere you see
The freest people the unhappiest;
Full of desires that goad them from their rest,
They crowd, and push, and fight, and end at last
In anarchy and luxury;—all the past
Tells the same story—all the future will—
Only the Church abides through good and ill.
Compare with this the peaceful, studious life,
Leading so softly, undisturbed by strife,
To power, for great, good ends, that here we find
In the still cloisters of the Church;—the mind
Here stores its thought, here trains its highest powers
To highest purposes;—these lives of ours
Fit us to move the world, and with the skill
Of subtle thought subdue unto our will
Its mighty strength. The world—the great brute world,
That bends against us its flat bull-front, curled
With strength, and bellows, and its great horns shakes,
Blind with the dust, deaf with the noise it makes,
Is game that we with easy skill control,
Sure of our power, and, as we will, cajole,
Shaking the scarlet that it hates, and thus
Letting it butt a rag instead of us,—
Always secure when we would end the play,
With our fine rapier point to find the way.
You have ambition,—have it then to rule
This world—to make the beast your game, your tool,
To ring his nose, and train him to your hand,—
For objects high, of course, we understand.
Rest, joy, content?—No, everywhere you see
The freest people the unhappiest;
Full of desires that goad them from their rest,
They crowd, and push, and fight, and end at last
In anarchy and luxury;—all the past
Tells the same story—all the future will—
Only the Church abides through good and ill.
188
Leading so softly, undisturbed by strife,
To power, for great, good ends, that here we find
In the still cloisters of the Church;—the mind
Here stores its thought, here trains its highest powers
To highest purposes;—these lives of ours
Fit us to move the world, and with the skill
Of subtle thought subdue unto our will
Its mighty strength. The world—the great brute world,
That bends against us its flat bull-front, curled
With strength, and bellows, and its great horns shakes,
Blind with the dust, deaf with the noise it makes,
Is game that we with easy skill control,
Sure of our power, and, as we will, cajole,
Shaking the scarlet that it hates, and thus
Letting it butt a rag instead of us,—
Always secure when we would end the play,
With our fine rapier point to find the way.
You have ambition,—have it then to rule
This world—to make the beast your game, your tool,
To ring his nose, and train him to your hand,—
For objects high, of course, we understand.
Love! 't is a child's disease, that passes soon,
Like mumps or measles—'t is a little tune
We play upon a pipe when we are young,—
A honey bee, by which we 're often stung
As soon as we have caught it,—nay, to speak
In serious phrase, Filippo, it were weak
To throw away a life's great hopes for love;
I know these hot desires will sometimes prove
Too strong for us—the Church takes note of that,
And covers with its veil of silence what
It knows weak man will have. It shuts its eyes
To human nature's frail necessities.
If it be done in seemly secrecy,
And without scandal, shall we peep to see
Our brother's weakness? Therefore, do not doubt,
If you be careful, you may still play out
The private rôle of love—for it were wise
That we should take man in his actual guise;
The self-same rule will not apply to men
As to pure angels without sin—what then?
The Church does all it can. These passions, too,
Are not without their use, if we subdue
Their exercise to proper ends,—and see,
They give us oftentimes a secret key
To help great projects on. So, as I said,
Love is not thoroughly prohibited,
Unless it lead to scandal. But, suppose
You will have marriage; then, indeed, you close
The Church's door, and for a whim, to last
A month or so, your future life you blast.
Take my advice,—drain nothing to its lees,
Only just tasted pleasures long can please;
What we desire is grateful while desired,
Possessed, 't is worthless—Ah! we soon grow tired,
With the continuous every-day of what
Once seemed so charming, when we had it not;
And wives, Filippo, wives are ...
Like mumps or measles—'t is a little tune
We play upon a pipe when we are young,—
189
As soon as we have caught it,—nay, to speak
In serious phrase, Filippo, it were weak
To throw away a life's great hopes for love;
I know these hot desires will sometimes prove
Too strong for us—the Church takes note of that,
And covers with its veil of silence what
It knows weak man will have. It shuts its eyes
To human nature's frail necessities.
If it be done in seemly secrecy,
And without scandal, shall we peep to see
Our brother's weakness? Therefore, do not doubt,
If you be careful, you may still play out
The private rôle of love—for it were wise
That we should take man in his actual guise;
The self-same rule will not apply to men
As to pure angels without sin—what then?
The Church does all it can. These passions, too,
Are not without their use, if we subdue
Their exercise to proper ends,—and see,
They give us oftentimes a secret key
To help great projects on. So, as I said,
Love is not thoroughly prohibited,
Unless it lead to scandal. But, suppose
You will have marriage; then, indeed, you close
The Church's door, and for a whim, to last
A month or so, your future life you blast.
Take my advice,—drain nothing to its lees,
190
What we desire is grateful while desired,
Possessed, 't is worthless—Ah! we soon grow tired,
With the continuous every-day of what
Once seemed so charming, when we had it not;
And wives, Filippo, wives are ...
Hark! 't is noon,
The clock struck then—Per Bacco, boy, how soon
This hour has passed—and I shall be too late
For the Marchesa—otherwise I'd wait—
She has some scheme I think of charity,
On which she wishes to consult with me.
Addio, then—and think on what I 've said,—
The heart must be submissive to the head.
The clock struck then—Per Bacco, boy, how soon
This hour has passed—and I shall be too late
For the Marchesa—otherwise I'd wait—
She has some scheme I think of charity,
On which she wishes to consult with me.
Addio, then—and think on what I 've said,—
The heart must be submissive to the head.
May, 1855.
191
THE PADRE AND THE NOVICE.
DEDICATED TO R. L.
I.
Do you hear, Lorenzo? I say these wishes and vague desiresWill all of them pass away, though now they seem so bright;
They are will-o'-the-wisps that breed uncertain treacherous fires:
No real lamps that lead the traveller through the night.
II.
My youth has gone like a song. You heed not an old man's words.Yet once, like you, I was young. Alas! I know it all;
And often my memory smites my thoughts, and awakens chords
Of far and dim delights, that I tremble as I recall.
III.
I loved! Ah! yes, I loved with a love that maddened my mind—With a passion that reason reproved—I loved, as I pray to God
192
And my hope was crushed, and my joy—as you crush these flowers in the sod.
IV.
I awoke—as a man may wake from a wild and feverish dream—Useless and helpless—a wreck,—with scarcely the wish or power
On the spars of life to drift,—and a fierce regret that the stream,
Sweeping to death so swift, had flung me aside for an hour.
V.
Slowly the world came back; but oh! how changed and drear!The serpent was on its track—my spirit was bitter and dark.
I rushed to battle;—Death passed me, shaking his sword and spear,
And, scornful, aside he cast me, making the happy his mark.
VI.
But the savage hate of life died down like a fading flame;And weary and worn with strife, and broken and spent with care,—
193
And God in his mercy heard,—and peace returned with prayer.
VII.
There is peace, that nothing taints, in the life that to God is given—To Christ, and the holy saints—that minister unto man;
For the world is a snare and a lure that leads us away from heaven,
And love is a demon impure, that tears us whenever it can.
VIII.
Ah! flee from the coils it spreads. Oh yield not unto its snare!Gilded at first its threads, in torture at last they end;
And Love, like the Sphinx of old, with its bosom and face so fair,
Hath arms of the tiger to hold, and claws of the tiger to rend.
IX.
Look not back—be advised—on the path you have chosen so well.The Church is the fold of Christ: the world is the devil's den.
Hark! 't is the Angelus, ringing afar from the convent bell—
Ave Maria sanctissima, ora pro nobis.—Amen.
194
L'ABBATE.
Were it not for that singular smell
That seems to the genus priest to belong,
Where snuff and incense are mingled well
With a natural odour quite as strong:
Were it not for those little ways
Of clasped and deprecating hands;
And of raising and lowering his eyes always
As if he only waited commands—
That seems to the genus priest to belong,
Where snuff and incense are mingled well
With a natural odour quite as strong:
Were it not for those little ways
Of clasped and deprecating hands;
And of raising and lowering his eyes always
As if he only waited commands—
Little there is in him of the priest,
With only the slightest touch of cant,
With a simple, guileless heart in his breast,
And a mind as honest as ignorant.
Half a child and half a man,
Ripe in the Fathers and green in thought,
In his little circle of half a span
He thinks that he thinks what he was taught.
With only the slightest touch of cant,
With a simple, guileless heart in his breast,
And a mind as honest as ignorant.
Half a child and half a man,
Ripe in the Fathers and green in thought,
In his little circle of half a span
He thinks that he thinks what he was taught.
His duty he does to the scruple's weight;
Recites his prayers, and mumbles his mass,
And without his litanies, early and late,
Never permits a day to pass.
Look at him there in the garden-plots
Repeating his office, as to and fro
He paces around the orange-pots,
Looking about while his quick lips go.
Recites his prayers, and mumbles his mass,
And without his litanies, early and late,
Never permits a day to pass.
Look at him there in the garden-plots
Repeating his office, as to and fro
195
Looking about while his quick lips go.
His simple pleasure in simple things,
His willing spirit that never tires,
His trivial jokes and wonderings,
His peaceful temper that never fires,
His joy over trifles of every day,
The feeble poems he loves to quote,—
Are just like a child, with his heart in his play,
While his duty and lessons are drill and rote.
His willing spirit that never tires,
His trivial jokes and wonderings,
His peaceful temper that never fires,
His joy over trifles of every day,
The feeble poems he loves to quote,—
Are just like a child, with his heart in his play,
While his duty and lessons are drill and rote.
What life means he does not think;
Reason and thought he has been told
Only lead to a perilous brink,
Away from Christ and the Church's fold.
Therefore he humbly and blindly obeys;
Does what he 's ordered and reasons not;
Performs his prayers, and thinks he prays,
And asks not how, or why, or what.
Reason and thought he has been told
Only lead to a perilous brink,
Away from Christ and the Church's fold.
Therefore he humbly and blindly obeys;
Does what he 's ordered and reasons not;
Performs his prayers, and thinks he prays,
And asks not how, or why, or what.
Happy in this, why stir his mind,
Stagnant in thought although it be?
Leave him alone—he is gentle and kind,
And blest with a child's simplicity.
Thinking would only give him unrest,
Struggle, and toil, and inward strain;
His heart is right in his thoughtless breast,
Why should one wish to torment his brain?
Stagnant in thought although it be?
Leave him alone—he is gentle and kind,
And blest with a child's simplicity.
Thinking would only give him unrest,
Struggle, and toil, and inward strain;
His heart is right in his thoughtless breast,
Why should one wish to torment his brain?
196
Yet out of pastime one evil day
I unfolded to him Pythagoras' plan—
How step by step the soul made its way
From sea-anemone up to man,—
How onward to higher grades it went,
If its human life had been fair and pure;
Or if not, to the lower scale was sent,
Again to ascend to man, and endure.
I unfolded to him Pythagoras' plan—
How step by step the soul made its way
From sea-anemone up to man,—
How onward to higher grades it went,
If its human life had been fair and pure;
Or if not, to the lower scale was sent,
Again to ascend to man, and endure.
And so the soul had gleams of the past,
And felt in itself dim sympathies
With nature, that ended in us at last,
And each of whose forms within us lies.
He smiled at first, and then by degrees
Grew silent and sad, and confessed 't was true,
But with spirit so pained and ill at ease,
That my foolish work I strove to undo.
And felt in itself dim sympathies
With nature, that ended in us at last,
And each of whose forms within us lies.
He smiled at first, and then by degrees
Grew silent and sad, and confessed 't was true,
But with spirit so pained and ill at ease,
That my foolish work I strove to undo.
This thinking 's the spawn of Satan, I said,
That tempts us into the sea of doubt;
And Satan has endless snares to spread,
If once with our reason we venture out.
Here you are in your Church like a port,
Anchored secure, where never a gale
Can break your moorings,—nor even in sport
Should you weigh your anchor or spread your sail.
That tempts us into the sea of doubt;
And Satan has endless snares to spread,
If once with our reason we venture out.
Here you are in your Church like a port,
Anchored secure, where never a gale
Can break your moorings,—nor even in sport
Should you weigh your anchor or spread your sail.
So I got him back to his anchor again,
And there in the stagnant harbour he lies;
And he looks upon me with a sense of pain
As a wild freebooter; for to his eyes
Free thinking, free sailing seems to be,
A sort of a godless, dangerous thing,
Like a pirate's life on a stormy sea—
And sure at the last damnation to bring.
And there in the stagnant harbour he lies;
197
As a wild freebooter; for to his eyes
Free thinking, free sailing seems to be,
A sort of a godless, dangerous thing,
Like a pirate's life on a stormy sea—
And sure at the last damnation to bring.
198
IL CURATO.
DEDICATED TO R. S.
There's our good curate coming down the lane,
Taking his evening walk as he is wont:
'Neath the dark ilexes he pauses now
And looks across the fields; then turning round,
As Spitz salutes me with a sharp high bark,
Advising him a stranger's near, he stops,
Nods, makes a friendly gesture, and then waits—
His head a little bent aside, one hand
Firm on his cane, the other on his hip—
And ere I speak he greets me cheerily.
Taking his evening walk as he is wont:
'Neath the dark ilexes he pauses now
And looks across the fields; then turning round,
As Spitz salutes me with a sharp high bark,
Advising him a stranger's near, he stops,
Nods, makes a friendly gesture, and then waits—
His head a little bent aside, one hand
Firm on his cane, the other on his hip—
And ere I speak he greets me cheerily.
“A lovely evening, and the well-reaped fields
Have given abundant harvest. All around
They tell me that the grain is large and full;
Peasant and landlord both of them content;
And with God's blessing we shall have, they say,
An ample vintage; scarcely anywhere
Are traces of disease among the grapes;
The olives promise well, too, as it seems.
Good grain, good wine, good oil—thanks be to God
And the Madonna, who give all things good,
And only ask from us a thankful heart!
“Yes, I have been to take my evening walk
Down to the Borgo; for, thank Heaven, I still
Am stout and strong and hearty, as you see.
I still can walk my three good miles as well
As when I was but sixty, though, perhaps,
A little slower than I used; but then
I 've turned my eightieth year—I have indeed!
Though you would scarce believe it. More than that,
I 've never lost a tooth—all good and sound—
Look! not a single one decayed or loose—
As good to crack a nut as e'er they were.
They 're the great secret of my health, I think;
Like a good mill they grind the food up well,
And keep the stomach and digestion good.
Have given abundant harvest. All around
They tell me that the grain is large and full;
Peasant and landlord both of them content;
And with God's blessing we shall have, they say,
An ample vintage; scarcely anywhere
Are traces of disease among the grapes;
The olives promise well, too, as it seems.
Good grain, good wine, good oil—thanks be to God
And the Madonna, who give all things good,
And only ask from us a thankful heart!
199
Down to the Borgo; for, thank Heaven, I still
Am stout and strong and hearty, as you see.
I still can walk my three good miles as well
As when I was but sixty, though, perhaps,
A little slower than I used; but then
I 've turned my eightieth year—I have indeed!
Though you would scarce believe it. More than that,
I 've never lost a tooth—all good and sound—
Look! not a single one decayed or loose—
As good to crack a nut as e'er they were.
They 're the great secret of my health, I think;
Like a good mill they grind the food up well,
And keep the stomach and digestion good.
“Yes, sir! I 've passed the allotted term of man,
Threescore-and-ten. I'm fourscore years, all told;
But, the Lord help us, how we old men boast!
What are our fourscore years or fivescore years
(If I should ever reach as far as that)
Compared with the eternity beyond?
Yet let us praise God for the good he gives;
All are not well and strong at fourscore years;
There 's farmer Lanti with but threescore years,
See how he 's racked with his rheumatic pains;
He scarce can crawl along.
Do you take snuff?
“Yes, sir! 't is fifty years since first I came
As curate to this village—fifty years!
When I look back it scarce seems possible,
And yet 't is fifty years last May since first
I came to live in yonder little house.
You see its red-tiled roof and loggia there
Close-barnacled upon the church, that shows
Its belfry-tower above the olive-trees.
The place is rude and rough, but there I 've lived
So long, I would not change it if I could.
Old things grow dear to us by constant use;
Habit is half our nature; and this house
Fits all my uses, answers all my needs,
Just as an old shoe fits one's foot; and there
I sleep as sound with its bare floor and walls
As if its bricks were spread with carpets soft,
And all the ceilings were with frescoes gay.
Threescore-and-ten. I'm fourscore years, all told;
But, the Lord help us, how we old men boast!
What are our fourscore years or fivescore years
(If I should ever reach as far as that)
Compared with the eternity beyond?
Yet let us praise God for the good he gives;
All are not well and strong at fourscore years;
There 's farmer Lanti with but threescore years,
See how he 's racked with his rheumatic pains;
He scarce can crawl along.
Do you take snuff?
200
As curate to this village—fifty years!
When I look back it scarce seems possible,
And yet 't is fifty years last May since first
I came to live in yonder little house.
You see its red-tiled roof and loggia there
Close-barnacled upon the church, that shows
Its belfry-tower above the olive-trees.
The place is rude and rough, but there I 've lived
So long, I would not change it if I could.
Old things grow dear to us by constant use;
Habit is half our nature; and this house
Fits all my uses, answers all my needs,
Just as an old shoe fits one's foot; and there
I sleep as sound with its bare floor and walls
As if its bricks were spread with carpets soft,
And all the ceilings were with frescoes gay.
“But what need I of pictures on my walls?
Out of my window every day I see
Pictures that God hath painted, better far
Than Raffaelle or Razzi—these great slopes
Covered with golden grain and waving vines
And rows of olives; and then far away
Dim purple mountains where cloud-shadows drift
Darkening across them; and beyond, the sky,
Where morning dawns and twilight lingering dies.
And then, again, above my humble roof
The vast night is as deep with all its stars
As o'er the proudest palace of the king.
“So, sir, my house is good enough for me.
I have been happy there for many years,
And there 's no better riches than content;
There I 've my little plot of flowers—for flowers
Are God's smile on the earth,—I could not do
Without my flowers, and there I train my vines,
Just for amusement; for the people here,
Good, honest creatures, do not let me want
For grapes and wine, howe'er the season be;
Then I 've two trees of apricots, and one
Great fig-tree, that beneath my window struck
Its roots into a rock-cleft years ago,
And of itself, without my care, has grown
And thriven, till now it thrusts its leaves and figs
Into my very room. Sometimes I think
This was a gift of God to me to say,
‘Behold! how out of poverty's scant soil
A life may bravely grow and bear good fruit,
And be a blessing and a help.’ May I
Be like this fig-tree, by the grace of God!
I have one peach-tree, but the fruit this year
Is bitter, tasting somewhat of the stone.
Our farmers tell me theirs are all the same;
I think they may have suffered from the drought,
Or from that hail-storm in the early spring.
Out of my window every day I see
Pictures that God hath painted, better far
Than Raffaelle or Razzi—these great slopes
Covered with golden grain and waving vines
And rows of olives; and then far away
Dim purple mountains where cloud-shadows drift
Darkening across them; and beyond, the sky,
Where morning dawns and twilight lingering dies.
And then, again, above my humble roof
The vast night is as deep with all its stars
As o'er the proudest palace of the king.
201
I have been happy there for many years,
And there 's no better riches than content;
There I 've my little plot of flowers—for flowers
Are God's smile on the earth,—I could not do
Without my flowers, and there I train my vines,
Just for amusement; for the people here,
Good, honest creatures, do not let me want
For grapes and wine, howe'er the season be;
Then I 've two trees of apricots, and one
Great fig-tree, that beneath my window struck
Its roots into a rock-cleft years ago,
And of itself, without my care, has grown
And thriven, till now it thrusts its leaves and figs
Into my very room. Sometimes I think
This was a gift of God to me to say,
‘Behold! how out of poverty's scant soil
A life may bravely grow and bear good fruit,
And be a blessing and a help.’ May I
Be like this fig-tree, by the grace of God!
I have one peach-tree, but the fruit this year
Is bitter, tasting somewhat of the stone.
Our farmers tell me theirs are all the same;
I think they may have suffered from the drought,
Or from that hail-storm in the early spring.
“Yes, sir! 't is fifty years in this old house
I 've lived; and all these years, day after day,
Have run as even as a ticking clock,
One like another, summer, winter, spring;
And ne'er a day I 've failed to have my walk
Down to the Borgo, spite of wind and rain.
While in the valley low the white mist crawls,
I'm up to greet the morning's earliest gleam
Above the hill-tops. After noon I take
An hour's siesta when the birds are still,
And the cicale stop, and, as it were,
All nature falls asleep. As twilight comes,
I take my walk, and, ere the clock strikes ten,
Lie snugly in my bed, and sleep as sound
And dreamless sleep as when I was a boy.
Why should I not? God has been very good,
And given me strength and health! Praise be to Him!
I 've lived; and all these years, day after day,
Have run as even as a ticking clock,
One like another, summer, winter, spring;
202
Down to the Borgo, spite of wind and rain.
While in the valley low the white mist crawls,
I'm up to greet the morning's earliest gleam
Above the hill-tops. After noon I take
An hour's siesta when the birds are still,
And the cicale stop, and, as it were,
All nature falls asleep. As twilight comes,
I take my walk, and, ere the clock strikes ten,
Lie snugly in my bed, and sleep as sound
And dreamless sleep as when I was a boy.
Why should I not? God has been very good,
And given me strength and health! Praise be to Him!
“My life is regular and temperate!
Good wine, sir, never hurts a man; it keeps
The heart and stomach warm—that is, of course,
Unless 't is taken in excess; but then,
All things are bad, if taken in excess.
I drink, perhaps, more wine now than I did;
For as old age comes on I need it more—
But in all things my life is temperate.
I take my cup of coffee when I rise;
I dine at mid-day, and I sup at seven;
I sit upon my loggia, where the vines
Spread their green shadow to keep off the sun,
And there I say my offices and prayers,
And in my well-thumbed breviary read,—
Now listening to the birds that chirp and sing;
Now reading of the martyrdom of saints;
Now looking at the peasant in the fields;
Now pondering on the patriarchs of old.
Then there are daily masses—sometimes come
Baptisms, burials, marriages—and so
Life slips along its peaceable routine.
Good wine, sir, never hurts a man; it keeps
The heart and stomach warm—that is, of course,
Unless 't is taken in excess; but then,
All things are bad, if taken in excess.
I drink, perhaps, more wine now than I did;
For as old age comes on I need it more—
But in all things my life is temperate.
I take my cup of coffee when I rise;
I dine at mid-day, and I sup at seven;
I sit upon my loggia, where the vines
Spread their green shadow to keep off the sun,
And there I say my offices and prayers,
And in my well-thumbed breviary read,—
Now listening to the birds that chirp and sing;
203
Now looking at the peasant in the fields;
Now pondering on the patriarchs of old.
Then there are daily masses—sometimes come
Baptisms, burials, marriages—and so
Life slips along its peaceable routine.
“My people here are generous and kind;
Of all good things they own I have my share,
And I, in turn, do what I can to help,
And smooth away their cares, compose their strifes,
Assuage their sorrows. By kind words alone
One may do much, with the Madonna's aid.
And then, in my small way, I am of use
To cure their ailments: scarce a day goes by
But I must, like a doctor, make my calls,
And see my patients. After fifty years
One must be a physician or a fool.
There 's a poor creature now in yonder house
I 've spent an hour beside this afternoon,
Holding her hands and whispering words of faith,
And saying what I could to ease her soul.
I know not if she heard me—haply not,
For she is gone almost beyond the reach
Of human language—far, far out alone
On the dim road we all must tread at last.
Of all good things they own I have my share,
And I, in turn, do what I can to help,
And smooth away their cares, compose their strifes,
Assuage their sorrows. By kind words alone
One may do much, with the Madonna's aid.
And then, in my small way, I am of use
To cure their ailments: scarce a day goes by
But I must, like a doctor, make my calls,
And see my patients. After fifty years
One must be a physician or a fool.
There 's a poor creature now in yonder house
I 've spent an hour beside this afternoon,
Holding her hands and whispering words of faith,
And saying what I could to ease her soul.
I know not if she heard me—haply not,
For she is gone almost beyond the reach
Of human language—far, far out alone
On the dim road we all must tread at last.
“Antonio Bucci keeps his lands here well!
An honest, frugal, and industrious man;
And his four daughters,—healthy, handsome girls:
Vittoria is a little spoiled, perhaps,
By the Count's admiration—and, in truth,
She is a striking creature; but all that,
You know, is nonsense, and I told her so.
Rosa is married, as you know, and makes
A sturdy wife. She has one little child,
With cheeks like apples. And Regina, too,
And Fanny—both are good and honest girls.
Per Bacco! take them all in all, I think
They're better for Antonio than four boys.
I see them in the early mists of morn
Going a-field; and listen! there they are,
Down in the vineyard, singing, as they tend
Those great white oxen at their evening feed.
An honest, frugal, and industrious man;
204
Vittoria is a little spoiled, perhaps,
By the Count's admiration—and, in truth,
She is a striking creature; but all that,
You know, is nonsense, and I told her so.
Rosa is married, as you know, and makes
A sturdy wife. She has one little child,
With cheeks like apples. And Regina, too,
And Fanny—both are good and honest girls.
Per Bacco! take them all in all, I think
They're better for Antonio than four boys.
I see them in the early mists of morn
Going a-field; and listen! there they are,
Down in the vineyard, singing, as they tend
Those great white oxen at their evening feed.
“Well, Spitz, we must be going now, or else
Old Nanna'll scold us both for being late.
Stop barking! Better manners, sir, I say!
He 's young, you see; the old one died last spring,
And this one 's over frisky for my age
(You are—you are! you know you are, you scamp!)
But with his foolishness he makes me smile.
As he grows older he'll grow more discreet.
('T is time to have your supper? So it is!)
And for mine, too, I think—and so, goodnight!”
So the old curate lifts his hat and smiles,
And shakes his cane at Spitz, and walks away,
A little stiff with age, but strong and hale,
While Spitz whirls round and round before his path,
With volleys of sharp barks, as on they go.
And so good-night! you good old man,—good-night!
With your child's heart, despite your eighty years.
I do not ask or care what is your creed—
Your heart is simple, honest, without guile,
Large in its open charity, and prompt
To help your fellow-men,—on such as you,
Whatever be your creed, God's blessing lies.
Old Nanna'll scold us both for being late.
Stop barking! Better manners, sir, I say!
He 's young, you see; the old one died last spring,
And this one 's over frisky for my age
(You are—you are! you know you are, you scamp!)
But with his foolishness he makes me smile.
As he grows older he'll grow more discreet.
('T is time to have your supper? So it is!)
And for mine, too, I think—and so, goodnight!”
205
And shakes his cane at Spitz, and walks away,
A little stiff with age, but strong and hale,
While Spitz whirls round and round before his path,
With volleys of sharp barks, as on they go.
And so good-night! you good old man,—good-night!
With your child's heart, despite your eighty years.
I do not ask or care what is your creed—
Your heart is simple, honest, without guile,
Large in its open charity, and prompt
To help your fellow-men,—on such as you,
Whatever be your creed, God's blessing lies.
206
IN ST. PETER'S.
THE CONVERT TALKS TO HIS FRIEND.
A noble structure truly! as you say,—
Clear, spacious, large in feeling and design,
Just what a church should be—I grant alway
There may be faults, great faults, yet I opine
Less on the whole than elsewhere may be found.
But let its faults go—out of human thought
Was nothing ever builded, written, wrought,
That one can say is whole, complete, and round;
Your snarling critic gloats upon defects,
And any fool among the architects
Can pick you out a hundred different flaws;
But who of them, with all his talking, draws
A church to match it? View it as a whole,
Not part by part, with those mean little eyes,
That cannot love, but only criticise,
How grand a body! with how large a soul!
Clear, spacious, large in feeling and design,
Just what a church should be—I grant alway
There may be faults, great faults, yet I opine
Less on the whole than elsewhere may be found.
But let its faults go—out of human thought
Was nothing ever builded, written, wrought,
That one can say is whole, complete, and round;
Your snarling critic gloats upon defects,
And any fool among the architects
Can pick you out a hundred different flaws;
But who of them, with all his talking, draws
A church to match it? View it as a whole,
Not part by part, with those mean little eyes,
That cannot love, but only criticise,
How grand a body! with how large a soul!
Seen from without, how well it bodies forth
Rome's proud religion—nothing mean and small
In its proportion, and above it all
A central dome of thought, a forehead bare
That rises in this soft Italian air
Big with its intellect,—and far away,
When lesser domes have sunken in the earth,
Stands for all Rome uplifted in the day,
An art-born brother of the mountains there.
See what an invitation it extends
To the world's pilgrims, be they foes or friends.
Its colonnades, with wide embracing arms,
Spread forth as if to bless and shield from harms,
And draw them to its heart, the inner shrine,
From the grand outer precincts, where alway
The living fountains wave their clouds of spray,
And temper with cool sound the hot sunshine.
Rome's proud religion—nothing mean and small
In its proportion, and above it all
A central dome of thought, a forehead bare
That rises in this soft Italian air
207
When lesser domes have sunken in the earth,
Stands for all Rome uplifted in the day,
An art-born brother of the mountains there.
See what an invitation it extends
To the world's pilgrims, be they foes or friends.
Its colonnades, with wide embracing arms,
Spread forth as if to bless and shield from harms,
And draw them to its heart, the inner shrine,
From the grand outer precincts, where alway
The living fountains wave their clouds of spray,
And temper with cool sound the hot sunshine.
Step in—behind your back the curtain swings;
The world is left outside with worldly things.
How still! save where vague echoes rise and fall,
Dying along the distance—what a sense
Of peace and silence hovers over all,
That tones the marbled aisle's magnificence,
And frescoed vaults and ceilings deep with gold,
To its own quiet.—See! how grand and bold,
Key of the whole, swells up the airy dome
Where the apostles hold their lofty home,
And angels hover in the misted height,
And amber shafts of sunset bridge with light
Its quivering air—while low the organ groans,
And from the choir's gilt cages tangling tones
Whirl fugueing up, and play and float aloft,
And in its vast bell die in echoes soft.
And mark! our church hath its own atmosphere,
That varies not with seasons of the year,
But ever keeps its even temperate air,
And soft, large light without offensive glare.
No sombre, gothic sadness here abides
To awe the sense—no sullen shadow hides
In its clear spaces—but a light as warm
And broad as charity smiles o'er the whole,
And joyous art and colour's festal charm
Refine the senses, and uplift the soul.
The world is left outside with worldly things.
How still! save where vague echoes rise and fall,
Dying along the distance—what a sense
Of peace and silence hovers over all,
That tones the marbled aisle's magnificence,
And frescoed vaults and ceilings deep with gold,
To its own quiet.—See! how grand and bold,
Key of the whole, swells up the airy dome
Where the apostles hold their lofty home,
And angels hover in the misted height,
And amber shafts of sunset bridge with light
Its quivering air—while low the organ groans,
And from the choir's gilt cages tangling tones
Whirl fugueing up, and play and float aloft,
And in its vast bell die in echoes soft.
208
That varies not with seasons of the year,
But ever keeps its even temperate air,
And soft, large light without offensive glare.
No sombre, gothic sadness here abides
To awe the sense—no sullen shadow hides
In its clear spaces—but a light as warm
And broad as charity smiles o'er the whole,
And joyous art and colour's festal charm
Refine the senses, and uplift the soul.
You scorn the aid of colour, exile art,
And with cold dogmas seek to move the heart;
But still the heart rebels, for man is wrought
Of God and clay, of senses as of thought.
Religion is not logic,—husks of creeds
Will never satisfy the spirit's needs.
Strain up with high theologies the wise,
But not the less with art's sweet mysteries
Cling to the common heart of man, content
To save him, though it be through sentiment.
You whip the intellect to heaven with pain,
And Beauty with her fair enchanting train
From out your cold bare church is rudely driven;
And yet what matters it how heaven we gain
If at the last we really get to heaven?
No! You are wrong; the end at last must be,
That the heart, struggling with such sophistry,
Breaks through the fine-spun web of logic—yearns
For Love and Beauty, and to us returns;
Or worse, it starves to death, and left alone
The head to godless madness journeys on.
The strongest wings too sternly strained, must droop,
Give them a happy earth on which to stoop.
And with cold dogmas seek to move the heart;
But still the heart rebels, for man is wrought
Of God and clay, of senses as of thought.
Religion is not logic,—husks of creeds
Will never satisfy the spirit's needs.
Strain up with high theologies the wise,
But not the less with art's sweet mysteries
Cling to the common heart of man, content
To save him, though it be through sentiment.
You whip the intellect to heaven with pain,
And Beauty with her fair enchanting train
From out your cold bare church is rudely driven;
And yet what matters it how heaven we gain
If at the last we really get to heaven?
No! You are wrong; the end at last must be,
That the heart, struggling with such sophistry,
Breaks through the fine-spun web of logic—yearns
209
Or worse, it starves to death, and left alone
The head to godless madness journeys on.
The strongest wings too sternly strained, must droop,
Give them a happy earth on which to stoop.
There is no folly like asceticism
When preached to all—Religion 's but a prism
That makes truth blue to this, to that one brown;
One hugs his lash, for God to him 's a frown;
One would prefer a kindly Devil's hell
To heaven, if with an angry God to dwell.
And why should you, in this great world of ours,
Give God the wheat, and give the Devil flowers?
Think you that any child was ever born,
Loved not the poppies better than the corn?
And for the most part we are children here,
That hold our Father's hand, and call him—dear.
When preached to all—Religion 's but a prism
That makes truth blue to this, to that one brown;
One hugs his lash, for God to him 's a frown;
One would prefer a kindly Devil's hell
To heaven, if with an angry God to dwell.
And why should you, in this great world of ours,
Give God the wheat, and give the Devil flowers?
Think you that any child was ever born,
Loved not the poppies better than the corn?
And for the most part we are children here,
That hold our Father's hand, and call him—dear.
The head is narrow, but the heart is broad,
And through the senses doors by thousands lead
To Love's pure temple—and the very God
Comes through them oftentimes when least we heed;
Yet, though an angel at their door should come,
And knock for entrance, both his flushing wings
Radiant with love's warm hues and colourings,
You cry, “No entrance here, go back to Rome,
Devil in angel's shape! they'll let you in—
Or, if you be no tempting shape of sin,
Enter the great door of the intellect,
That is the only entrance to our sect.”
Think you not God frowns, and the angels weep,
Turning away? Great Nature will not creep
Into such narrow schemes—where'er she goes
Flowers laugh before her—from toil's planted rows
The lark springs singing; Dawn for her flings out
Its glowing curtains; Day, with festal shout,
Bursts glorious in, and flares o'er all the east,
Till Earth shouts back as at a joyous feast;
And after twilight leaves the clouds' long bars
The cool blue tent of night she sows with stars,
And hushes all the darkened land to dreams,
Through which the silver sliding river gleams;
Her lavish hand for beauty never spares,
Her singing robes where'er she goes she wears;
No long-drawn face is hers, morose and sad,
As your religion craves, but sweet and glad.
Is it to tempt us, then, to death and sin?
Ah, no! my friend, she only hopes to win
With thousand shifts these fickle souls of ours,
Not with her rods alone, but with her flowers.
And through the senses doors by thousands lead
To Love's pure temple—and the very God
Comes through them oftentimes when least we heed;
Yet, though an angel at their door should come,
And knock for entrance, both his flushing wings
Radiant with love's warm hues and colourings,
You cry, “No entrance here, go back to Rome,
Devil in angel's shape! they'll let you in—
210
Enter the great door of the intellect,
That is the only entrance to our sect.”
Think you not God frowns, and the angels weep,
Turning away? Great Nature will not creep
Into such narrow schemes—where'er she goes
Flowers laugh before her—from toil's planted rows
The lark springs singing; Dawn for her flings out
Its glowing curtains; Day, with festal shout,
Bursts glorious in, and flares o'er all the east,
Till Earth shouts back as at a joyous feast;
And after twilight leaves the clouds' long bars
The cool blue tent of night she sows with stars,
And hushes all the darkened land to dreams,
Through which the silver sliding river gleams;
Her lavish hand for beauty never spares,
Her singing robes where'er she goes she wears;
No long-drawn face is hers, morose and sad,
As your religion craves, but sweet and glad.
Is it to tempt us, then, to death and sin?
Ah, no! my friend, she only hopes to win
With thousand shifts these fickle souls of ours,
Not with her rods alone, but with her flowers.
You smile your unbelief; I recognize
The stern protester in that sad and wise
And solemn shake of head; you still prefer
Your cold bare walls and droning minister;
You hate the priest (of course you mean not me,
But the whole system)—well, well, let it be,
I will not argue that at present, yet
Some time or other we will talk of it;
But this one thing I say, and say again,
Great works are born of joy and not of pain—
The Devil is an isolated brain.
The stern protester in that sad and wise
And solemn shake of head; you still prefer
Your cold bare walls and droning minister;
You hate the priest (of course you mean not me,
211
I will not argue that at present, yet
Some time or other we will talk of it;
But this one thing I say, and say again,
Great works are born of joy and not of pain—
The Devil is an isolated brain.
Why point there to the altar with a sniff
Of such superior virtue, just as if
Those ceremonial forms the truly wise
Perceive are tricks, and therefore must despise.
Dear friend, observe, this service is not made
For one small chapel, where each word that 's said
Might start the furthest sleeper—it appeals,
Not through the ear, as yours, but through the eye;
Each sign or gesture is a word that tells
As clear a meaning as your “seventhly.”
Your service in this vast basilica,
Would it subserve a better purpose—eh?
A violent man in black, a furlong off,
Screaming, but all unheard, you would not scoff,
Yet, as you do not know its sense, you think
Folly like this is quite enough to sink
The Roman church—these bendings of the knee
And crossings, look like pure idolatry.
Believe it not, a form is but a form,
Not bad or good except as it is warm
With the heart's blood—the spirit 't is alone
That gives the worth to all that 's said or done.
Be reverent, friend! nor sneer at her who kneels
In that dim chapel while her beads she feels,
Up-glancing at the saint that bleeds above.
What if her creed be false? one drop of love
Is worth a thousand creeds. I would not care
Though she should whisper to her lover there,
So full of love for him, that oft she prays
With idle lips—it is not what she says
But what she is that saves her—if her heart
Be from the ritual service all apart,
But lose itself in earnest love for him,
God is still served—ay! and perchance the grim
And sad observance of a loveless task
You would enforce, he would not rather ask.
Of such superior virtue, just as if
Those ceremonial forms the truly wise
Perceive are tricks, and therefore must despise.
Dear friend, observe, this service is not made
For one small chapel, where each word that 's said
Might start the furthest sleeper—it appeals,
Not through the ear, as yours, but through the eye;
Each sign or gesture is a word that tells
As clear a meaning as your “seventhly.”
Your service in this vast basilica,
Would it subserve a better purpose—eh?
A violent man in black, a furlong off,
Screaming, but all unheard, you would not scoff,
Yet, as you do not know its sense, you think
Folly like this is quite enough to sink
The Roman church—these bendings of the knee
And crossings, look like pure idolatry.
Believe it not, a form is but a form,
Not bad or good except as it is warm
With the heart's blood—the spirit 't is alone
That gives the worth to all that 's said or done.
212
In that dim chapel while her beads she feels,
Up-glancing at the saint that bleeds above.
What if her creed be false? one drop of love
Is worth a thousand creeds. I would not care
Though she should whisper to her lover there,
So full of love for him, that oft she prays
With idle lips—it is not what she says
But what she is that saves her—if her heart
Be from the ritual service all apart,
But lose itself in earnest love for him,
God is still served—ay! and perchance the grim
And sad observance of a loveless task
You would enforce, he would not rather ask.
But, hist, the sharp bell tinkles—'t is the Host
The Pope uplifts—you will not, friend, be lost,
Though you should kneel.
[OMITTED]
You could not stand apart,
I knew you must be stirred—you have a heart.
Was it not wondrous, when the multitude,
With a vast murmur, like a wind-swayed wood,
Dropped to its knees, and sudden bayonets flashed
A cold gray gleam, and clanging side-arms clashed
Upon the pavement, as along the nave
The helms of guards went down with dropping wave
Of their long horsehair,—and a silence deep
And full of awe above us seemed to sweep,
Like some great angel's wing, 'neath which all hearts
Were shadowed—till from out the silence starts
A silver strain of trumpets, sweet and clear,
That soars and grows in the hushed atmosphere,
And swells along the aisles, and up the height
Of the deep dome, and dies in dizzy flight
Among the cherubs—and we know above
The incarnate Christ is looking down in love—
And then, when all was over, like a weight
Too great to bear uplifted from the heart,
The crowd rose up and rustled all elate—
Ah, friend! the soul is touched by all this art—
But come—the crowd moves—shall we too depart?
The Pope uplifts—you will not, friend, be lost,
Though you should kneel.
[OMITTED]
You could not stand apart,
I knew you must be stirred—you have a heart.
Was it not wondrous, when the multitude,
With a vast murmur, like a wind-swayed wood,
Dropped to its knees, and sudden bayonets flashed
A cold gray gleam, and clanging side-arms clashed
Upon the pavement, as along the nave
The helms of guards went down with dropping wave
Of their long horsehair,—and a silence deep
213
Like some great angel's wing, 'neath which all hearts
Were shadowed—till from out the silence starts
A silver strain of trumpets, sweet and clear,
That soars and grows in the hushed atmosphere,
And swells along the aisles, and up the height
Of the deep dome, and dies in dizzy flight
Among the cherubs—and we know above
The incarnate Christ is looking down in love—
And then, when all was over, like a weight
Too great to bear uplifted from the heart,
The crowd rose up and rustled all elate—
Ah, friend! the soul is touched by all this art—
But come—the crowd moves—shall we too depart?
214
BARON FISCO AT HOME.
Ha, my old friend! so, you've come back again!
Sit down, sit down!—'t is years since we have met.
How goes the world with you?—You shake your head!
Not well? Indeed! I'm sorry. So your plan
Did not succeed. You see 't was as I feared.
You would not heed me, thought my counsel bad;
Would go your own way; had your notions high
Of honesty and honour, and all that,
Straightforwardness, uprightness, these at last
Would, must succeed;—what think you of it now?
Was it not as I told you? Honesty
Is simply the worst policy on earth:
As for the other world, the future world,
If any such there be, it may be best;
But for this world, made as it is, 't is worst—
A mean low proverb, and what 's more, a lie.
“Virtue's its own reward,” exactly so—
Its own reward, whatever that may be,
But not the world's success. No, no, my friend!
Sit down, sit down!—'t is years since we have met.
How goes the world with you?—You shake your head!
Not well? Indeed! I'm sorry. So your plan
Did not succeed. You see 't was as I feared.
You would not heed me, thought my counsel bad;
Would go your own way; had your notions high
Of honesty and honour, and all that,
Straightforwardness, uprightness, these at last
Would, must succeed;—what think you of it now?
Was it not as I told you? Honesty
Is simply the worst policy on earth:
As for the other world, the future world,
If any such there be, it may be best;
But for this world, made as it is, 't is worst—
A mean low proverb, and what 's more, a lie.
“Virtue's its own reward,” exactly so—
Its own reward, whatever that may be,
But not the world's success. No, no, my friend!
You look surprised to find me titled, rich,
Housed in a palace, playing the great man—
It must be laughable to you, who know
How we began in life. So let us laugh—
Laugh inextinguishable laughter, just
As the old Augurs did upon the sly
When no one saw them. Faith, this serious load
Of dignity is sometimes hard to bear!
And pleasant 't is to meet a friend with whom
One may throw off one's livery of pretence,
Relax, laugh, lie no more, be natural.
Housed in a palace, playing the great man—
215
How we began in life. So let us laugh—
Laugh inextinguishable laughter, just
As the old Augurs did upon the sly
When no one saw them. Faith, this serious load
Of dignity is sometimes hard to bear!
And pleasant 't is to meet a friend with whom
One may throw off one's livery of pretence,
Relax, laugh, lie no more, be natural.
So now, a truce to lying and pretence,—
I do so suffocate beneath my mask,
I am so sick of my falsetto voice,
Almost I 'd like to cry out to the world
I am a scoundrel, though a prosperous one—
Only it would not do;—and then so long
To Christian jargon I have schooled my tongue
And virtuous slang, that it comes hard at last
Even to myself to own the very truth,
And wholly cease to be a hypocrite—
Nay, sometimes I impose upon myself,
And almost think I am what I pretend.
I do so suffocate beneath my mask,
I am so sick of my falsetto voice,
Almost I 'd like to cry out to the world
I am a scoundrel, though a prosperous one—
Only it would not do;—and then so long
To Christian jargon I have schooled my tongue
And virtuous slang, that it comes hard at last
Even to myself to own the very truth,
And wholly cease to be a hypocrite—
Nay, sometimes I impose upon myself,
And almost think I am what I pretend.
You bring the old times back, how vividly!
We started from the self-same path in life,
You one way, I the other. Both of us
When we were young and poor, ay, very poor,
Hawked through the streets our little stock of wares
Spread on a tray, and swinging from our necks,
Pens, pencils, trinkets, brooches,—all mere sham;
Mine were, at least,—what yours were, you know best;
And so, mere boys, we bore along the streets
Our tawdry store, and cried: “Who'll buy? Who'll buy?”
Well, passers bought of me more than of you
Simply because I lied with glib, false tongue,
Vaunted my goods as real,—in a word,
Cheated; of course I cheated, if I could.
What 's any trade but cheating? All the world
Strove to cheat me, and I strove to cheat them.
And thus at first we earned enough to live—
Badly, of course, but still we lived and saved;
Went to bed hungry many a night to dream
Of coming fortune, that was slow to come.
We started from the self-same path in life,
You one way, I the other. Both of us
When we were young and poor, ay, very poor,
Hawked through the streets our little stock of wares
Spread on a tray, and swinging from our necks,
216
Mine were, at least,—what yours were, you know best;
And so, mere boys, we bore along the streets
Our tawdry store, and cried: “Who'll buy? Who'll buy?”
Well, passers bought of me more than of you
Simply because I lied with glib, false tongue,
Vaunted my goods as real,—in a word,
Cheated; of course I cheated, if I could.
What 's any trade but cheating? All the world
Strove to cheat me, and I strove to cheat them.
And thus at first we earned enough to live—
Badly, of course, but still we lived and saved;
Went to bed hungry many a night to dream
Of coming fortune, that was slow to come.
So daily turning over our small gains,
We by degrees laid by a pretty sum,—
Paltry enough indeed, but still enough
At least to start upon—to place our feet
Upon the ladder's lowest rung of trade;
And then we parted, what long years ago!
How many is it? Forty at the least.
And now we meet again. Ah well, my friend!
You have not prospered; you are poor, I see,—
Still poor—hungry perhaps.
Stop! let me ring,—
A glass of good old wine will do you good.
Wine? You shall breakfast with me—we will talk
Over old times. Perhaps 't is not too late
Even now to put you on the prosperous road.
We'll see—we'll see!
John, set the table here—
Set it for two—my friend will lunch with me;
And bring two bottles of that old red seal
Out of the right bin, A 1—upper shelf.
And your champagne? You like it sweet or dry?
Dry? I agree with you. The best dry, John—
You know my brand; and quick too, don't delay.
We by degrees laid by a pretty sum,—
Paltry enough indeed, but still enough
At least to start upon—to place our feet
Upon the ladder's lowest rung of trade;
And then we parted, what long years ago!
How many is it? Forty at the least.
And now we meet again. Ah well, my friend!
You have not prospered; you are poor, I see,—
Still poor—hungry perhaps.
Stop! let me ring,—
A glass of good old wine will do you good.
217
Over old times. Perhaps 't is not too late
Even now to put you on the prosperous road.
We'll see—we'll see!
John, set the table here—
Set it for two—my friend will lunch with me;
And bring two bottles of that old red seal
Out of the right bin, A 1—upper shelf.
And your champagne? You like it sweet or dry?
Dry? I agree with you. The best dry, John—
You know my brand; and quick too, don't delay.
Ah, you are looking at my pictures! Well,
What say you of them? That 's Meissonier—
A drinking-bout. Fine, I am told—I know
It stood me in a hundred thousand francs,
And cheap at that. That 's a Fortuny there.
Bright, is n't it? And that? Oh, that 's a nymph!
By—faith, I 've quite forgot who painted it!
Nude—yes, I think so—very nude, but then
That 's all the vogue now. Living, is it not?
Live, palpitating flesh? To balance it
There 's a Madonna pale and pure enough,
Painted by—what 's his name? Enough of these—
You'll come and look at them another time.
Now for our breakfast, lunch, or what you will.
You need not wait, John! Come, sit down, my friend!
What say you of them? That 's Meissonier—
A drinking-bout. Fine, I am told—I know
It stood me in a hundred thousand francs,
And cheap at that. That 's a Fortuny there.
Bright, is n't it? And that? Oh, that 's a nymph!
By—faith, I 've quite forgot who painted it!
Nude—yes, I think so—very nude, but then
That 's all the vogue now. Living, is it not?
Live, palpitating flesh? To balance it
There 's a Madonna pale and pure enough,
Painted by—what 's his name? Enough of these—
You'll come and look at them another time.
Now for our breakfast, lunch, or what you will.
218
Well, yes! I have succeeded as you say;
You find me rich—ay, and I mean to be
Much richer. 'T is the first step costs. To gain
The first ten thousand costs pains, toil, care, skill,
Great self-denial; after that it grows
Easier and easier,—and at last your pile
Breeds almost of itself left quite alone.
But then I never let it quite alone.
How did I make the first ten thousand? Well,
Simply by following out my principles—
Not yours. Oh no! Your principles were fine,
High, noble, anything you will, but then
Purely unpractical. I took the world
Just as I found it; strove not to amend
Its many faults, but profit by them all,—
Made large professions, crouched and crept and crawled,
Put in my pocket all my pride,—picked up
Out of the dirtiest gutter, so to speak,
The dirtiest penny—not too proud for that—
Bore all reviling patiently, bent low
To kiss the hand that struck me; what I felt
Within me I concealed, never gave voice
To bitterness in empty words. Ah no!
Not such a fool; bided my time—talked soft—
Was simply sad to be misunderstood—
Meant to do right but was deceived by knaves
Who took advantage of my ignorance.
Ah me! ah me! ah, what a wicked world!
And then your splendid counters, too, I used,—
Had always in my mouth those sounding words,
Truth, Honour, Justice, Duty, Honesty.
Reproved false dealing, speaking; went to church,
Prayed loudly, openly declared myself
A miserable sinner; dropped my mite
Into the poor-box in the face of all;
Let all my good deeds shine out before men,
And wore a face of pure simplicity.
You find me rich—ay, and I mean to be
Much richer. 'T is the first step costs. To gain
The first ten thousand costs pains, toil, care, skill,
Great self-denial; after that it grows
Easier and easier,—and at last your pile
Breeds almost of itself left quite alone.
But then I never let it quite alone.
How did I make the first ten thousand? Well,
Simply by following out my principles—
Not yours. Oh no! Your principles were fine,
High, noble, anything you will, but then
Purely unpractical. I took the world
Just as I found it; strove not to amend
Its many faults, but profit by them all,—
Made large professions, crouched and crept and crawled,
Put in my pocket all my pride,—picked up
Out of the dirtiest gutter, so to speak,
The dirtiest penny—not too proud for that—
Bore all reviling patiently, bent low
To kiss the hand that struck me; what I felt
Within me I concealed, never gave voice
To bitterness in empty words. Ah no!
Not such a fool; bided my time—talked soft—
Was simply sad to be misunderstood—
Meant to do right but was deceived by knaves
219
Ah me! ah me! ah, what a wicked world!
And then your splendid counters, too, I used,—
Had always in my mouth those sounding words,
Truth, Honour, Justice, Duty, Honesty.
Reproved false dealing, speaking; went to church,
Prayed loudly, openly declared myself
A miserable sinner; dropped my mite
Into the poor-box in the face of all;
Let all my good deeds shine out before men,
And wore a face of pure simplicity.
A cloak, you say! Well, yes! I wore a cloak.
One must not go quite naked in this world.
We must use phrases—only they are fools
Who think them more than phrases. Everywhere
Men use them—in the pulpit, in the mart.
But who does more than use them as a cloak,
If there be any such, they are rank fools.
Dishonest was I? Fie! Beyond the verge
Of Law—and that, as I suppose, is right—
I never put my foot, or not both feet;
One foot within the Law I always kept.
Of course I used the Law, and studied it,
Availed myself of all its shifts and turns,—
And in its limits planted, flung my nets
Beyond, to haul my hooked fish safely in.
One must not go quite naked in this world.
We must use phrases—only they are fools
Who think them more than phrases. Everywhere
Men use them—in the pulpit, in the mart.
But who does more than use them as a cloak,
If there be any such, they are rank fools.
Dishonest was I? Fie! Beyond the verge
Of Law—and that, as I suppose, is right—
I never put my foot, or not both feet;
One foot within the Law I always kept.
Of course I used the Law, and studied it,
Availed myself of all its shifts and turns,—
And in its limits planted, flung my nets
Beyond, to haul my hooked fish safely in.
With even little means one may do much
Through knowledge of the law and pains and skill.
My little business at the first I did,
Only from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth,—
Never with writings, contracts, signatures—
That is on my part, never put my name
To obligations. Promises in words,
Of course, I gave; but promises are air—
One may forget, deny, misapprehend.
Through knowledge of the law and pains and skill.
220
Only from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth,—
Never with writings, contracts, signatures—
That is on my part, never put my name
To obligations. Promises in words,
Of course, I gave; but promises are air—
One may forget, deny, misapprehend.
Shaved notes? Of course. Lent money? Yes, of course.
Upon usurious interest? Stop, my friend!
What is usurious interest? If I own
A little sum, and some poor man has need
Of just that sum, I should of course be glad
To give it him, not lend it; but indeed
I am too poor, have other duties too,
I dare not run even temporary risk.
But for your note, say, for a hundred francs,
You must at once have money. Ah, good sir,
I have but fifty; and your simple note,
What is it worth? Out of pure friendliness
I offer this; but pray don't take me up—
This is a friend's act, who can call it wrong?
Upon usurious interest? Stop, my friend!
What is usurious interest? If I own
A little sum, and some poor man has need
Of just that sum, I should of course be glad
To give it him, not lend it; but indeed
I am too poor, have other duties too,
I dare not run even temporary risk.
But for your note, say, for a hundred francs,
You must at once have money. Ah, good sir,
I have but fifty; and your simple note,
What is it worth? Out of pure friendliness
I offer this; but pray don't take me up—
This is a friend's act, who can call it wrong?
There have been times, I will confess to you,
That I have sheered too closely to the law,
And made mistakes—but they were mere mistakes.
I once forgot some money that was placed
For my safe keeping in my hands, forgot
Most absolutely—and, in fact, forgot
To make a memorandum. Being thus,
I naturally used it for my own.
But somehow it was proved that I was wrong,
And I repaid it—certainly—at once,
When it was proved; but the censorious world
Would not admit this was a mere mistake.
Ah me! what evil minds and thoughts there are!
That I have sheered too closely to the law,
And made mistakes—but they were mere mistakes.
I once forgot some money that was placed
For my safe keeping in my hands, forgot
221
To make a memorandum. Being thus,
I naturally used it for my own.
But somehow it was proved that I was wrong,
And I repaid it—certainly—at once,
When it was proved; but the censorious world
Would not admit this was a mere mistake.
Ah me! what evil minds and thoughts there are!
There have been several mistakes like this;
But who among us does not make mistakes?
There were some notes that once passed through my hands
With altered numbers,—in one case, indeed,
With awkward signatures,—mere carelessness.
I should have been more careful, I admit,—
And even now I scarce forgive myself.
But who among us does not make mistakes?
There were some notes that once passed through my hands
With altered numbers,—in one case, indeed,
With awkward signatures,—mere carelessness.
I should have been more careful, I admit,—
And even now I scarce forgive myself.
Well, this is all, I think: you see, my friend,
How I have prospered. Spite of my mistakes
I have my palace here, who used to climb
To the fifth story of my garret mean;
I have rich meats and wines (this wine, I think,
You will acknowledge good), French cook, and all
That luxury asks, who once was well content
With my stale crust, and once a week, at most,
A scrap of meat, not always sure of that.
Around my neck I carried once my tray,
And now my brougham and horses carry me—
Nor finer horses will you see in town.
My play-house was the street once,—now I own
My opera-box, and sitting there at night
I take some pride that I am gazed at there
And pointed out as one to be observed,—
The Baron Fisco—that is he. Ah, well!
Little we thought, we two poor ragged boys,
Of anything like this; but now I am
Wealthy, respected,—and ennobled too,—
Have been a Deputy, and should be still
But for an unexplained mistake, that now
Is scarce worth mentioning since it is past.
How I have prospered. Spite of my mistakes
I have my palace here, who used to climb
To the fifth story of my garret mean;
I have rich meats and wines (this wine, I think,
You will acknowledge good), French cook, and all
That luxury asks, who once was well content
With my stale crust, and once a week, at most,
A scrap of meat, not always sure of that.
Around my neck I carried once my tray,
And now my brougham and horses carry me—
Nor finer horses will you see in town.
222
My opera-box, and sitting there at night
I take some pride that I am gazed at there
And pointed out as one to be observed,—
The Baron Fisco—that is he. Ah, well!
Little we thought, we two poor ragged boys,
Of anything like this; but now I am
Wealthy, respected,—and ennobled too,—
Have been a Deputy, and should be still
But for an unexplained mistake, that now
Is scarce worth mentioning since it is past.
To me obsequious many a hat is raised
Despite it all; and on my breast I wear
Stars, crosses, ribbons, when I go to Court,—
And smiling, I shake hands with some like you—
Having such principles as yours, I mean—
Upon whose breast I see no simplest cross
To hide the well-worn coat with its white seams.
It pays, you see—it pays, say what we will.
Despite it all; and on my breast I wear
Stars, crosses, ribbons, when I go to Court,—
And smiling, I shake hands with some like you—
Having such principles as yours, I mean—
Upon whose breast I see no simplest cross
To hide the well-worn coat with its white seams.
It pays, you see—it pays, say what we will.
Success, my friend, covers all kinds of sins.
Never be found out, that 's my rule of life.
Truth, Honour, Honesty, are excellent
To talk about, but as strict rules of life
Are, let us say, most serious obstacles.
You 've found them such, I think—so have not I.
Little by little small things grow to great.
One must be patient—never force one's card,
But wait the time to play. Riches are power,
And having won them, if we bide our time,
We can buy anything we will. All things
Are purchasable—if we only knew
Just how and when to buy them. That needs skill.
Honours and titles? Ah, well—well—a loan
Is sometimes needed,—privately, you know,—
For persons high in power and influence;
And then, of course, one lends it as a friend,
With no advantage asked or dreamed. Ah no!
Glad of the honour to be borrowed from,—
Only too proud to be of the least use,—
Even as a carpet to be trod upon,—
Such generosity brings its reward.
Never be found out, that 's my rule of life.
Truth, Honour, Honesty, are excellent
To talk about, but as strict rules of life
Are, let us say, most serious obstacles.
You 've found them such, I think—so have not I.
Little by little small things grow to great.
One must be patient—never force one's card,
But wait the time to play. Riches are power,
223
We can buy anything we will. All things
Are purchasable—if we only knew
Just how and when to buy them. That needs skill.
Honours and titles? Ah, well—well—a loan
Is sometimes needed,—privately, you know,—
For persons high in power and influence;
And then, of course, one lends it as a friend,
With no advantage asked or dreamed. Ah no!
Glad of the honour to be borrowed from,—
Only too proud to be of the least use,—
Even as a carpet to be trod upon,—
Such generosity brings its reward.
And then, again, with riches at command,
Things take a different aspect, better name.
What looks like swindling with a petty sum,
Is on a grand and speculative scale
Honest enough, so it be large enough.
The difference 'twixt a million and a franc,
Makes such a difference in so many ways.
Things take a different aspect, better name.
What looks like swindling with a petty sum,
Is on a grand and speculative scale
Honest enough, so it be large enough.
The difference 'twixt a million and a franc,
Makes such a difference in so many ways.
Come, fill your glass again—we are old friends;
You see I nought conceal, speak openly.
We began life together. I am rich,
You poor. You see my principles were best.
If you object to the word principles,
I'll say my practices. We'll not discuss
The word—that 's nothing. Now I say to you
Join me, I'm getting old and tired too;
Be my first clerk, first confidential man—
I'll pay you well; and having gone thus far,
Made enough money, if indeed one has
Ever enough, quite,—I can now afford
To let you have your way, since I can trust
Your honesty, and that, I must confess,
Is of all things the rarest on the earth.
I have been seeking for an honest man,
God knows how long! I find him here at last.
You see I nought conceal, speak openly.
We began life together. I am rich,
You poor. You see my principles were best.
If you object to the word principles,
I'll say my practices. We'll not discuss
The word—that 's nothing. Now I say to you
224
Be my first clerk, first confidential man—
I'll pay you well; and having gone thus far,
Made enough money, if indeed one has
Ever enough, quite,—I can now afford
To let you have your way, since I can trust
Your honesty, and that, I must confess,
Is of all things the rarest on the earth.
I have been seeking for an honest man,
God knows how long! I find him here at last.
You smile as if to say—“So, at the last,
Even Honesty succeeds.” Well,—yes,—sometimes.
Not of itself, though, save by happy chance,
When it can lend itself to abler hands.
We all like Honesty in those we use—
That is, as far as what concerns ourselves.
Even Honesty succeeds.” Well,—yes,—sometimes.
Not of itself, though, save by happy chance,
When it can lend itself to abler hands.
We all like Honesty in those we use—
That is, as far as what concerns ourselves.
225
ZIA NICA.
Old Zia Nica, she had looked through life—
Its deeps and shoals had sounded—felt the strife
Of storms—sailed round its capes and reefs—and known
The absolute whole of passion's burning zone.
Queen of the osteria there she sat,
Half listening, while around her buzzed its chat:
Her red-rimmed eyes, all bloodshot from carouse,
Half shut, and peering out 'neath shaggy brows;
And now and then a grim sardonic smile
Quivering at some coarse speech across her lips,
As up she sharply glanced, and ceased the while
To drum the table with her finger-tips.
All taste for gracious things was gone; her tongue
Craved the sharp whet of savage words, the zest
Of some lewd speech, some bitter, biting jest,
That like raw brandy for a moment stung.
Thus stern she sat, amid her compeers there,
Over her sunken cheeks her coarse gray hair
Straggling, a wicked sharpness in her look,
Like some spent fury. Now and then she struck
Sharply her clenched hand on the board, until
The glasses rang, and every man was still
To listen, as with voice high, harsh, and shrill,
She shrieked some savage taunt, or jest so lewd,
It seemed to prick the skin and draw the blood;
And then with coarse laugh opening wide her jaws
(Where, either side the mouth's red-roofed ravine,
Two yellow teeth, like ruined piers, were seen),
She paused, expectant of the fierce applause.
“Bravo, per Bacco! Zia Nica's shot
Is in the very bull's-eye—is it not?”
Its deeps and shoals had sounded—felt the strife
Of storms—sailed round its capes and reefs—and known
The absolute whole of passion's burning zone.
Queen of the osteria there she sat,
Half listening, while around her buzzed its chat:
Her red-rimmed eyes, all bloodshot from carouse,
Half shut, and peering out 'neath shaggy brows;
And now and then a grim sardonic smile
Quivering at some coarse speech across her lips,
As up she sharply glanced, and ceased the while
To drum the table with her finger-tips.
All taste for gracious things was gone; her tongue
Craved the sharp whet of savage words, the zest
Of some lewd speech, some bitter, biting jest,
That like raw brandy for a moment stung.
Thus stern she sat, amid her compeers there,
Over her sunken cheeks her coarse gray hair
Straggling, a wicked sharpness in her look,
Like some spent fury. Now and then she struck
Sharply her clenched hand on the board, until
The glasses rang, and every man was still
To listen, as with voice high, harsh, and shrill,
226
It seemed to prick the skin and draw the blood;
And then with coarse laugh opening wide her jaws
(Where, either side the mouth's red-roofed ravine,
Two yellow teeth, like ruined piers, were seen),
She paused, expectant of the fierce applause.
“Bravo, per Bacco! Zia Nica's shot
Is in the very bull's-eye—is it not?”
If beauty, maidenly reserve, and grace,
Once, as they say, in earlier, happier hours,
Grassed softly over this volcano's vent,
The time has long gone by of grass or flowers;
Ay, and the passionate and flaming days,
They, too, have passed, and all their fury spent,
And left but ashes, scoriæ, blasted stones,
Cast forth by passion, the dead wreck of sin.
Yet impotent, low growls, and rumbling moans,
And sharp convulsive throes, still stir within;
Still the old crater, burnt out at its heart,
At times a savage tongue of flames will dart;
And Zio Tonio trembles even now,
Despite his coward smile, so faint and grim—
Trembles, as down she shuts her dinted brow,
And her eyes, closing, take slow aim at him.
Once, as they say, in earlier, happier hours,
Grassed softly over this volcano's vent,
The time has long gone by of grass or flowers;
Ay, and the passionate and flaming days,
They, too, have passed, and all their fury spent,
And left but ashes, scoriæ, blasted stones,
Cast forth by passion, the dead wreck of sin.
Yet impotent, low growls, and rumbling moans,
And sharp convulsive throes, still stir within;
Still the old crater, burnt out at its heart,
At times a savage tongue of flames will dart;
And Zio Tonio trembles even now,
Despite his coward smile, so faint and grim—
Trembles, as down she shuts her dinted brow,
And her eyes, closing, take slow aim at him.
And yet not wholly vanished is all grace;
One vein of love runs like a singing stream
Through all this scoriæ; and across her face,
Praise but her grandchild, shoots a sudden gleam,
As she strokes down his curled and tangled hair.
Touch him for harm,—the tiger from her lair
Is not more swift to spring, more wild to scream,
More fierce with hand and tongue to rend and tear.
One vein of love runs like a singing stream
227
Praise but her grandchild, shoots a sudden gleam,
As she strokes down his curled and tangled hair.
Touch him for harm,—the tiger from her lair
Is not more swift to spring, more wild to scream,
More fierce with hand and tongue to rend and tear.
Come, Zia Nica, fill a brimming glass!
Nay, sit not thus, your hands upon your knees,
But drain its red blood down unto the lees.
Yours is no heart to strike to an “alas”;—
Up! while the mandoline and thrummed guitar
Ring through the osteria's vaulted wall,
And all our glasses jar and voices call—
Hark to the echoes of the days afar!
Hands on your broad hips,—shuffle down the floor
A tottering salterello,—pipe once more
That old cracked voice,—and while the noisy jar
Of Passatello stops, and we who quaff
The rich red wine of Tonio's choicest bin,
Strike down our tumblers,—shriek out shrill and long
The quavering fragment of that wicked song,
And let us hear your wild defiant laugh
Closing the final strophe of its sin.
Then shall the black vault echo to the din,
The benches leap, the lumbering tables spring,
The brass lucerna's rattling pendants swing,
The hanging lamp in quivering circles shake,
And o'er the ceiling whirl its gleaming ring,
Ay, and the framed Madonna, shuddering, quake.
Nay, sit not thus, your hands upon your knees,
But drain its red blood down unto the lees.
Yours is no heart to strike to an “alas”;—
Up! while the mandoline and thrummed guitar
Ring through the osteria's vaulted wall,
And all our glasses jar and voices call—
Hark to the echoes of the days afar!
Hands on your broad hips,—shuffle down the floor
A tottering salterello,—pipe once more
That old cracked voice,—and while the noisy jar
Of Passatello stops, and we who quaff
The rich red wine of Tonio's choicest bin,
Strike down our tumblers,—shriek out shrill and long
The quavering fragment of that wicked song,
And let us hear your wild defiant laugh
Closing the final strophe of its sin.
Then shall the black vault echo to the din,
The benches leap, the lumbering tables spring,
The brass lucerna's rattling pendants swing,
228
And o'er the ceiling whirl its gleaming ring,
Ay, and the framed Madonna, shuddering, quake.
Up, Zia Nica! hear you not the strain?
Once you could dance. Old Tonio, stand aside.
Push back the benches! make the circle wide!
The music rouses the old strength again.
Ay! when this Tonio took her for his bride,
Was there, of all the maids on hill or plain,
One that with this fierce mænad could compare?
More firm of waist, with such black eyes and hair?
Once you could dance. Old Tonio, stand aside.
Push back the benches! make the circle wide!
The music rouses the old strength again.
Ay! when this Tonio took her for his bride,
Was there, of all the maids on hill or plain,
One that with this fierce mænad could compare?
More firm of waist, with such black eyes and hair?
Stand back! there 's danger in her eyes; for lo!
Upstarting with a sharp shriek from her seat,
With arms flung wide, and heavy shuffling feet,
Around the cleared space see her circling go.
Her trembling hands now twitching at her gown,
Now snapped aloft in air,—till, flushed with heat,
All reeking, panting, shaking, in her seat,
With open mouth, she drops, exhausted, down,
Crying—“Old Zia Nica 's not dead yet!”
To Zia Nica, then, your glasses drain!
And let the low room echo to the cry—
Eviva! and eviva! and again
Eviva!—may our Zia never die!
Upstarting with a sharp shriek from her seat,
With arms flung wide, and heavy shuffling feet,
Around the cleared space see her circling go.
Her trembling hands now twitching at her gown,
Now snapped aloft in air,—till, flushed with heat,
All reeking, panting, shaking, in her seat,
With open mouth, she drops, exhausted, down,
Crying—“Old Zia Nica 's not dead yet!”
To Zia Nica, then, your glasses drain!
And let the low room echo to the cry—
Eviva! and eviva! and again
Eviva!—may our Zia never die!
229
ROBA DI ROMA.
Julietta appears above at a balcony.
Romèo! Hist! Madonna, saints, and all!
How the man sleeps, stretched out beneath yon wall,
Deaf as the wall itself! I shall be missed
Before I make him hear. Romèo, hist!
Ah, well! Thank Heaven, I 've waked him up at last!
Quick, Mèo, catch this bottle I 've made fast
To this long cord! 'T is English wine, as strong
As aqua vitæ. Quick! don't be so long!
I found it in the pantry set away
For the great dinner that we give to-day.
And catch this package: there are candied pears
For your sweet tooth, and sugar cut in squares,
And other bomboms. Now, be off at once!
There, round the corner,—not that way, you dunce,
Or they will see you!—and come back at ten.
Who knows what I may find to give you then?
A rivederci caro, ah! va ben!
How the man sleeps, stretched out beneath yon wall,
Deaf as the wall itself! I shall be missed
Before I make him hear. Romèo, hist!
Ah, well! Thank Heaven, I 've waked him up at last!
Quick, Mèo, catch this bottle I 've made fast
To this long cord! 'T is English wine, as strong
As aqua vitæ. Quick! don't be so long!
I found it in the pantry set away
For the great dinner that we give to-day.
And catch this package: there are candied pears
For your sweet tooth, and sugar cut in squares,
And other bomboms. Now, be off at once!
There, round the corner,—not that way, you dunce,
Or they will see you!—and come back at ten.
Who knows what I may find to give you then?
A rivederci caro, ah! va ben!
That dear old Mèo mine,—what luck it was
That through the pantry I should chance to pass
Just when old Frangsaw had slipped out a minute,
And no one near to see! The saints were in it!
That through the pantry I should chance to pass
230
And no one near to see! The saints were in it!
Ah, well, he 's gone! I'll draw the water now.
All 's silent yet; but won't there be a row
When Frangsaw comes and finds, instead of ten,
There are nine bottles only! Well, what then?
He can't accuse me. Let him, if he dares!
I'll settle him, for all his mighty airs!
All 's silent yet; but won't there be a row
When Frangsaw comes and finds, instead of ten,
There are nine bottles only! Well, what then?
He can't accuse me. Let him, if he dares!
I'll settle him, for all his mighty airs!
Perhaps 't was not quite right to take the wine;
But then the fault was his as well as mine.
Why should he leave it there exposed to sight,
To tempt whoever saw it? 'T was not right!
Does not the Lord's own catechism say
No one should lead us in temptation's way?
And they who do so are in part to blame;
As we forgive them, let them do the same.
But then the fault was his as well as mine.
Why should he leave it there exposed to sight,
To tempt whoever saw it? 'T was not right!
Does not the Lord's own catechism say
No one should lead us in temptation's way?
And they who do so are in part to blame;
As we forgive them, let them do the same.
Besides, next Sunday I'll confess the whole
To Padre Giacomo,—the good old soul,
Old omnia sæcula, amen,—no doubt
He'll set all right, and smooth the matter out.
To Padre Giacomo,—the good old soul,
Old omnia sæcula, amen,—no doubt
He'll set all right, and smooth the matter out.
And then, again, I say enough 's enough!
Why should these rich signori swill and stuff,
While we, who toil and slave our life away,
Must live upon their leavings? Grazie.
It is not fair! It is not fair, I say!
There are five grand signori come to dine,
And want ten bottles, and they'll get but nine!
Dreadful to think of! How will they survive?
And how, then, on one bottle can we live?
I'm sure we only take what they can spare;
No one could call that stealing!
Hark! Who 's there?
That Mèo's not come back again, I hope!
No; 't was the old goat tugging at his rope.
All 's safe, thank Heaven!
Madonna, what a row!
That 's Frangsaw—who has missed the bottle now—
Screaming for me, and swearing at them all.
Vengo! I am not deaf,—I heard you call.
What is the matter? Blessed saints! I say
I hear you,—any one could, miles away.
I'm coming. Bottle? A black bottle?—Oh!
How in the name of mercy should I know?
I 've just come up to draw some water here.
Wine? I know nothing of your wine, mounseer!
It 's water that I'm drawing. Wine of cost?
Ten bottles were there, and one bottle lost?
How should I know, indeed? How can I tell
Where it has gone to? I'm here at the well
Drawing up water. Ten? Was it the wine
In those black bottles? Ten? There were but nine
When I last saw them. Oh, yes, that 's your way:
There 's not a thing you stupidly mislay
But some one stole it; 't is thief here, thief there,
When you 've missed anything. Why don't you swear
There were twelve bottles,—twenty! What is ten
In your outlandish lingo? Search me, then!
I steal your wine? I 've other work to do.
Thief, if there 's any one here thief, 't is you.
Why should these rich signori swill and stuff,
While we, who toil and slave our life away,
Must live upon their leavings? Grazie.
It is not fair! It is not fair, I say!
231
And want ten bottles, and they'll get but nine!
Dreadful to think of! How will they survive?
And how, then, on one bottle can we live?
I'm sure we only take what they can spare;
No one could call that stealing!
Hark! Who 's there?
That Mèo's not come back again, I hope!
No; 't was the old goat tugging at his rope.
All 's safe, thank Heaven!
Madonna, what a row!
That 's Frangsaw—who has missed the bottle now—
Screaming for me, and swearing at them all.
Vengo! I am not deaf,—I heard you call.
What is the matter? Blessed saints! I say
I hear you,—any one could, miles away.
I'm coming. Bottle? A black bottle?—Oh!
How in the name of mercy should I know?
I 've just come up to draw some water here.
Wine? I know nothing of your wine, mounseer!
It 's water that I'm drawing. Wine of cost?
Ten bottles were there, and one bottle lost?
How should I know, indeed? How can I tell
Where it has gone to? I'm here at the well
Drawing up water. Ten? Was it the wine
In those black bottles? Ten? There were but nine
When I last saw them. Oh, yes, that 's your way:
232
But some one stole it; 't is thief here, thief there,
When you 've missed anything. Why don't you swear
There were twelve bottles,—twenty! What is ten
In your outlandish lingo? Search me, then!
I steal your wine? I 've other work to do.
Thief, if there 's any one here thief, 't is you.
Who was it I was talking to below?
When? Nobody! I say there was n't. No!
Go look yourself, and see. You heard me say
Something to somebody? What was it, pray?
“Pst! via! quick, be off at once!” Oh, that?
That 's what you heard? You idiot! you flat!
Why, what I called to was the cat,—the cat!
When? Nobody! I say there was n't. No!
Go look yourself, and see. You heard me say
Something to somebody? What was it, pray?
“Pst! via! quick, be off at once!” Oh, that?
That 's what you heard? You idiot! you flat!
Why, what I called to was the cat,—the cat!
233
NINA.
DEDICATED TO M. E. B.
How bright, how glad, how gay,
To thee, O Nina, dear!
Day after day slipped smooth away,
Through childhood's simple joy and simple fear.
Strained by no adverse force,
Life, like a clear and placid stream
In some delightful clime,
Bearing the sky within it like a dream,
And all the fair reflected shapes of time,
Flowed on its gentle course!
How many a time, oppressed with gloom,
While sitting in my lonely room,
And toiling at my task,
Neglected, humble, wan with care,
Aspiring, hoping, though I did not dare
Fate 's laurelled prize to ask,
Have I been gladdened by that voice of thine,
Singing, perhaps, some trivial song of mine,
And listened, and looked up, and felt a thrill
Come o'er my heart—as over waters still
A light breeze flutters—and almost forgot,
Hearing that happy voice, my wretched lot.
Years went; the round and rosy face
Grew fairer, paler; and as Childhood went,
Came Maidenhood's more tender grace
And thoughtful sentiment:
And when the first soft airs of Spring
Wooed the flowers forth, and with a subtle fire
Stirred in the human heart a vague desire
For what life cannot bring,
Often I watched you moving to and fro
The alleys of the garden-plot below,
Your white gown 'mid the roses fluttering;
And now you paused to train some wandering spray
With almost a caress,
And now you plucked some last year's leaf away
That marred its perfectness;
Or where the lilies of the valley grew,
Like them as modest, sweet, and pale of hue,
You bent to breathe their odour, or to give—
Almost it seemed as if they must receive
From you a sweeter odour than they knew.
To thee, O Nina, dear!
Day after day slipped smooth away,
Through childhood's simple joy and simple fear.
Strained by no adverse force,
Life, like a clear and placid stream
In some delightful clime,
Bearing the sky within it like a dream,
And all the fair reflected shapes of time,
Flowed on its gentle course!
How many a time, oppressed with gloom,
While sitting in my lonely room,
And toiling at my task,
Neglected, humble, wan with care,
Aspiring, hoping, though I did not dare
Fate 's laurelled prize to ask,
Have I been gladdened by that voice of thine,
Singing, perhaps, some trivial song of mine,
And listened, and looked up, and felt a thrill
Come o'er my heart—as over waters still
A light breeze flutters—and almost forgot,
Hearing that happy voice, my wretched lot.
234
Grew fairer, paler; and as Childhood went,
Came Maidenhood's more tender grace
And thoughtful sentiment:
And when the first soft airs of Spring
Wooed the flowers forth, and with a subtle fire
Stirred in the human heart a vague desire
For what life cannot bring,
Often I watched you moving to and fro
The alleys of the garden-plot below,
Your white gown 'mid the roses fluttering;
And now you paused to train some wandering spray
With almost a caress,
And now you plucked some last year's leaf away
That marred its perfectness;
Or where the lilies of the valley grew,
Like them as modest, sweet, and pale of hue,
You bent to breathe their odour, or to give—
Almost it seemed as if they must receive
From you a sweeter odour than they knew.
Sometimes, as lingering there you walked along,
Humming half consciously some little song,
You paused, looked up, and saw me, mute and still,
Gazing upon you from my window-sill;
And with a voice, so glad and clear,
It rang like music on my ear—
You cried, “Antonio! look, Antonio, dear!”
Ah, happy memories!
They bring the burning tears into my eyes.
Oh, speak again, and say, “Antonio, dear!”
Ah, vanished voice! call to me once again!
Never! ah, never! in this world of pain,
No tone like thine my heart will ever thrill.
Humming half consciously some little song,
You paused, looked up, and saw me, mute and still,
Gazing upon you from my window-sill;
And with a voice, so glad and clear,
It rang like music on my ear—
You cried, “Antonio! look, Antonio, dear!”
235
They bring the burning tears into my eyes.
Oh, speak again, and say, “Antonio, dear!”
Ah, vanished voice! call to me once again!
Never! ah, never! in this world of pain,
No tone like thine my heart will ever thrill.
Oft when the spring its perfumed violets strewed
Along the greensward, 'neath the ilex wood
I strolled with you, how many an afternoon,
In the perfection of the early June—
Not owning to myself, as there we roved,
Not knowing, truly knowing, that I loved;
And all the while your pure young thought
So deeply in my inmost being wrought,
That it became a happy part of me—
And as it were a sweet necessity—
From which I wanted never to be free.
Along the greensward, 'neath the ilex wood
I strolled with you, how many an afternoon,
In the perfection of the early June—
Not owning to myself, as there we roved,
Not knowing, truly knowing, that I loved;
And all the while your pure young thought
So deeply in my inmost being wrought,
That it became a happy part of me—
And as it were a sweet necessity—
From which I wanted never to be free.
Yet never spoke I of my love; so slow,
So gently in my heart it grew,
That when it fully came I scarcely know—
Not bursting into rapture strange and new,
Splendour and perfume on the air to pour,
That from the sense was hidden in the bud
A little hour before;
But slowly rising, like a tide to brim
My being, widening ever more and more,
And deepening all my central life with dim
Unconscious fullness, till its joy ran o'er.
Then, when I knew at last,
How very dear thou wast,
I dared not trust my tongue to ease the load
Of love that lay upon my heart,
But lonely, silent, and apart,
Of you I dreamed—for you I hourly prayed—
Glad of my secret love, but how afraid!
So gently in my heart it grew,
That when it fully came I scarcely know—
Not bursting into rapture strange and new,
Splendour and perfume on the air to pour,
That from the sense was hidden in the bud
A little hour before;
But slowly rising, like a tide to brim
My being, widening ever more and more,
And deepening all my central life with dim
Unconscious fullness, till its joy ran o'er.
236
How very dear thou wast,
I dared not trust my tongue to ease the load
Of love that lay upon my heart,
But lonely, silent, and apart,
Of you I dreamed—for you I hourly prayed—
Glad of my secret love, but how afraid!
'T was but a child's affection that you bore
For me—a placid feeling—nothing more.
Across your heart, so gentle and serene,
The burning thrill of love had never been;
And Childhood scarce had given place
To Maidenhood's more subtle grace,
When Death, who darkly steals along
Amid the gentle and the strong,
When least we fear to see his face,
Paused, gazed at you, and took you for his own,
And all the joy from out of my life had flown—
And I was left of all bereft,
Too utterly alone.
For me—a placid feeling—nothing more.
Across your heart, so gentle and serene,
The burning thrill of love had never been;
And Childhood scarce had given place
To Maidenhood's more subtle grace,
When Death, who darkly steals along
Amid the gentle and the strong,
When least we fear to see his face,
Paused, gazed at you, and took you for his own,
And all the joy from out of my life had flown—
And I was left of all bereft,
Too utterly alone.
Will earth again renew
That simple love for me?—ah, no!
Spring comes again—again the roses blow—
But you—ah, me!—not you!
Oh, Nina! in your grassy grave
I buried what can never grow again;
Life but one perfect joy can have—
That in thy grave is lain!
That simple love for me?—ah, no!
Spring comes again—again the roses blow—
But you—ah, me!—not you!
Oh, Nina! in your grassy grave
I buried what can never grow again;
Life but one perfect joy can have—
That in thy grave is lain!
237
EVENING IN SUMMER.
Oh, love of mine, we sit beneath this tree,
We smile, and all is exquisite to see;
The moon, the earth, the heavens are all so fair,—
The very centre of the world are we.
We smile, and all is exquisite to see;
The moon, the earth, the heavens are all so fair,—
The very centre of the world are we.
And yet, 'neath all our happiness, there lie
Dim doubts and fears, for ever lurking nigh;
We are so happy now, one moment's space,
Then Love, and Life, and all take wing and fly.
Dim doubts and fears, for ever lurking nigh;
We are so happy now, one moment's space,
Then Love, and Life, and all take wing and fly.
Where shall we be a hundred years from now?
Where were we but a hundred years ago?
Behind, before, there hangs a solemn veil,—
What was, or shall be, neither do we know.
Where were we but a hundred years ago?
Behind, before, there hangs a solemn veil,—
What was, or shall be, neither do we know.
A passing gleam, called Life, is o'er us thrown,
Then swift we flit into the dark unknown;
As we have come we go,—no voice comes back
From that deep silence where we wend alone.
Then swift we flit into the dark unknown;
As we have come we go,—no voice comes back
From that deep silence where we wend alone.
Stay! stay! oh, ever-fleeing Time, thy flight!
Make this one happy moment infinite;
Now, while we touch the heavens, and stand on earth,
And Love makes mystical all sound and sight.
Make this one happy moment infinite;
Now, while we touch the heavens, and stand on earth,
And Love makes mystical all sound and sight.
238
No! the sad moon, so plaintive and so fair,
Hath seen how many here as now we are,
As happy in their perfectness of love,—
And seen, unmoved, as many in despair.
Hath seen how many here as now we are,
As happy in their perfectness of love,—
And seen, unmoved, as many in despair.
She will arise, and through the darkling trees
Gaze down, as now, through countless centuries,
While other lovers here shall breathe their vows,
When we have vanished like this passing breeze.
Gaze down, as now, through countless centuries,
While other lovers here shall breathe their vows,
When we have vanished like this passing breeze.
Oh, dreadful mystery! Thought beats its wings,
And strains against the utmost bound of things,
And drops exhausted back to earth again,
And moans, distressed by vague imaginings.
And strains against the utmost bound of things,
And drops exhausted back to earth again,
And moans, distressed by vague imaginings.
Each to himself, in all his hopes and dreams,
The very centre of creation seems;
And death and blank annihilation each
As some impossible vague terror deems.
The very centre of creation seems;
And death and blank annihilation each
As some impossible vague terror deems.
Yet, of the countless myriads that have gone,
The countless myriads that are coming on,
Are all immortal? Ah! the thought recoils
From that vast crowd of living, and sinks down.
The countless myriads that are coming on,
Are all immortal? Ah! the thought recoils
From that vast crowd of living, and sinks down.
But what if all in all be now and here?
The rest, illusions shaped by hope or fear,—
And thou and I, with all our life and love,
End like this insect that is fluttering near?
The rest, illusions shaped by hope or fear,—
And thou and I, with all our life and love,
End like this insect that is fluttering near?
239
If Virtue be a cheat, a child to soothe,
And Heaven a lie, invented but in ruth,
To hide the horror of eternal death,—
Knowing that madness would be born of Truth?
And Heaven a lie, invented but in ruth,
To hide the horror of eternal death,—
Knowing that madness would be born of Truth?
Who knows? who knows? Since God hath shut the door
That opens out into the waste before,
Vainly we peep and pry, vainly we talk,
And vain is all our logic and our lore.
That opens out into the waste before,
Vainly we peep and pry, vainly we talk,
And vain is all our logic and our lore.
What will be, will be, though we laugh or weep;
Love is the happy dream of Life's brief sleep.
And we shall wake at last, and know—or else
In death's kind arms find slumber—dreamless—deep.
Love is the happy dream of Life's brief sleep.
And we shall wake at last, and know—or else
In death's kind arms find slumber—dreamless—deep.
Ah, love! what then is left to us but Trust
That somewhat in us shall survive our dust;
That heaven shall be at last—and life and love
Be purified of all earth's dregs and must?
That somewhat in us shall survive our dust;
That heaven shall be at last—and life and love
Be purified of all earth's dregs and must?
Then let our life and thought no more be vext
By this dark problem—nor our hearts perplext
To solve the secret that torments us here;—
Love is earth's heaven—and we will wait the next.
By this dark problem—nor our hearts perplext
To solve the secret that torments us here;—
Love is earth's heaven—and we will wait the next.
240
GIULIETTA.
DEDICATED TO G. W. C.
Ah, how still the moonbeams lie
On the dreaming meadows!
How the fire-flies silently
Lighten through the shadows!
All the cypress avenue
Waves its tops against the blue,
As the wind slides whispering through—
He is late in coming!
On the dreaming meadows!
How the fire-flies silently
Lighten through the shadows!
All the cypress avenue
Waves its tops against the blue,
As the wind slides whispering through—
He is late in coming!
There 's the nightingale again!
He alone is waking;
Is it joy or is it pain
That his heart is breaking?
Bliss intense or pain divine?
Both of them, oh Love, are thine!
And this heart, this heart of mine,
With them both is thrilling.
He alone is waking;
Is it joy or is it pain
That his heart is breaking?
Bliss intense or pain divine?
Both of them, oh Love, are thine!
And this heart, this heart of mine,
With them both is thrilling.
From the deep dark orange-grove
Odourous airs are streaming,
Till my thoughts are faint with love—
Faint with blissful dreaming.
Through the slopes of dewy dells
Crickets shake their tiny bells,
And the sky's deep bosom swells
With an infinite yearning.
Odourous airs are streaming,
Till my thoughts are faint with love—
Faint with blissful dreaming.
Through the slopes of dewy dells
241
And the sky's deep bosom swells
With an infinite yearning.
On my heart the silent weight
Of this beauty presses;
Midnight, like a solemn Fate,
Saddens while it blesses.
All alone I cannot bear
This still night and odourous air,
Dearest, come, its bliss to share,
Or I die with longing.
Of this beauty presses;
Midnight, like a solemn Fate,
Saddens while it blesses.
All alone I cannot bear
This still night and odourous air,
Dearest, come, its bliss to share,
Or I die with longing.
I have listened at the doors,
All are calmly sleeping;
I alone for hours and hours
In the dark am weeping.
Only weeping can express
The mysterious deep excess
Of my very happiness,
Therefore I am weeping.
All are calmly sleeping;
I alone for hours and hours
In the dark am weeping.
Only weeping can express
The mysterious deep excess
Of my very happiness,
Therefore I am weeping.
Like a fountain running o'er
With its too great fulness,
Like a lightning-shivered shower
For the fierce noon's coolness,
Like an over-blossomed tree,
That the breeze shakes tenderly,
Love's excess falls off from me
In these tears of gladness.
With its too great fulness,
Like a lightning-shivered shower
For the fierce noon's coolness,
Like an over-blossomed tree,
That the breeze shakes tenderly,
Love's excess falls off from me
In these tears of gladness.
242
Ah, beloved! there you are!
I once more am near you;
Walk not on the gravel there,
Somebody may hear you.
Step upon the noiseless grass;
Oh! if they should hear you pass
We are lost, alas! alas!
We are lost forever!
I once more am near you;
Walk not on the gravel there,
Somebody may hear you.
Step upon the noiseless grass;
Oh! if they should hear you pass
We are lost, alas! alas!
We are lost forever!
Look! the laurels in the light
Seem with eyes to glisten;
All things peep and peer—and night
Holds its breath to listen.
Deeper in the shadow move,
For the moon looks out above,
I am coming to you, love,
In a moment coming.
Seem with eyes to glisten;
All things peep and peer—and night
Holds its breath to listen.
Deeper in the shadow move,
For the moon looks out above,
I am coming to you, love,
In a moment coming.
243
THE CHIFFONIER.
I am a poor Chiffonier!
I seek what others cast away!
In refuse-heaps the world throws by,
Despised of man, my trade I ply;
And oft I rake them o'er and o'er,
And fragments broken, stained, and torn,
I gather up, and make my store
Of things that dogs and beggars scorn.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
I seek what others cast away!
In refuse-heaps the world throws by,
Despised of man, my trade I ply;
And oft I rake them o'er and o'er,
And fragments broken, stained, and torn,
I gather up, and make my store
Of things that dogs and beggars scorn.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
You see me in the dead of night
Peering along with pick and light,
And while the world in darkness sleeps,
Waking to rake its refuse-heaps;
I scare the dogs that round them prowl,
And light amid the rubbish throw,
For precious things are hid by foul
Where least we heed and least we know.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
Peering along with pick and light,
And while the world in darkness sleeps,
Waking to rake its refuse-heaps;
I scare the dogs that round them prowl,
And light amid the rubbish throw,
For precious things are hid by foul
Where least we heed and least we know.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
No wretched and rejected pile,
No tainted mound of offal vile,
No drain or gutter I despise,
For there may lie the richest prize
And oft amid the litter thrown,
A silver coin—a golden ring
Which holdeth still its precious stone,
Some happy chance to me may bring.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
No tainted mound of offal vile,
No drain or gutter I despise,
For there may lie the richest prize
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A silver coin—a golden ring
Which holdeth still its precious stone,
Some happy chance to me may bring.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
These tattered rags, so soiled and frayed,
Were in a loom of wonder made,
And beautiful and free from shame
When from the master's hand they came.
The reckless world that threw them off
Now heeds them only to despise;
Yet, ah! despite its jeers and scoff,
What virtue still within them lies!
I am the poor Chiffonier!
Were in a loom of wonder made,
And beautiful and free from shame
When from the master's hand they came.
The reckless world that threw them off
Now heeds them only to despise;
Yet, ah! despite its jeers and scoff,
What virtue still within them lies!
I am the poor Chiffonier!
Yes! all these shreds so spoiled and torn,
These ruined rags you pass in scorn,
This refuse by the highway tost,
I seek that they may not be lost;
And, cleansed from filth that on them lies,
And purified and purged from stain,
Renewed in beauty they shall rise
To wear a spotless form again.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
These ruined rags you pass in scorn,
This refuse by the highway tost,
I seek that they may not be lost;
And, cleansed from filth that on them lies,
And purified and purged from stain,
Renewed in beauty they shall rise
To wear a spotless form again.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
245
AN ESTRANGEMENT.
How is it? It seems so strange;
Only a month ago
We were such friends; now there 's a change;
Why, I scarcely know;
I thought we were friends enough to say,
“We differ in this or the other way,
What matter?” It was not so.
Only a month ago
We were such friends; now there 's a change;
Why, I scarcely know;
I thought we were friends enough to say,
“We differ in this or the other way,
What matter?” It was not so.
I know not the how or why,
I only feel the fact;
Something hath happened to set us awry,
Something is sadly lacked,—
Something that used to be before,—
It seems to be nothing, I feel it the more;
Our vase is not broken, but cracked.
I only feel the fact;
Something hath happened to set us awry,
Something is sadly lacked,—
Something that used to be before,—
It seems to be nothing, I feel it the more;
Our vase is not broken, but cracked.
Friends? Oh, yes, we are friends;
The words we say are the same,
But there is not the something that lends
The grace, though it has no name.
When others are with us we feel it less;
When alone, there 's a sort of irksomeness,
And nobody to blame.
The words we say are the same,
But there is not the something that lends
The grace, though it has no name.
When others are with us we feel it less;
When alone, there 's a sort of irksomeness,
And nobody to blame.
246
I wish I could say, “Dear friend,
Tell me, what have I done?
Forgive me; let it be now at an end.”
But ah! we scarcely own
That aught has happened—or something so slight
'T is ghostlike, it will not bear the light,—
'T is only a change of tone.
Tell me, what have I done?
Forgive me; let it be now at an end.”
But ah! we scarcely own
That aught has happened—or something so slight
'T is ghostlike, it will not bear the light,—
'T is only a change of tone.
Suppose I should venture to say:
“Something,—oh! tell me what—
Troubles the heart's free play
That once existed not.”
All would be worse;—we must turn our back;
Pretend not to see that there is a crack
In our vase, on our love a blot.
“Something,—oh! tell me what—
Troubles the heart's free play
That once existed not.”
All would be worse;—we must turn our back;
Pretend not to see that there is a crack
In our vase, on our love a blot.
Once were it openly said,
It would strike us more apart.
Each, alas! would know that there laid
A stone at the other's heart.
But now we carry it each alone,
So we must hope to live it down,
Each one playing his part.
It would strike us more apart.
Each, alas! would know that there laid
A stone at the other's heart.
But now we carry it each alone,
So we must hope to live it down,
Each one playing his part.
It is not that I express
Less, but a little more,
A little more accent, a little more stress,
Which was not needed before.
Ah! would I could feel entirely sure
That it was not so—I should be truer,
If you were just as of yore.
Less, but a little more,
A little more accent, a little more stress,
Which was not needed before.
Ah! would I could feel entirely sure
That it was not so—I should be truer,
If you were just as of yore.
247
But I cannot give you up.
Ah! no, I am all to blame;
You were so kind, you filled my cup
With love,—and mine is the shame;
'T was some stupid, foolish word I said
Unwitting, I know, that must have bred
This something without a name.
Ah! no, I am all to blame;
You were so kind, you filled my cup
With love,—and mine is the shame;
'T was some stupid, foolish word I said
Unwitting, I know, that must have bred
This something without a name.
Was it not all a mistake?
Oh! porcelain friendship so thin,
It is so apt, so apt to break
And let out the wine from within;
But once it is injured the least, alack!
What hand so skilful to mend the crack,
And make it all whole again.
Oh! porcelain friendship so thin,
It is so apt, so apt to break
And let out the wine from within;
But once it is injured the least, alack!
What hand so skilful to mend the crack,
And make it all whole again.
248
THE BEGGAR.
I am but a beggar,
A wretch and an outcast;
No health in my body,
No joy in my spirit;
Despised and neglected,
Lame, crooked, and wretched,
I crawl at thy gateway
To wait for thy coming,
For I love thee, my glory,
My life, my beloved!
A wretch and an outcast;
No health in my body,
No joy in my spirit;
Despised and neglected,
Lame, crooked, and wretched,
I crawl at thy gateway
To wait for thy coming,
For I love thee, my glory,
My life, my beloved!
I wait for thy coming
All night at thy portals,
In my rags I await thee,
In sorrow and longing.
I watch the lights shining
And moving above me,
And my heart goes up to thee
In loving and longing,
For I love thee, my gladness,
My hope, my beloved!
All night at thy portals,
In my rags I await thee,
In sorrow and longing.
I watch the lights shining
And moving above me,
And my heart goes up to thee
In loving and longing,
For I love thee, my gladness,
My hope, my beloved!
I wait till thy portals
Swing wide in the morning,
And thou with thy splendors
Before us appearest
Desiring, yet fearing,
The sword of thy glances;
For how shall the outcast
Dare gaze at thy glory;
Yet I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my beloved!
Swing wide in the morning,
249
Before us appearest
Desiring, yet fearing,
The sword of thy glances;
For how shall the outcast
Dare gaze at thy glory;
Yet I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my beloved!
What have I to give thee
That thou shouldst accept me?
How dare I to hope, then,
That thou wilt not spurn me?
No goodness—no beauty
Is mine—and no riches,
But a human heart only
That praises and trembles;
For I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my salvation!
That thou shouldst accept me?
How dare I to hope, then,
That thou wilt not spurn me?
No goodness—no beauty
Is mine—and no riches,
But a human heart only
That praises and trembles;
For I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my salvation!
With the wretched I wander,
My life is uncleanly,
I yield to temptation,
And drink at the tavern;
Yet in the still foot-paths
Of thought I adore thee,
In the filth of my vices
I kneel down to praise thee;
For I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my salvation!
My life is uncleanly,
I yield to temptation,
And drink at the tavern;
Yet in the still foot-paths
Of thought I adore thee,
In the filth of my vices
I kneel down to praise thee;
For I love thee, my gladness,
My life, my salvation!
250
Each law of thy kingdom
I 've wilfully broken;
Without, I am abject,
Within, I am loathsome;
I ask not for justice,
For that would destroy me;
I cry for forgiveness,
Oh! save and forgive me;
For I love thee, and fear thee,
My life, my salvation!
I 've wilfully broken;
Without, I am abject,
Within, I am loathsome;
I ask not for justice,
For that would destroy me;
I cry for forgiveness,
Oh! save and forgive me;
For I love thee, and fear thee,
My life, my salvation!
251
THE MANDOLINATA.
The night is still, the windows are open,
The air with odours is sweet;
Hark! some one is humming the Mandolinata
Along the open street.
The Mandolinata! Ah me! as I hear it,
Before me you seem to rise
From the other world, with your gentle presence,
Your tender and smiling eyes.
The air with odours is sweet;
Hark! some one is humming the Mandolinata
Along the open street.
The Mandolinata! Ah me! as I hear it,
Before me you seem to rise
From the other world, with your gentle presence,
Your tender and smiling eyes.
How we jested together, and hummed together
That old and threadbare song,
With forced intonations and quaint affectations,
That ended in laughter long!
How oft in the morning beneath your window
I framed to it bantering words,
And heard from within your sweet voice answer
With a flute-tone like a bird's!
That old and threadbare song,
With forced intonations and quaint affectations,
That ended in laughter long!
How oft in the morning beneath your window
I framed to it bantering words,
And heard from within your sweet voice answer
With a flute-tone like a bird's!
And you opened your shutters and sang, “Good morning,
O Troubadour, gallant and gay!”
And I chanted, “O lovely and lazy lady,
I die of this long delay!
Oh, hasten, hasten!” “I'm coming, I'm coming,
Thy lady is coming to thee;”
And then you drew back in your chamber laughing—
Oh, who were so foolish as we?
O Troubadour, gallant and gay!”
And I chanted, “O lovely and lazy lady,
I die of this long delay!
Oh, hasten, hasten!” “I'm coming, I'm coming,
Thy lady is coming to thee;”
252
Oh, who were so foolish as we?
Ah me! that vision comes up before me;
How vivid and young and gay!
Ere Death like a sudden blast blew on you,
And swept life's blossoms away.
Buoyant of spirit, and glad and happy,
And gentle of thought and heart;
Ah! who would believe you were mortally wounded,
So bravely you played your part?
How vivid and young and gay!
Ere Death like a sudden blast blew on you,
And swept life's blossoms away.
Buoyant of spirit, and glad and happy,
And gentle of thought and heart;
Ah! who would believe you were mortally wounded,
So bravely you played your part?
We veiled our fears and our apprehensions,
With hopes that were all in vain;
It was only a sudden cough and spasm
Betrayed the inward pain.
In the midst of our jesting and merry laughter,
We turned aside to sigh,
Looked out of the window, and all the landscape
Grew dim to the brimming eye.
With hopes that were all in vain;
It was only a sudden cough and spasm
Betrayed the inward pain.
In the midst of our jesting and merry laughter,
We turned aside to sigh,
Looked out of the window, and all the landscape
Grew dim to the brimming eye.
And at last, one pleasant summer morning
When roses were all in bloom,
Death gently came with the wandering breezes
To bear your spirit home.
A smile on your lips—a tender greeting—
And all that was once so gay
Was still and calm, with a perfect sadness,
And you had passed away.
When roses were all in bloom,
Death gently came with the wandering breezes
To bear your spirit home.
A smile on your lips—a tender greeting—
And all that was once so gay
Was still and calm, with a perfect sadness,
And you had passed away.
253
THE EMPTY HALL.
Through the casement the wind is moaning,
On the pane the ivy crawls,
The fire is faded to ashes,
And the black brand, broken, falls.
On the pane the ivy crawls,
The fire is faded to ashes,
And the black brand, broken, falls.
The voices are gone, but I linger,
And silence is over all;
Where once there was music and laughter
Stands Death in the empty hall.
And silence is over all;
Where once there was music and laughter
Stands Death in the empty hall.
There is only a dead rose lying,
Faded and crushed on the floor;
And a harp whose strings are broken,
That Love will play no more.
Faded and crushed on the floor;
And a harp whose strings are broken,
That Love will play no more.
254
THE DESOLATION OF JERUSALEM.
They have crushed my pride! They have trampled me down in the dust!
Whither, O God, shall I flee?
To whom shall I turn?—in whom shall I put my trust?
In whom, O Jehovah, but Thee?
Whither, O God, shall I flee?
To whom shall I turn?—in whom shall I put my trust?
In whom, O Jehovah, but Thee?
For Famine and Pestilence enter through all my gates,
And dark Death stalks in the street,
And Murder at every corner skulks and waits,
And Justice has bloody feet!
And dark Death stalks in the street,
And Murder at every corner skulks and waits,
And Justice has bloody feet!
Thou hast trodden me down, and all I have loved is fled;
I have moaned till my soul is sore,
I have wept till my eyes are coals, and my heart is dead;
'T is useless to crush me more.
I have moaned till my soul is sore,
I have wept till my eyes are coals, and my heart is dead;
'T is useless to crush me more.
They have plucked the babe from my breast; the child in his play,
While he laughed, they have stricken down;
The grace of woman, and manhood's strength, and stay—
And age with its hoary crown.
While he laughed, they have stricken down;
255
And age with its hoary crown.
I have sinned—I deserve my Fate—yet hear me, O Lord!
Oh forgive them not who have set
Their feet on our necks, and Thy name and Thy law abhorred—
Whose hands with our blood are wet.
Oh forgive them not who have set
Their feet on our necks, and Thy name and Thy law abhorred—
Whose hands with our blood are wet.
Do unto them, O God, as they unto me and mine!
Crush them, and beat them down,
Like a tempest that swoops o'er the corn, and flays the vine
With its darkening thunder-frown.
Crush them, and beat them down,
Like a tempest that swoops o'er the corn, and flays the vine
With its darkening thunder-frown.
Mercy I do not demand for myself—and for them
No mercy—but justice, O Lord!
Let Thy swift sharp vengeance destroy them root and stem
With the lightning of its sword.
No mercy—but justice, O Lord!
Let Thy swift sharp vengeance destroy them root and stem
With the lightning of its sword.
I have sinned! I have sinned! Jehovah, Thou hidest Thy face;
But, prostrate here in the dust,
I adore Thee, the Holy One. Lift me in my disgrace,
Oh help me! in Thee I trust.
But, prostrate here in the dust,
I adore Thee, the Holy One. Lift me in my disgrace,
Oh help me! in Thee I trust.
256
The floods have all gone over me; nothing now
Can torture me more or worse;
Thy thunder hath crushed me flat, and Thine awful brow
Hath frowned, and I feel Thy curse.
Can torture me more or worse;
Thy thunder hath crushed me flat, and Thine awful brow
Hath frowned, and I feel Thy curse.
Not humbled by them, but quivering under the weight
Of Thy tremendous hand;
But Thou who hast punished wilt pardon! Thy pity is great!
Oh raise up this desolate land!
Of Thy tremendous hand;
But Thou who hast punished wilt pardon! Thy pity is great!
Oh raise up this desolate land!
I can wait, I can suffer, O Lord, for Thy law is just,
Though terrible is Thy wrath;
But this people is Thine, O Lord; in Thy promise they trust,
To guide them and show them the path.
Though terrible is Thy wrath;
But this people is Thine, O Lord; in Thy promise they trust,
To guide them and show them the path.
Thou shalt lift them at last when the debt of their sins is paid,
All paid to the uttermost groat;
And the balance shall turn in which their sins have been weighed,
And the collar be loosed from their throat.
All paid to the uttermost groat;
And the balance shall turn in which their sins have been weighed,
And the collar be loosed from their throat.
Years shall go by. They shall creep, they shall cringe, they shall crawl,
Abject in the eyes of men;
Loved by none, feared by few, but scorned and derided by all—
And then, O Jehovah, and then
Abject in the eyes of men;
257
And then, O Jehovah, and then
Thy voice shall be heard,—“Ye have drunk of the bitter cup,
Ye have drained it and drunk it down;
Come back, O my people, come back; I will lift you up,
And place on your heads the crown.
Ye have drained it and drunk it down;
Come back, O my people, come back; I will lift you up,
And place on your heads the crown.
“And joy shall again be yours, and triumph shall peal
And ring through your laughing ways;
And your strength shall be mine, and your battle be mine, and your steel,
And your glory be mine, and your praise.”
And ring through your laughing ways;
And your strength shall be mine, and your battle be mine, and your steel,
And your glory be mine, and your praise.”
258
AN ENGLISH HUSBAND TO HIS ITALIAN WIFE.
What a constant jealousy gnaws your heart!
It tires me out; day after day
Some little worry from nothing you start—
Something is hidden in what I say,
Something is hidden in what I do;
That heart of yours is never still,
It cannot be sure that I am true,
But spies and pries about for ill.
It tires me out; day after day
Some little worry from nothing you start—
Something is hidden in what I say,
Something is hidden in what I do;
That heart of yours is never still,
It cannot be sure that I am true,
But spies and pries about for ill.
Frankly I speak the whole of my mind
Once for all—let it serve or not:
I am not one of that showy kind,
Fair outside with an inward rot.
I love you! will not that suffice?
No! I must say it again and again,
And embroider it over with flatteries,
Or all I have said and done is vain.
Once for all—let it serve or not:
I am not one of that showy kind,
Fair outside with an inward rot.
I love you! will not that suffice?
No! I must say it again and again,
And embroider it over with flatteries,
Or all I have said and done is vain.
Trust me! trust my simple love!
If you suspect me, that love will die.
I cannot bear to be forced to prove
Every moment its honesty.
Ah! you say, I'm so still and cold!
Well! I cannot be other than what I am;
I cannot squander my lump of gold
As I could a little tinsel sham.
If you suspect me, that love will die.
I cannot bear to be forced to prove
Every moment its honesty.
Ah! you say, I'm so still and cold!
259
I cannot squander my lump of gold
As I could a little tinsel sham.
You your jewels must always wear;
What is their use if they are not shown?
I keep mine with a miser's care
And love to count them over alone.
I cannot abide that the world should observe.
What it thinks is nothing to me;
I was born with a sense of reserve
That is shocked by love's publicity.
What is their use if they are not shown?
I keep mine with a miser's care
And love to count them over alone.
I cannot abide that the world should observe.
What it thinks is nothing to me;
I was born with a sense of reserve
That is shocked by love's publicity.
You have a richer heart, if you will,
That scatters about its wide largess;
Your love a keeping like mine would kill,—
All that you feel you must express.
Your love seeks for the light and sun,
And gives its perfume to every breeze;
The bees get its honey—every one—
Its beauty whoever passes sees.
That scatters about its wide largess;
Your love a keeping like mine would kill,—
All that you feel you must express.
Your love seeks for the light and sun,
And gives its perfume to every breeze;
The bees get its honey—every one—
Its beauty whoever passes sees.
Mine, like a well, is still and deep:
Cold, you say it is, like a well;
But though like a brook it will not leap
And joy forever one tale to tell,
It still is real; and when the year
Hath silenced the brook with its shallow laugh
The well's cool waters will still be clear,
Where those who trusted may surely quaff.
Cold, you say it is, like a well;
But though like a brook it will not leap
And joy forever one tale to tell,
It still is real; and when the year
Hath silenced the brook with its shallow laugh
The well's cool waters will still be clear,
Where those who trusted may surely quaff.
260
I cannot, like Sarto, publish your face
In every Madonna, Sibyl, and Saint,
Or praise to the world your beauty and grace
In a thousand sonnets sweet and faint.
But this is the head's work more than the heart's:
Skill and genius they show, no doubt;
But the painter and poet may give to their Arts
What they leave their lady, perhaps, without.
In every Madonna, Sibyl, and Saint,
Or praise to the world your beauty and grace
In a thousand sonnets sweet and faint.
But this is the head's work more than the heart's:
Skill and genius they show, no doubt;
But the painter and poet may give to their Arts
What they leave their lady, perhaps, without.
Trust me, dear, with your eyes so black
And full of passion,—these eyes of blue,
Though your excess of expression they lack,
Are not the less sincere and true.
I cannot fondle you every hour
With many a pretty and gallant phrase,
Rain out my love as a cloud its shower,—
But trust me, and leave me my English ways.
And full of passion,—these eyes of blue,
Though your excess of expression they lack,
Are not the less sincere and true.
I cannot fondle you every hour
With many a pretty and gallant phrase,
Rain out my love as a cloud its shower,—
But trust me, and leave me my English ways.
261
BLACK EYES.
Those black eyes I once so praised
Now are hard and sharp and cold;
Where 's the love that through them blazed?
Where 's the tenderness of old?
All is gone—how utterly—
From its stem the flower has dropped.
Ah! how ugly Life can be
After Love from it is lopped!
Now are hard and sharp and cold;
Where 's the love that through them blazed?
Where 's the tenderness of old?
All is gone—how utterly—
From its stem the flower has dropped.
Ah! how ugly Life can be
After Love from it is lopped!
Do we hate each other now,
While we call each other dear?
On that faultless mouth and brow
To the world does change appear?
No! your smile is just as sweet,
Just as fair your outward grace;
But I look in vain to greet
The dear ghost behind the face.
While we call each other dear?
On that faultless mouth and brow
To the world does change appear?
No! your smile is just as sweet,
Just as fair your outward grace;
But I look in vain to greet
The dear ghost behind the face.
That is gone! I look on you
As a corpse from which has fled
All that once I loved and knew,
All that once I thought to wed.
'T is not your fault, 't is not mine;
Yet I still recall a dream
Of a joy almost divine—
'T was an image in a stream.
As a corpse from which has fled
All that once I loved and knew,
All that once I thought to wed.
'T is not your fault, 't is not mine;
Yet I still recall a dream
262
'T was an image in a stream.
Nothing can be sour and sharp
As a love that has decayed—
On the loose strings of the harp
Only discord can be made.
Cold this common friendship seems
After love's auroral glow;
On the broken stem of dreams
Only disappointments grow.
As a love that has decayed—
On the loose strings of the harp
Only discord can be made.
Cold this common friendship seems
After love's auroral glow;
On the broken stem of dreams
Only disappointments grow.
Do I hate you? No! Not hate?
Hate 's a word far too intense,
Too alive, to speak a state
Of supreme indifference.
Once, behind your eyes I thought
Worlds of love and life to see;
Now I see behind them nought
But a soulless vacancy.
Hate 's a word far too intense,
Too alive, to speak a state
Of supreme indifference.
Once, behind your eyes I thought
Worlds of love and life to see;
Now I see behind them nought
But a soulless vacancy.
Out and out I know you now;
There 's no issue of your heart
Where my soul with you may go
To a beauty all apart,
Where the world can never come.
'T is a little narrow place—
Friendship there might find a home;
Love would die—for want of space.
There 's no issue of your heart
Where my soul with you may go
To a beauty all apart,
Where the world can never come.
'T is a little narrow place—
Friendship there might find a home;
Love would die—for want of space.
263
So we live! The world still says,
“What expression in her eyes!
What sweet manners—graceful ways!”
How it would the world surprise
If I said, “This woman's soul
Made for love you think, but try;
Plunge therein—how clear and shoal!—
You might drown there—so can't I?”
“What expression in her eyes!
What sweet manners—graceful ways!”
How it would the world surprise
If I said, “This woman's soul
Made for love you think, but try;
Plunge therein—how clear and shoal!—
You might drown there—so can't I?”
264
ARTEMIS.
A slender shape of graceful mien,
With spirit tenderly serene
O'er which had never passed a storm;
In feeling pure, in impulse warm:
A face informed with serious light,
Too peaceful to be gayly bright,
Too young to know of pain and care,
Too slight their wearing weight to bear,
She passed before my dreaming eyes
When in the paling western skies
The young moon trembling strove to hide
Within the clear sky's luminous tide.
With spirit tenderly serene
O'er which had never passed a storm;
In feeling pure, in impulse warm:
A face informed with serious light,
Too peaceful to be gayly bright,
Too young to know of pain and care,
Too slight their wearing weight to bear,
She passed before my dreaming eyes
When in the paling western skies
The young moon trembling strove to hide
Within the clear sky's luminous tide.
Again to full expansion grown
We met when maidenhood had flown—
A noble sweetness lit her eyes,
Her look was calm as destiny's.
Pure, serious, grandly self-possessed,
Her passions rounded into rest,
She stood—and far above I saw
The full-orbed moon without a flaw
Walk through the chambers of the night
And comfort all the world with light.
Again, when youth and health had gone
I saw her pallid cheek and wan.
Life scarcely seemed to linger there
So visionary was her air,
And sweeter than all words can tell
The smile that ever said, “Farewell!”
Within her saintliness of mood
All joy, all passion was subdued,
And as she passed, far overhead
The morning twilight 'gan to spread,
While thin and white before the day
The waning moon paled fast away.
We met when maidenhood had flown—
A noble sweetness lit her eyes,
Her look was calm as destiny's.
Pure, serious, grandly self-possessed,
Her passions rounded into rest,
She stood—and far above I saw
The full-orbed moon without a flaw
Walk through the chambers of the night
And comfort all the world with light.
265
I saw her pallid cheek and wan.
Life scarcely seemed to linger there
So visionary was her air,
And sweeter than all words can tell
The smile that ever said, “Farewell!”
Within her saintliness of mood
All joy, all passion was subdued,
And as she passed, far overhead
The morning twilight 'gan to spread,
While thin and white before the day
The waning moon paled fast away.
266
NINA AND HER TREASURES.
Life, since you left me, love, has been but a trouble and pain,
I am always longing and praying to see your dear face again.
I am always longing and praying to see your dear face again.
Fate has been cruel and hard, and so many tears I have shed;
The heart is an empty nest for the rain, when love has fled.
The heart is an empty nest for the rain, when love has fled.
I am weary, so weary, of life, and the bitterest pang of all
Is to lie and think of the past, that nothing can ever recall;
Is to lie and think of the past, that nothing can ever recall;
To lie in the dark, and think and sob to myself alone,
Quietly, lest I should waken and grieve mamma with my moan.
Quietly, lest I should waken and grieve mamma with my moan.
Sometimes I stretch myself out, and think, as I lie on my bed,
Thus it will be with me, when I'm laid out stiff and dead.
Thus it will be with me, when I'm laid out stiff and dead.
267
Stay not away, O Death! Come soon and give me my rest,
With the calm lids over my eyes and my arms crossed over my breast.
With the calm lids over my eyes and my arms crossed over my breast.
Then perhaps he will come, and, gazing upon me, say,
Nina was good, and our love was an hour of a summer's day.
Nina was good, and our love was an hour of a summer's day.
Ah, yes, a day that the clouds overcast, ere the morning was done,
And whose noon was a dreary rain, with never a glimpse of sun.
And whose noon was a dreary rain, with never a glimpse of sun.
If he should stoop and kiss my lips, oh, if I were dead,
I think I should start to life, and rise up in my bed.
I think I should start to life, and rise up in my bed.
But what is the use of thinking, with all this work to do?
Oh, yes, mamma, I hear you; I'll come in a moment to you.
Oh, yes, mamma, I hear you; I'll come in a moment to you.
What am I doing? Nothing. I'm putting some things away;
No,—not the trinkets of Gigi. (Madonna, forgive me, I pray!)
No,—not the trinkets of Gigi. (Madonna, forgive me, I pray!)
268
Oh, no; you never will throw them into the river, I know.
Just wait till I find my needle, and then I'll come in and sew.
Just wait till I find my needle, and then I'll come in and sew.
Oh, this is the hardest of all,—to smile and to chatter lies,
While my heart is breaking and tears blind everything to my eyes.
While my heart is breaking and tears blind everything to my eyes.
When will there come an end, Madonna mia,—I say,
When will there come an end, and the whole world pass away?
When will there come an end, and the whole world pass away?
269
NEMESIS.
DEDICATED TO E. B. H.
Oppressed by pain, by grief subdued,
I closed at night my weary eyes,
When, in the dubious twilight dim
Betwixt reality and dream,
The awful shape of Nemesis—
The absolute—before me stood.
I closed at night my weary eyes,
When, in the dubious twilight dim
Betwixt reality and dream,
The awful shape of Nemesis—
The absolute—before me stood.
Her hands within her robes involved,
And folded square upon her breast,
Immovable, in perfect rest,
From sight of human eyes concealed
The dread decree of Fate she held,
By time and death to be resolved.
And folded square upon her breast,
Immovable, in perfect rest,
From sight of human eyes concealed
The dread decree of Fate she held,
By time and death to be resolved.
Severe was she in mood and mien,
Like one who never saw surprise;
Who, deaf alike to love or hate,
Or joy or fear, impassionate
Decreed the doom—decreed the prize—
Inexorable, yet serene.
Like one who never saw surprise;
Who, deaf alike to love or hate,
Or joy or fear, impassionate
Decreed the doom—decreed the prize—
Inexorable, yet serene.
270
“Oh! what hast thou for me in store
This side the shadow of the tomb?
Pronounce!” I cried, “or what shall be
The stern decree of destiny
When life and death alike are o'er?”
This side the shadow of the tomb?
Pronounce!” I cried, “or what shall be
The stern decree of destiny
When life and death alike are o'er?”
“Time is of destiny the womb,”
She answered. “Seek not to explore
What the eternal powers above
Conceal, in pity and in love,
Behind the Future's darkened door.
She answered. “Seek not to explore
What the eternal powers above
Conceal, in pity and in love,
Behind the Future's darkened door.
“Content within the present live!
Do the great duty of to-day!
Minute by minute the gods give,
Each unto each for man to lay—
Not to be scorned—nor thrown away.
Do the great duty of to-day!
Minute by minute the gods give,
Each unto each for man to lay—
Not to be scorned—nor thrown away.
“With love and justice build them close
By strenuous act and earnest will!
Nor let your wandering wishes loose
To anxious hopes or fears of ill—
So will you best time's task fulfil!
By strenuous act and earnest will!
Nor let your wandering wishes loose
To anxious hopes or fears of ill—
So will you best time's task fulfil!
“Pile not with vain regrets the grave
Of the irrevocable past!
Seize opportunity—enslave
The living moments while they last!
For Fortune meets half-way the brave.”
Of the irrevocable past!
Seize opportunity—enslave
The living moments while they last!
For Fortune meets half-way the brave.”
271
She ceased; and starting from my sleep,
I heard the roaring thunder, thrown
Far down from mountain steep to steep,
And dying in a distant groan,—
And waking, found myself alone.
I heard the roaring thunder, thrown
Far down from mountain steep to steep,
And dying in a distant groan,—
And waking, found myself alone.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |