The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell With Introductory Notice and Memoir by John Nichol |
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| VII. | SCENE VII. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell |  |
110
SCENE VII.
A lonely Spot. The turf-grown site of some old Roman Amphitheatre.A meeting of Minstrels. An aged Bard presides. The Monk enters.
The Monk
(to a Minstrel).
Sir,
I have walk'd far and crave a seat.
Minstrel
(to another).
His reverence
Is weary and would sit. Is it against
The statutes of our order?
Second Minstrel.
Holy Sir,
There are good feet that do not walk Parnassus.
Behold us here a minstrel convocation,
And deem it no irreverence if we say,
That in that company of bards a priest
Lacks civic rights.
The Monk.
Sir, thou art not yet free
Of that most holy guild. Thy soul hath yet
To learn the instinctive flight which cleaves the air
Of immortality. I do perceive
As yet it wings by sight. The dove that bears
The poet's message starts from that pure height
Where earthly fashions fade. Let common eyes
Read men in frock and cowl. The creeping thing
That harbours in the bark knows not the region
Where the fruit hangs. I hoped, Sirs, to find here
111
Another Minstrel.
And thou shalt.
Others.
Bravo! Well said. Hear Giulio!
Another.
This guitar,
Its face, Sir Priest, like mine, is brown with age;
Find me the newest dainty from Cremona
That dares a bar with it!
Another.
Or mine, and yet
'Twas the sole heritage my grandsire left.
Another.
Would we, Sir Priest, exchange these twisted entrails
For chords of gold?
Another.
Faith, I would string my lute
With hangman's hemp, if it made music.
Others.
Ay,
And I. And I. And I.
The President.
Sir and good father,
You see us here a humble company—
I speak the language of the world, Sir, nor
Affirming nor denying—(the wayfarer
Of many lands is not responsible
For each vernacular)—Sir, in what stature
We may be seen by the renewing angel
Some few years hence I say not, but you see us
Being what we are, met to pursue an art
Lightly esteem'd, but which to name divine
Is not the filial rapture of a son,
Since in the change of time it hath not changed;
Indigenous to all the earth. A spirit
112
To no magician yet. The equal tenant
Of loftiest palace and of lowliest cot,
Treading the rustic and the royal floor
To the same step and time. In every age,
With all the reverence that man claims as man,
Preaching to clouted clown, and with no more
To thronèd kings. The unrespective friend—
In such celestial wise as gods befriend—
By turns of haughtiest monarch, humblest swain;
And with impartial love and power alike
Ennobling prince and peasant. Giving all,
Receiving never. What else makes a god?
What human art looks so divine on earth?
And, as you tell us, seraphs in high heaven
Find nothing worthier. Sir, accept me well,
Let not these lutes, pipes, harps, and dulcimers,
And outward signs of the musician's trade,
Mis-teach you of us. Reverend Sir, believe not
That—priests of Harmony—our service knows
One only of her temples. Sir, we hope
One day to serve her where the ears of flesh
Cannot inherit; where material sounds
Enrobe no more her pure divinity.
And we, uncumber'd by the aids of sense,
Shall see, and in the silent universe
Adore her. Holy Sir, each minstrel here
Is poet also.
113
Canst thou tell me, friend
What 'tis to be a poet?
President.
Such the theme
Of this day's contest.
The Monk.
Let me strike a string
In such a strife.
President.
Read thou this riddle for us,
And, father, this my chair I abdicate,
And crown thee king of bards.
The Monk.
Nay, friend, forbear—
Prithee no kings. I would believe, good brother,
All honest here. Have you a kind harp, friends,
That for a stranger's sake will do sweet duty
In unaccustomed hands?
One.
Take mine.
Another.
Or mine.
Another.
Or mine.
Another
(aside).
Now, Sackcloth!
Another
(aside).
Look to hear Apollo
Discourse Church music!
Another
(aside).
To the buttery-hatch,
Ye strolling thrummers. 'Tis alms-giving day,
My life the godly almoner is good
At broken victuals. How many stale masses,
Crusts scriptural and classic bones——
Another.
Fie, Henri.
Thy wanton ditty!
114
Ingrate! wot I not
The priest was coming?
Another
(aside).
Hush, clean ears, clean ears,
A psalm at least!
Another.
Surely the Song of Songs.
Henri.
Ay, but no Solomon's.
Others.
Friends, friends, friends,
Silence.
The Monk sings.
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes—
No smile, no smile of rapture on his face;—
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes,
No fire, no fire of passion, in his eye;—
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes,
No flush, no prophet's flush, upon his cheek;—
Calm as the grand white cloud where thunders sleep,
Like a wrapt listener—not in vain to listen—
Feeling the winds with every sense to catch
Some far sound wandering in the depths of space,
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. [Interlude of music.
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes.
Ah Heaven! I hear! Again. Ah Heaven, I hear!
Again:—the vacant eyes are moist with tears!
Again:—they gleam with vision. Bending lower,
Crowding his soul upon the strings.—Again.
Hark, hark, thou heart that leapest! Ye thrill'd fibres!
See the triumphant minstrel in the dust,
To his own music. Hark! Angels in heaven
Catch it on golden harps! Down float their echoes
Richer than dews of Paradise. Inspired,
Tuning each chord to the enchanted key,
The poet sweeps the strings and wakes, awe-stricken,
The sounds that never die. From hill to hill
They vibrate round the world of time, as deep
Calleth to deep.
[Here the Monk ceases to sing.
No smile, no smile of rapture on his face;—
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes,
No fire, no fire of passion, in his eye;—
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes,
No flush, no prophet's flush, upon his cheek;—
Calm as the grand white cloud where thunders sleep,
Like a wrapt listener—not in vain to listen—
Feeling the winds with every sense to catch
Some far sound wandering in the depths of space,
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. [Interlude of music.
The poet bends above his lyre and strikes.
Ah Heaven! I hear! Again. Ah Heaven, I hear!
Again:—the vacant eyes are moist with tears!
Again:—they gleam with vision. Bending lower,
Crowding his soul upon the strings.—Again.
Hark, hark, thou heart that leapest! Ye thrill'd fibres!
See the triumphant minstrel in the dust,
115
Catch it on golden harps! Down float their echoes
Richer than dews of Paradise. Inspired,
Tuning each chord to the enchanted key,
The poet sweeps the strings and wakes, awe-stricken,
The sounds that never die. From hill to hill
They vibrate round the world of time, as deep
Calleth to deep.
But note like this stirs not
The wind of every day. And 'tis the ear
To know it, woo it, wait for it, and stand
Amid a Babel deaf to other speech,
That makes a poet. And from ear like this,
That troubling of the air which common men
Call harmony, falls unrespected off,
As balls from a charm'd life.
The wind of every day. And 'tis the ear
To know it, woo it, wait for it, and stand
Amid a Babel deaf to other speech,
That makes a poet. And from ear like this,
That troubling of the air which common men
Call harmony, falls unrespected off,
As balls from a charm'd life.
Hear yet again
A better parable. The good man hears
The voice in which God speaks to men. The poet,
In some wrapt moment of intense attendance,
The skies being genial and the earthly air
Propitious, catches on the inward ear
The awful and unutterable meanings
Of a divine soliloquy.
A better parable. The good man hears
The voice in which God speaks to men. The poet,
In some wrapt moment of intense attendance,
The skies being genial and the earthly air
Propitious, catches on the inward ear
The awful and unutterable meanings
Of a divine soliloquy.
Soul-trembling
With incommunicable things, he speaks
At infinite distance. So a babe in smiles
Repeats the unknown and unknowable
Joys of a smiling mother.
With incommunicable things, he speaks
At infinite distance. So a babe in smiles
116
Joys of a smiling mother.
President.
Victor, hail!
How say you, friends—a triumph?
Many.
Crown him, crown him!
The Monk.
Good friends, fair brothers, how have I deserved this?
Whose chattels have I seized, whose hearth profaned,
Whom have I slain, whose daughter have I ravish'd,
That you should cry of crowns?
President.
Sir, reverend Sir,
This chair of state is yours.
All.
Ascend, ascend!
The Monk.
Friends, brother bards, since thus you bid me call you,
With a long weary journey must I buy
The honours of this moment? When I spent
Those labours—all my wealth—they were disbursed
In the shrewd estimate that so much outlay
Invested in your wisdom could but yield
A goodly increase. Only on such venture
Prudence, the soul's stern sacristan, paid down
The perils of this pilgrimage. Which of you,
Receiving wherewithal to buy a harp,
Shall spend it on a chaplet? Which among you,
Playing the overture to some mild air
Of sweet attendance and humility,
Succeeds it with a march? My gentle friends,
117
Wiser as you may please—in all things else
No wit less humble. Sir, and my good father,
Resume the place of honour. These grey hairs
And time-taught looks beseem it. I beseech you,
Speak more at length. Methinks the chorister years
Must needs chant nobly in such reverend walls.
For me, I claim the seat of a disciple,
And if in any wise I have excell'd,
And I yet fear, dear friends, you do mistake
The stature of your courtesy for that
Of my desert—reward me, ere we part,
With one more hearing.
Many shout.
Ten! Agreed. Agreed.
Agreed. Long live the Monk. Well said!
President.
Companions,
You have heard the conqueror. While we have forgotten
Our wonted duties for this episode,
The unoblivious sun hath paused not once;
Our time is far spent, and five harps are still
Unstruck. Hath any brother yet unheard
Any unbaptized child of voice or lute
Born since our last song-feast, whereon he craves
Fraternal benediction? Let each such
Stand forth.
A Minstrel.
I have a tale of rural pity,
Set in a rustic measure to such music
As the uncertain winds, and rustling leaves,
118
Of them it sings. A very simple sorrow,
To be heard only in the silent hours
It sigh'd in. Use it gently, Sirs; I call it
‘The Winter's Night.’
President.
Acquit thee, brother!
All.
Hear!
Minstrel
sings.
And she stood at its father's gate,
At its father's gate she stood,
With her baby at her breast;
'Twas about the hour of rest—
There were lights within the place—
The old moon began to sink,
(Long, like her, upon the wane,)
It grew dark; she drew her hood
Close about her pallid face;
At the portal down she sate,
Where she will not sit again.
‘Little one,’ she slowly said,
Bending low her lowly head,
‘In all this wide world only thee,
And my shame, he gave to me.
When thou camest I did think
On that other gift of his—
Hating that I dreaded this.
Thou art fair—but so was he;
'Tis a winning smile of thine,—
Ah! what fatal praise it is!—
One such smile once won all mine.
Little one, I not repine,
It befits me well to wait
My lord's will, till I be dead—
Once it was a gentler will!’
At its father's gate she stood,
With her baby at her breast;
'Twas about the hour of rest—
There were lights within the place—
The old moon began to sink,
(Long, like her, upon the wane,)
It grew dark; she drew her hood
Close about her pallid face;
At the portal down she sate,
Where she will not sit again.
‘Little one,’ she slowly said,
Bending low her lowly head,
‘In all this wide world only thee,
And my shame, he gave to me.
When thou camest I did think
On that other gift of his—
Hating that I dreaded this.
Thou art fair—but so was he;
'Tis a winning smile of thine,—
Ah! what fatal praise it is!—
119
Little one, I not repine,
It befits me well to wait
My lord's will, till I be dead—
Once it was a gentler will!’
With that, a night-breeze full chill,
Shook some dead leaves from the lime;
At the sad sound, loud and burly
Like a warder, went the blast
Round about the lordly house;
Hustled her with menial wrath,
Much compelling forth her cast,
Who was all too fain to go;
She sank down upon the path—
She cower'd lower, murmuring low,
‘What was I that I should earn,
For I loved him, more return
Than I look'd for of the sun,
When he smiled upon me early
In our merry milking-time?’
Shook some dead leaves from the lime;
At the sad sound, loud and burly
Like a warder, went the blast
Round about the lordly house;
Hustled her with menial wrath,
Much compelling forth her cast,
Who was all too fain to go;
She sank down upon the path—
She cower'd lower, murmuring low,
‘What was I that I should earn,
For I loved him, more return
Than I look'd for of the sun,
When he smiled upon me early
In our merry milking-time?’
Then was silence all; the mouse
Rustled with the beechen mast,
The lank fox yelp'd round, the owl
Floating, shriek'd pale horror past;
Strange and evil-omen'd fowl
Croak'd about her, and knew not.
Round her had the last bat fed.
‘Little one,’ she said, ‘the cot
Where I bore thee was too low
For a haughty baron's bride.
Little one, I hope to go
Where the palace-halls are wide;
When thou prattlest at his knee,
Wilt thou sometimes speak of me?
Tell him, in some eve,’ she said,
‘Where thou knowest I shall be.
When he hears that I am grand,
In those mansions ever fair,
Will he look upon me there
As a lady of the land,
And think no more in scorn
Upon thee and on the dead?’
All below the garden banks,
Where the blighted aspens grew,
Faded leaves faint breezes blew,
As in pity, round her. Then
Low whispering in her plaintive plight,
Her shivering babe she nearer nurst.
‘'Tis a bitter night,’ said she,
‘Little one, a dreary night.
Little shalt thou bless the first,
Pass'd upon thy father's ground.
Ay! cower closer in thy nest,
Birdie! that didst never build.
There is warmth enough for thee,
Though the frost shall split the tree
Where it rocks.’
‘Little one,’ she said again,
‘Babe,’ she said, ‘my little son,
Thou and I at last must part;
There is in my freezing heart
Only life enough for one.
By the crowing of the cocks,
Early steps will tread the way,
Could mine arms but wrap thee round
Till the dawning of the day!’
Silent then she seem'd to pray,
Then she spoke like one in pain,
‘Little one, it shall be done,
I will keep thee back no more;
It were sweet to go together,
If thou couldst be mine alone;
As it is I must restore
Treasure not mine own.
All the gift and the sweet thanks
Will be over by to-morrow.
He must weep some tears to see
What at morn they will bring in
Where she dared not living come.
He will take thee to his home,
And bless the mother in the child.
Little one, 'tis sweet to me,
Who once gave him all I had—
Hoped it duty, found it sin—
Once more to give all, but now
Take no shame, and no more sorrow
Than a death-pang sets at rest.’
Closer then her babe she prest,
Chiller sank the wintry weather.
Once again the owl cried near,
Once more croak'd the strange night-bird;
From the stagnance of the fosse
Lorn pale mists, like winding-gear,
Hung about her and look'd sad;
Then the blast, that all this while
Slumber'd by a freezing fountain,
Burst out rudely, like a prince
From a midnight revel rushing,
In his train a thousand airs,
Each ambitious of his guilt,
Each as cruel, cold and wild,
Each as rugged, chill and stark,
Hurtled round their leader crushing
All the fretwork of the dark;
Frosty palace, turret and tower,
Mosque and arabesque, mist-built
By winter-fairies. Then, grown gross
With the licence of the hour,
They smote the mother and the child!
Dark night grew darker, not a smile
Came from one star. The moon long since
Had sunk behind the mountain.
At the mirkest somewhat stirred
The sere leaves, where the mother sate;
For a moment the babe cried,
Something in the silence sigh'd,
And the night was still. Oh fate!
What hadst thou done? Oh that hard sight
Which morn must see! When Winter went
About the earth at dawn, he rent
His locks in pain, and cast grey hairs
Upon it as he past. So when
Maids, poor mother, wail thy lot—
Mournful at the close of day—
By that legendary spot
Oft they tell us, weeping, how
Hoar frost lay on thy pale brow
When they found thee, and was not
Paler than the clay.
Rustled with the beechen mast,
The lank fox yelp'd round, the owl
Floating, shriek'd pale horror past;
Strange and evil-omen'd fowl
Croak'd about her, and knew not.
120
‘Little one,’ she said, ‘the cot
Where I bore thee was too low
For a haughty baron's bride.
Little one, I hope to go
Where the palace-halls are wide;
When thou prattlest at his knee,
Wilt thou sometimes speak of me?
Tell him, in some eve,’ she said,
‘Where thou knowest I shall be.
When he hears that I am grand,
In those mansions ever fair,
Will he look upon me there
As a lady of the land,
And think no more in scorn
Upon thee and on the dead?’
All below the garden banks,
Where the blighted aspens grew,
Faded leaves faint breezes blew,
As in pity, round her. Then
Low whispering in her plaintive plight,
Her shivering babe she nearer nurst.
‘'Tis a bitter night,’ said she,
‘Little one, a dreary night.
Little shalt thou bless the first,
Pass'd upon thy father's ground.
Ay! cower closer in thy nest,
Birdie! that didst never build.
121
Though the frost shall split the tree
Where it rocks.’
‘Little one,’ she said again,
‘Babe,’ she said, ‘my little son,
Thou and I at last must part;
There is in my freezing heart
Only life enough for one.
By the crowing of the cocks,
Early steps will tread the way,
Could mine arms but wrap thee round
Till the dawning of the day!’
Silent then she seem'd to pray,
Then she spoke like one in pain,
‘Little one, it shall be done,
I will keep thee back no more;
It were sweet to go together,
If thou couldst be mine alone;
As it is I must restore
Treasure not mine own.
All the gift and the sweet thanks
Will be over by to-morrow.
He must weep some tears to see
What at morn they will bring in
Where she dared not living come.
He will take thee to his home,
And bless the mother in the child.
Little one, 'tis sweet to me,
122
Hoped it duty, found it sin—
Once more to give all, but now
Take no shame, and no more sorrow
Than a death-pang sets at rest.’
Closer then her babe she prest,
Chiller sank the wintry weather.
Once again the owl cried near,
Once more croak'd the strange night-bird;
From the stagnance of the fosse
Lorn pale mists, like winding-gear,
Hung about her and look'd sad;
Then the blast, that all this while
Slumber'd by a freezing fountain,
Burst out rudely, like a prince
From a midnight revel rushing,
In his train a thousand airs,
Each ambitious of his guilt,
Each as cruel, cold and wild,
Each as rugged, chill and stark,
Hurtled round their leader crushing
All the fretwork of the dark;
Frosty palace, turret and tower,
Mosque and arabesque, mist-built
By winter-fairies. Then, grown gross
With the licence of the hour,
They smote the mother and the child!
Dark night grew darker, not a smile
123
Had sunk behind the mountain.
At the mirkest somewhat stirred
The sere leaves, where the mother sate;
For a moment the babe cried,
Something in the silence sigh'd,
And the night was still. Oh fate!
What hadst thou done? Oh that hard sight
Which morn must see! When Winter went
About the earth at dawn, he rent
His locks in pain, and cast grey hairs
Upon it as he past. So when
Maids, poor mother, wail thy lot—
Mournful at the close of day—
By that legendary spot
Oft they tell us, weeping, how
Hoar frost lay on thy pale brow
When they found thee, and was not
Paler than the clay.
A Minstrel.
A grievous tale!
The Monk.
Where's he that dares to say so?
Liar! thou art not grieved. Any vile Austrian
May serve thy sister so to-morrow night,
And he that wears the longest sword among ye
Shall fear to draw it!
A young Minstrel.
Here's my blade! Show me
The bloodless German!
The Monk.
Youth! respect thy master!
124
Be bloodless? He hath blood enough to rule thee!
Tut! sheath thy maiden sword—leave pantomime
To puppets—I but said thou art not grieved.
And I said well. Such thews as thine being grieved
Ne'er yet were idlers. Tut, tut, man, be grateful,
Thine owner feeds thee well. I never saw
A sleeker slave.
The Minstrel.
Slave!
President.
Friends, friends, friends, I pray you,
Silence. Benvolio's song!
A Minstrel.
I have a fancy
About a rose; sung on the morn I saw
My mother's first grey hair. Let your harsh thoughts
Breathe gently on it—it is overblown.
Oh maiden! touch gently the rose overblown,
And think of the mother thy childhood hath known;
Smile not on the buds that exult from her stem,
Lest her pallor grow paler that thou lovest them.
From their beauties, oh maid, each bright butterfly chase,
'Till his duties are paid to that dew-faded face,
And forbid the gay bee one deceitful sweet tone,
Till his vows are all said to the rose overblown.
Sorrow, oh maid, is more grateful than bliss,
Rosebuds were made for the light breeze to kiss.
And woo how thou wilt in the soft hope to see
Some bright bursting blossom that blooms but for thee,
Weep thy fond wish, thou shalt look up to find
Thy tears worn as gems to beguile the next wind.
Turn then thine eyes to the rose overblown,
Speak of its place in a tremulous tone,
Sigh to its leaves as they fall one by one,
And think how the young hopes the heart used to own
Are all shedding fast—like the rose overblown.
Yes, turn in thy gloom to the rose overblown,
Reverently gather each leaf that hath gone,
Watch every canker and wail every streak,
As thou countest the lines on thy mother's dim cheek;
Twilight by twilight, and day after day,
Keep sweet attendance on sweeter decay.
When all is over weep tears—two or three—
And perchance long years hence, when the grass grows o'er thee,
Fond fragrant tribute to days long by-gone,
Shall be shed on thy grave by some rose overblown.
The Monk.
And think of the mother thy childhood hath known;
Smile not on the buds that exult from her stem,
Lest her pallor grow paler that thou lovest them.
From their beauties, oh maid, each bright butterfly chase,
'Till his duties are paid to that dew-faded face,
And forbid the gay bee one deceitful sweet tone,
Till his vows are all said to the rose overblown.
Sorrow, oh maid, is more grateful than bliss,
Rosebuds were made for the light breeze to kiss.
And woo how thou wilt in the soft hope to see
Some bright bursting blossom that blooms but for thee,
125
Thy tears worn as gems to beguile the next wind.
Turn then thine eyes to the rose overblown,
Speak of its place in a tremulous tone,
Sigh to its leaves as they fall one by one,
And think how the young hopes the heart used to own
Are all shedding fast—like the rose overblown.
Yes, turn in thy gloom to the rose overblown,
Reverently gather each leaf that hath gone,
Watch every canker and wail every streak,
As thou countest the lines on thy mother's dim cheek;
Twilight by twilight, and day after day,
Keep sweet attendance on sweeter decay.
When all is over weep tears—two or three—
And perchance long years hence, when the grass grows o'er thee,
Fond fragrant tribute to days long by-gone,
Shall be shed on thy grave by some rose overblown.
We are a wealthy people
In all the faculties of woe. We have
Our sighs for roses, elegies for sparrows,
And seas of salt tears for deceased gold-fish;
We eat our pet lambs in a mourning robe,
And bury gamecocks with ‘the point of war.’
And since we weep no tears for thee, my country,
It needs must be thou hast deserved thy death.
Rome, Rome! I was deceived; I thought thee murder'd.
Ay, foully, foully murder'd!
126
Thou hast thought
Well.
Others.
Bravo, Pietro!
Others.
Hear him!
The Monk.
This is treason.
A priest, I cannot hear my sovereign slander'd!
One word more, I denounce you!
The President.
Friends, attend!
Silence!
Vicenzo, venerable brother,
Methinks I heard thy harp. Its youthful strings
Sound to me through the music of those years,
Those threescore years, since first we play'd together,
As the dear voice of a beloved girl,
In virgin throng of louder choristers,
While all the troop contend before the ear,
Passeth alone and free to the hid heart.
Dreaming of youth doth make me young again!
Friend, thou hast been a man of grief, and though
My dream of thy first music be a dream,
Thy sounds to-day are sweeter. Such a touch
Hath gracious wisdom. The great harmony
Of a most sad sweet life hath been play'd out
Upon those strings, and sympathetic chords
Repeat it. Holy brother, there are some
In this good company who know thee not.
Forego the privilege of years, and lift,
A moment, all the mantle from thine heart.
Our eyes are blind with noonday, and our brows
Ache with the tropics. Let us with chaste awe
Stand in the mellow evening of thy voice,
Before the old man's soul—the rayless sun
Seen through the mist of sorrows.
Methinks I heard thy harp. Its youthful strings
Sound to me through the music of those years,
Those threescore years, since first we play'd together,
As the dear voice of a beloved girl,
In virgin throng of louder choristers,
While all the troop contend before the ear,
Passeth alone and free to the hid heart.
Dreaming of youth doth make me young again!
Friend, thou hast been a man of grief, and though
My dream of thy first music be a dream,
Thy sounds to-day are sweeter. Such a touch
Hath gracious wisdom. The great harmony
Of a most sad sweet life hath been play'd out
Upon those strings, and sympathetic chords
Repeat it. Holy brother, there are some
In this good company who know thee not.
Forego the privilege of years, and lift,
A moment, all the mantle from thine heart.
127
Ache with the tropics. Let us with chaste awe
Stand in the mellow evening of thy voice,
Before the old man's soul—the rayless sun
Seen through the mist of sorrows.
Thanks, dear brother,
That strain replies. I hear it, like a chime
To vespers.
Vicenzo.
That strain replies. I hear it, like a chime
To vespers.
Friend, why is thy speech of ‘brothers?’
My brother died. I heard last night, in the dark,
How the first Christians spake to one who went
Where I shall soon behold him.
Some.
Good Vicenzo!
Others.
Hear!
Others.
Hear Vicenzo.
Vicenzo.
Clamorous sirs, you are wise.
Give your praise now. You will need all your silence
When I have sung. The men of whom I speak
Lived by the prime tradition, ere the hands
Of ages soil'd it, or the guilt that shrunk
Before that bare intolerable witness
Bound it in gems and purple. Sirs, my lay
Is simple as their faith.
[He sings.
Brother, there is a vacant spot within our holy band,
And poorer is our earthly lot by one strong heart and hand.
Yet, brother, it were ill to weep, when life hath been so drear,
That we are left alone to keep its painful vigil here.
'Twere ill if thou hast trod the way to count the labouring hours,
Or mourn that sorrow fill'd thy cup with hastier hand than ours.
Sleep softly by thy bending tree, till death's long sleep be o'er,
That thou canst not remember, we remember thee the more.
Sleep softly,—that thine heart hath pass'd through all death's deep distress,
To such calm rest as now thou hast, shall make us dread it less.
Sleep softly, brother, sleep. But oh, if there are hopes more blest
Than sleep, where seasons come and go about a dreamless rest;
If we may deem this grave a shrine which summer rites observe,
Where autumn pours the votive wine, and white-robed winters serve;
If we may think that those who now sit side by side with God,
Have sent for thee to ask thee how we tread the path they trod;
Oh, brother, if it be not sin when God hath broke the chain
Of earthly thought, to bind thee in its fever'd links again,
This much of all that earth did know, and all that life hath given,
The sadness of our love below bequeathes thy bliss in heaven;
Remember what the bounden bear, though thou for aye art free,
And speak of us as kindly there, as here we think of thee.
And poorer is our earthly lot by one strong heart and hand.
128
That we are left alone to keep its painful vigil here.
'Twere ill if thou hast trod the way to count the labouring hours,
Or mourn that sorrow fill'd thy cup with hastier hand than ours.
Sleep softly by thy bending tree, till death's long sleep be o'er,
That thou canst not remember, we remember thee the more.
Sleep softly,—that thine heart hath pass'd through all death's deep distress,
To such calm rest as now thou hast, shall make us dread it less.
Sleep softly, brother, sleep. But oh, if there are hopes more blest
Than sleep, where seasons come and go about a dreamless rest;
If we may deem this grave a shrine which summer rites observe,
Where autumn pours the votive wine, and white-robed winters serve;
If we may think that those who now sit side by side with God,
Have sent for thee to ask thee how we tread the path they trod;
129
Of earthly thought, to bind thee in its fever'd links again,
This much of all that earth did know, and all that life hath given,
The sadness of our love below bequeathes thy bliss in heaven;
Remember what the bounden bear, though thou for aye art free,
And speak of us as kindly there, as here we think of thee.
The Monk.
‘Remember what the bounden bear!’
Old man,
We cannot sing this song. There may be lands
Where chains are heavy. Here in Italy
We wear them as the draught-ox wears his bells—
One.
We cannot sing this song. There may be lands
Where chains are heavy. Here in Italy
We wear them as the draught-ox wears his bells—
Priest!
The Monk.
Hark that martial strain! Ye Gods, do all
Dead tongues cry out at once?
A Minstrel.
You Romans! see
The vision of Quirinus!
The Monk.
Ha, ha, ha!
The Minstrel
(sings)
Who shall say what thoughts of glory life's mean
paths unhonour'd tread,
Like those rays of distant suns, that pass us, viewless, overhead?
For the heaviest heart that sleepeth hath its heavy sleeping dream,
Like the dull light on the ripple of a duller twilight stream;
But, oh poet, if the dullard hath a soul beyond thy ken,
Who shall paint the hero's vision, who among the sons of men?
Who shall paint him, wrapt and lonely, when the god within him speaks,
And the passing skirts of Fate smite the blood into his cheeks;
When the future on the ocean of his great soul hangs like night,
And some hull of thought comes ploughing all its midseas into light?
Who shall paint him leaning on the Present, standing on the Past,
Gazing o'er the furthest Future deep into the stormy Last;
Gazing where on the remotest verge the nether mists are riven,—
A giant with an oak-tree staff, looking from sea-sands to heaven? [Interlude of music.
One dull day of indolence, the new-thatch'd city being all built,
On his sheath'd sword bent Quirinus, with his hand upon the hilt.
Round the sun's hid place on high all the stolid heaven was dead,
All the flat-floor'd earth below him look'd a temple domed with lead;
Not a voice from all the forests! not a beam from all the floods!
Sadder for that early autumn, like cold sunshine, lit the woods.
Far, the arms of Latian hills held on high a city of power;
With the eye of lust Quirinus burnt its beauties tower by tower,
Till the conscious Latian hills, jealous of the conqueror's mien,
Proudly drew the mists of morning, decent, round the ravish'd scene.
Waking from the imperial dream, said Quirinus, looking towards Rome,
‘So the mist of time descending hides me from the years to come!’
Near, below, a rushing torrent its long dance of beauty led,
And a forest beast of grandeur cross'd it with a stately tread;
Golden ran the rapid river gleaming though the skies were cold,
Far into the Sabine distance, mantling with its sands of gold.
Said Quirinus, sad, but proudly, gazing with a look sublime,
‘Gods! so fording life, would I send golden sands down streams of time!’
He look'd up to heaven, and he look'd down upon the river strand:
Smiling through the crystal water, shining lay the untroubled sand.
Said Quirinus, proud, but sadly, gazing upon frith and firth,
‘Gods! so shall the tide of ages rase my footsteps from the earth!’
Sat the sun in his pavilion; the dark drapery, stern and even,
Hanging earthward. Before noon the west winds dancing through high heaven,
Fill'd with sudden mirth, drew back the giant folds with hands profane;
Pleased he saw the earth, and like a young hot prince began to reign.
All this while Quirinus bent heroic eyes that could not weep,
On a tear of dew that lay dull amid the grass asleep;
Even while he gazed a sunbeam, slanting from its radiant path,
Dipt into the dew, and came forth like a goddess from the bath.
Then Quirinus—‘That such lot were mine, ye arbiters afar!
Gods! ye touch the sleeping water and it wakens to a star!’
While he looks the sun is higher, while he looks the star grows old,
While he looks, the dews are lying, as the dews lie, dead and cold.
Then Quirinus—all the hero looking sadness while he said,
‘Gods! so shall the sun of glory one day leave me cold and dead!’
Then he gazed, as heroes gaze, upon whom,—conscious,—earth and skies
Seem gazing back. To their live silence all his living soul replies,
‘Thou who knowest me, whom thus I know,—Eternal as thou art,
Oh thou visible! how is it with me in thy silent heart?’
Then the rock beside him crumbled in the noon-heat stone by stone,
‘Gods! the very earth may rot ere a fame like mine be grown!’
Then a salt wind—like a sea-ghost sick of land—faint voices bore,
‘Gods! but once to hear the ages booming on the future shore!’
Then he look'd the sun in the face, like an eagle in his death-sorrow.
‘Gods! the very stars themselves are nearer to us than to-morrow!’
Then in rapture, all the godhead of his line about his brow—
‘Mother! Dionæan Mother! that the years to come were now!’
Soft Idalian incense laid him languid on the amorous sod.
At the softest a great thunder shook the mountain like a god.
Starting from the Paphian trance, the hero leap'd in the sunlight,
All his sudden soul o'erlooking the dull sense of mortal sight;
Staring, staring in the air, high over the Roman town,
Staring, staring pale and deadly where the future years came down.
Like those rays of distant suns, that pass us, viewless, overhead?
For the heaviest heart that sleepeth hath its heavy sleeping dream,
Like the dull light on the ripple of a duller twilight stream;
130
Who shall paint the hero's vision, who among the sons of men?
Who shall paint him, wrapt and lonely, when the god within him speaks,
And the passing skirts of Fate smite the blood into his cheeks;
When the future on the ocean of his great soul hangs like night,
And some hull of thought comes ploughing all its midseas into light?
Who shall paint him leaning on the Present, standing on the Past,
Gazing o'er the furthest Future deep into the stormy Last;
Gazing where on the remotest verge the nether mists are riven,—
A giant with an oak-tree staff, looking from sea-sands to heaven? [Interlude of music.
One dull day of indolence, the new-thatch'd city being all built,
On his sheath'd sword bent Quirinus, with his hand upon the hilt.
Round the sun's hid place on high all the stolid heaven was dead,
All the flat-floor'd earth below him look'd a temple domed with lead;
131
Sadder for that early autumn, like cold sunshine, lit the woods.
Far, the arms of Latian hills held on high a city of power;
With the eye of lust Quirinus burnt its beauties tower by tower,
Till the conscious Latian hills, jealous of the conqueror's mien,
Proudly drew the mists of morning, decent, round the ravish'd scene.
Waking from the imperial dream, said Quirinus, looking towards Rome,
‘So the mist of time descending hides me from the years to come!’
Near, below, a rushing torrent its long dance of beauty led,
And a forest beast of grandeur cross'd it with a stately tread;
Golden ran the rapid river gleaming though the skies were cold,
Far into the Sabine distance, mantling with its sands of gold.
Said Quirinus, sad, but proudly, gazing with a look sublime,
‘Gods! so fording life, would I send golden sands down streams of time!’
132
Smiling through the crystal water, shining lay the untroubled sand.
Said Quirinus, proud, but sadly, gazing upon frith and firth,
‘Gods! so shall the tide of ages rase my footsteps from the earth!’
Sat the sun in his pavilion; the dark drapery, stern and even,
Hanging earthward. Before noon the west winds dancing through high heaven,
Fill'd with sudden mirth, drew back the giant folds with hands profane;
Pleased he saw the earth, and like a young hot prince began to reign.
All this while Quirinus bent heroic eyes that could not weep,
On a tear of dew that lay dull amid the grass asleep;
Even while he gazed a sunbeam, slanting from its radiant path,
Dipt into the dew, and came forth like a goddess from the bath.
Then Quirinus—‘That such lot were mine, ye arbiters afar!
Gods! ye touch the sleeping water and it wakens to a star!’
133
While he looks, the dews are lying, as the dews lie, dead and cold.
Then Quirinus—all the hero looking sadness while he said,
‘Gods! so shall the sun of glory one day leave me cold and dead!’
Then he gazed, as heroes gaze, upon whom,—conscious,—earth and skies
Seem gazing back. To their live silence all his living soul replies,
‘Thou who knowest me, whom thus I know,—Eternal as thou art,
Oh thou visible! how is it with me in thy silent heart?’
Then the rock beside him crumbled in the noon-heat stone by stone,
‘Gods! the very earth may rot ere a fame like mine be grown!’
Then a salt wind—like a sea-ghost sick of land—faint voices bore,
‘Gods! but once to hear the ages booming on the future shore!’
Then he look'd the sun in the face, like an eagle in his death-sorrow.
‘Gods! the very stars themselves are nearer to us than to-morrow!’
134
‘Mother! Dionæan Mother! that the years to come were now!’
Soft Idalian incense laid him languid on the amorous sod.
At the softest a great thunder shook the mountain like a god.
Starting from the Paphian trance, the hero leap'd in the sunlight,
All his sudden soul o'erlooking the dull sense of mortal sight;
Staring, staring in the air, high over the Roman town,
Staring, staring pale and deadly where the future years came down.
Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a great mist sinking slow,
With the unborn dead o'er-pictured, and the things that shall be? Lo,
Woes that throw no shade on joy; joys that shed no light on woe,
Flush'd with being yet to be, full of soul that makes no sign,
Tarquin chaste beside Lucretia, Tullius mute by Catiline.
With the unborn dead o'er-pictured, and the things that shall be? Lo,
Woes that throw no shade on joy; joys that shed no light on woe,
Flush'd with being yet to be, full of soul that makes no sign,
Tarquin chaste beside Lucretia, Tullius mute by Catiline.
Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a haze upon the sky,
Painted with dumb agonies, and woes that neither strive nor cry;
Spell-bound victors unpursuing, routed hosts that do not fly;
Lifeless in the form of life, with ineffectual grandeur great,
As the foemen, Good and Ill, twin-slumber in the womb of Fate?
135
Spell-bound victors unpursuing, routed hosts that do not fly;
Lifeless in the form of life, with ineffectual grandeur great,
As the foemen, Good and Ill, twin-slumber in the womb of Fate?
Dost thou see them, as I see them, dread as when the demon of rain
From cloudland verge shakes out a veil of storms across the lower plain?
Dost thou see them, wider, wider, from the mountains to the main,
Peopling, peopling either heaven, till troubled with the infinite sight,
Both horizons flush'd at once attest them in distemper'd light?
[Interlude of music.
From cloudland verge shakes out a veil of storms across the lower plain?
Dost thou see them, wider, wider, from the mountains to the main,
Peopling, peopling either heaven, till troubled with the infinite sight,
Both horizons flush'd at once attest them in distemper'd light?
Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a great mist sinking slow,
From the everlasting height, floating in celestial show,
Silent, vast, like heaven unroll'd, to the eternal hills below?
From the everlasting height, floating in celestial show,
Silent, vast, like heaven unroll'd, to the eternal hills below?
Lo! they touch the earth. Ye Gods! are mine eye-balls crazed with wine?
Shock of life, like midnight lightning, shouts along the leaping line.
Lo! the children of the ages on the fields of fame beneath,
Each in clamour springs from sleep as one day he shall spring from death.
Shock of life, like midnight lightning, shouts along the leaping line.
136
Each in clamour springs from sleep as one day he shall spring from death.
Gods! that cry of startled being! Gods! that din of life sublime,
Each convulsive form begins the many-colour'd work of time,
Each in agony of action flashes through his frenzied part,
As in deadly moments years of life gleam through the heaving heart,
Gods! I shall go wild with sight! Whirling arms and lambent eyes,
Raging, clash in sounds that mock the sadder surge of shrieks and sighs;
Each assumes the sudden future, each in turn defied defies,
Stream in air the Sabine tresses, Brutus strikes and Cæsar dies!
So some host of rayless meteors smite our air, and mad with might,
Burst in storms of stars, and charge in flaming legions through the night.
All this while Quirinus stood, wrapt as the Python, grand as Jove,
His face a microcosm, wherein the passions of the ages strove.
Downward, downward, solemn and slow, the dreamy pageant dim descends,
A man's height upward life,—no more. In heaven the dead, on earth the fiends.
Downward, downward, till the valley, line unconscious line succeeds,
Mingling yet a moment lifeless with the life that strives and bleeds.
See the insatiate plain engulf! See the still renew'd array,
Touching earth, explode with life, and hurtling sink out of the day.
Gods! the tapestries of heaven o'erwrought with fate, majestic, fell,
And burnt upon the earth, and dropt their flaming fragments into hell!
See on high incessant hosts, to where the heavenly vistas close,
And the very height of heights with a higher advent glows,
Dyed with change: as I have seen when wild meridian moons are bright,
Stormy dreams of rainbows colour all the troubled soul of night.
See below exhaustless life—hark the still-renewing roar
Of successive being kindling from the mountains to the shore!
Tumult as of full-grown nations starting into crashing birth;
Tumult, tumult, wide as heaven, wild along the rocking earth;
Tumult, tumult, from the dizzy maddening mounts' distracted crowd,
Pealing out till both horizons own it like a bloody cloud!
With such flame and thunder, in the Gallic madman's vision dark,
So the ordnance of the world, drawn up, might hail the Omniarch!
All this while Quirinus stood, gazing with a wilder gaze,
Heaving with a Delphic fury, shouting to the coming days!
Warm'd into the gait of time, he springs before the march of things,
Imperial with an age of empire, royal with a world of kings!
Stand, Quirinus! Hold thine own! Reel not, giant drunk with power!
Did no demigod come down to stay thee in that desperate hour,
When fortune blew her loudest blast, and, mindful of the ills in store,
Play'd a flourish ere she changed her awful stop for evermore;
And Rome, upon the hill of fame, above whose height the thunderer nods,
Culminated like a globe, and paused before the gasping gods,
Awhile in dreadful poise. One moment suns smiled on it dark and cold,
And lit a star. It shone. And then (like that tremendous stone of old)
Recoiling to infernal depths shook heaven, down-whirling as it fell,
Through red storms of molten glories lash'd up from the soil of hell!
How shalt thou behold that hour? for ah! the generous and the brave
Spring upon the surge of fate, but ebb not with the ebbing wave.
In that hour the Dionæan caught him up to heaven; that he
Beholding as a god beholdeth, seeing, might survive to see!
Each convulsive form begins the many-colour'd work of time,
Each in agony of action flashes through his frenzied part,
As in deadly moments years of life gleam through the heaving heart,
Gods! I shall go wild with sight! Whirling arms and lambent eyes,
Raging, clash in sounds that mock the sadder surge of shrieks and sighs;
Each assumes the sudden future, each in turn defied defies,
Stream in air the Sabine tresses, Brutus strikes and Cæsar dies!
So some host of rayless meteors smite our air, and mad with might,
Burst in storms of stars, and charge in flaming legions through the night.
All this while Quirinus stood, wrapt as the Python, grand as Jove,
His face a microcosm, wherein the passions of the ages strove.
137
A man's height upward life,—no more. In heaven the dead, on earth the fiends.
Downward, downward, till the valley, line unconscious line succeeds,
Mingling yet a moment lifeless with the life that strives and bleeds.
See the insatiate plain engulf! See the still renew'd array,
Touching earth, explode with life, and hurtling sink out of the day.
Gods! the tapestries of heaven o'erwrought with fate, majestic, fell,
And burnt upon the earth, and dropt their flaming fragments into hell!
See on high incessant hosts, to where the heavenly vistas close,
And the very height of heights with a higher advent glows,
Dyed with change: as I have seen when wild meridian moons are bright,
Stormy dreams of rainbows colour all the troubled soul of night.
See below exhaustless life—hark the still-renewing roar
Of successive being kindling from the mountains to the shore!
Tumult as of full-grown nations starting into crashing birth;
Tumult, tumult, wide as heaven, wild along the rocking earth;
138
Pealing out till both horizons own it like a bloody cloud!
With such flame and thunder, in the Gallic madman's vision dark,
So the ordnance of the world, drawn up, might hail the Omniarch!
All this while Quirinus stood, gazing with a wilder gaze,
Heaving with a Delphic fury, shouting to the coming days!
Warm'd into the gait of time, he springs before the march of things,
Imperial with an age of empire, royal with a world of kings!
Stand, Quirinus! Hold thine own! Reel not, giant drunk with power!
Did no demigod come down to stay thee in that desperate hour,
When fortune blew her loudest blast, and, mindful of the ills in store,
Play'd a flourish ere she changed her awful stop for evermore;
And Rome, upon the hill of fame, above whose height the thunderer nods,
Culminated like a globe, and paused before the gasping gods,
Awhile in dreadful poise. One moment suns smiled on it dark and cold,
And lit a star. It shone. And then (like that tremendous stone of old)
139
Through red storms of molten glories lash'd up from the soil of hell!
How shalt thou behold that hour? for ah! the generous and the brave
Spring upon the surge of fate, but ebb not with the ebbing wave.
In that hour the Dionæan caught him up to heaven; that he
Beholding as a god beholdeth, seeing, might survive to see!
The Monk
(stepping forward).
Ye spell-bound men,
Who stand and stare each other in the face
As though it were an auspice, do you dare
Behold on earth what your translated Sire
Saw from the heavens? Didst thou not even there,
Oh hero! with thy strong humanities
Startle the impassive Gods; with mortal cries
Stir the still air of immortality,
And with thine earthly faculty of tears
Distain the empyrean?
[Silence. They whisper among themselves.
President.
Sir, and brother,
Show us this vision.
The Monk.
Doth the heart speak there?
Wot you there have been sights ere now which turn'd
The seer into stone? There have been words
140
Shrieking through hell. There have been tongues that smote
The lazy air wherein the gnat did dance,
And it hath dropp'd down molten on a soul,
And branded it for ever. You know this,
And you will hear?
A Shout.
And we will hear!
The Monk.
Your blood
Be on your heads!
A Shout.
Be on our heads and thine!
The Monk.
And mine. If ye be brothers, I shall die
With you, and if not, by you. Death is death.
[He is silent.
The President
(after awhile).
My brother, we attend thee.
The Monk.
You will hear me?
You will behold? I do beseech that man
Who owns a faint heart, friends, to bear it forth
Beyond your patriot circle; half a bowshot
Will save him. I shall speak low. By the gods,
It should be sung in whispers.
What! not one?
What! you draw nearer? Be not rash, my brothers,
Those Cretan mazes that outlie the heart
Can no man tread so swiftly. I shall pause. [He is silent—then continues.
It is a fearful thing to stand in the path
Of destiny. Here on this bridge am I,
And you, poor souls, upon the fateful bank
Roam up and down, and cast your wistful eyes
To the Cimmerian shores, whose twilight reign
Your sense, acclimated to Acheron,
Mistakes for day. I hold ye back, poor shades,
And with a right hand blister'd with the flames,
Point to a way of fire. You cannot see
The Elysian fields beyond it, and what god
Commands you to believe me?
What! you draw nearer? Be not rash, my brothers,
Those Cretan mazes that outlie the heart
Can no man tread so swiftly. I shall pause. [He is silent—then continues.
141
Of destiny. Here on this bridge am I,
And you, poor souls, upon the fateful bank
Roam up and down, and cast your wistful eyes
To the Cimmerian shores, whose twilight reign
Your sense, acclimated to Acheron,
Mistakes for day. I hold ye back, poor shades,
And with a right hand blister'd with the flames,
Point to a way of fire. You cannot see
The Elysian fields beyond it, and what god
Commands you to believe me?
My poor brothers,
Pass.
Some.
Pass.
This is madness!
Some.
Hush! behold him.
Others.
Wake,
Dreamer!
The Monk.
I can see nothing in the heaven
Or earth why next year should be worse than this;
I do not learn from any sign in the sky
That you shall dance less lightly at the fair,
Or drink your pottle weaker at the wake,
Or find the wench less willing at the wedding,
Or sing less often in the castle hall,
Or think the rich man's nod a poorer fee,
Or sit less thankful at the menial's fare,
Or rear one chubby slave the less or more,
142
With yonder German——
Some.
Shame——
Others.
Hold!
Others.
Are we clowns?
Others.
Peace. Hear him out—hear the priest out.
Down with him.
Hear him. Hear, hear, hear, hear him out. Down with him.
The Monk.
'Tis a hard fate. As yet you are not guilty;
As yet the dull Maremma of the future
From the mephitic stagnance of the past
Stretches as unforbidden. But hear me,
And the Egyptian curse turns it to blood!
Yet you might tread it—with the march of life
Stir the pestiferous slime of days, till weak
Or sturdy vitals, soon or late, drop each
In his appointed hole. Why should I speak?
Friends, 'tis a fearful time. As yet your eyes
Have not been open'd to know good from evil.
The dread of the great hour before the fall
Gathers upon my soul. Now must I do
The miracle which paints the universe.
You stand before me here all men, all brothers,
And I must give you sight. And, seeing, he
Who is not straight transfigured to a saint,
143
That rots the adulteress—dare ye drink?
Some.
Now mercy!
Others.
Ay, ay, ay, to the dregs.
Others.
Pour, priest, pour, pour.
One.
S'death! do you mock us? Speak!
The Monk.
I pray you, patience,
I pray you, patience. These are times, my brothers,
When the grand Roman habit is a dress
For no man's masquerade. [They continue to shout.]
Beseech you, patience,
Patience, sweet friends! The cap of liberty
Is not a carnival wear. There are laws, friends,—
You have not read them—they are writ in German,
But they are laws. And by the laws the blush
Of shame is disaffected and forbidden,
The proud tears of a patriot are not loyal,
The thoughts of good men are against the statute;
Who would speak like a freeman must content him
To walk a chain or two more like a slave.
I break no laws. I tell you by the laws
To inherit from your sires is robbery,
To think what you are thinking is rebellion,
To take the counsel of the brave is treason,
To strike a despot on his throne is death.
I do entreat you, friends, obey the laws!
If you were heroes I must hold my peace.
I should have sinn'd already. By the laws
144
But slaves! behold!
[The Monk sings.
Some sad slow strain—
Deep wails and plaintive pain,
With thy most sorrowy soul, my harp, remember!
Hie where in some lone spot,
By the cold hearth of a forsaken cot,
A dying orphan cowers by the last ember!
Deep wails and plaintive pain,
With thy most sorrowy soul, my harp, remember!
Hie where in some lone spot,
By the cold hearth of a forsaken cot,
A dying orphan cowers by the last ember!
To some unseen green space
Of a deserted place,
Where the pale grass and the lorn flowers are holy;
And of remorseless wrong,
In mournful gusts and long,
Winds cry at eve, where the betray'd lies lowly:
Of a deserted place,
Where the pale grass and the lorn flowers are holy;
And of remorseless wrong,
In mournful gusts and long,
Winds cry at eve, where the betray'd lies lowly:
And with them, as they float—
The wail and the wind note—
Thy woes most sweet bewilderments entwine;
And, harp! thou hast not found
One desolate sad sound
That does not ring like laughter on a grief like mine.
The wail and the wind note—
Thy woes most sweet bewilderments entwine;
And, harp! thou hast not found
One desolate sad sound
That does not ring like laughter on a grief like mine.
My harp! how oft, when cold
And worn with cares untold,
With hearts untrue, stern looks, and sunless brows,
Thy first sweet breath that stole
Stirr'd incense in my soul,
Like the south wind among the myrtle boughs.
And worn with cares untold,
With hearts untrue, stern looks, and sunless brows,
Thy first sweet breath that stole
Stirr'd incense in my soul,
Like the south wind among the myrtle boughs.
145
But there are in our lot
Thoughts where earth's sounds come not—
Like the eternal calm of the mid-seas—
And all that might have been
And all that is,—oh Queen
Of minstrelsy, thou hast no voice for these.
Thoughts where earth's sounds come not—
Like the eternal calm of the mid-seas—
And all that might have been
And all that is,—oh Queen
Of minstrelsy, thou hast no voice for these.
I hear, soul-wrapt, thy song
In stirring notes and strong,
High wandering in the years for ever flown;
To my exulting sight
The gorgeous Past comes bright!
In the broad earth too poor for her renown,
Italia, great and wise,
Sits, and to golden skies
Lifts the grand brow which clouds contend to crown.
In stirring notes and strong,
High wandering in the years for ever flown;
To my exulting sight
The gorgeous Past comes bright!
In the broad earth too poor for her renown,
Italia, great and wise,
Sits, and to golden skies
Lifts the grand brow which clouds contend to crown.
But, oh! if in that hour
Of calm unchallenged power,
Some vision of prescient fate supreme
Forewarn her in mid-pride
Of all that must betide,
Who, who may sing the anguish of that dream?
Thy straining strings should start
As breaks her bursting heart,
And all thy broken chords confess the unconquer'd theme!
Of calm unchallenged power,
Some vision of prescient fate supreme
Forewarn her in mid-pride
Of all that must betide,
Who, who may sing the anguish of that dream?
Thy straining strings should start
As breaks her bursting heart,
And all thy broken chords confess the unconquer'd theme!
146
Return, my harp, return
Beside this broken urn,
Count the long days low lying where it lies;
Have all thy wandering will!
With fitful fancies fill
Long interludes of ill!
With sweeping blasts and strange unearthly cries,
Swift laughter, hurrying fears,
Madness, and joys, and tears,
And every mood that wayward wildness tries,
These are the wingèd years!
They pass. And where is she whose greatness claims the skies?
Beside this broken urn,
Count the long days low lying where it lies;
Have all thy wandering will!
With fitful fancies fill
Long interludes of ill!
With sweeping blasts and strange unearthly cries,
Swift laughter, hurrying fears,
Madness, and joys, and tears,
And every mood that wayward wildness tries,
These are the wingèd years!
They pass. And where is she whose greatness claims the skies?
Behold her! wan and fair,
Her pale arm soil'd and bare,
That trembles in the intolerable chain—
Behold the woes that rise
To her undying eyes,
Too proud to faint and too imperial to complain;
Behold her bend and grieve
From shameful morn to eye,
And till, with captive hands, the graves that hide her Slain!
Her pale arm soil'd and bare,
That trembles in the intolerable chain—
Behold the woes that rise
To her undying eyes,
Too proud to faint and too imperial to complain;
Behold her bend and grieve
From shameful morn to eye,
And till, with captive hands, the graves that hide her Slain!
Behold the toil that lives
And strives, and sinks and strives!
Her outraged looks to every heaven addrest!
Her pride, grown fierce by fate,
Her mien deject and great,
Her violated bosom's wild unrest;
Behold her—travail-torn—
Endured but still unborne
Behold what fetters load her queenly breast.
And strives, and sinks and strives!
Her outraged looks to every heaven addrest!
147
Her mien deject and great,
Her violated bosom's wild unrest;
Behold her—travail-torn—
Endured but still unborne
Behold what fetters load her queenly breast.
Behold the glittering cares
Her brow, in mockery, wears,
The crowns of thorn and tinsel, tear-empearl'd;
Hark the unwonted names
That consummate her shames!
They dare not call her Rome—no, not down hurl'd
And chain'd!—lest at the sound
Each Vandal bond they bound
Fall from her and confess the empress of the world!
Her brow, in mockery, wears,
The crowns of thorn and tinsel, tear-empearl'd;
Hark the unwonted names
That consummate her shames!
They dare not call her Rome—no, not down hurl'd
And chain'd!—lest at the sound
Each Vandal bond they bound
Fall from her and confess the empress of the world!
Thus with untiring plaint
How oft thy fancies paint
Each changing mood of her unchanging woe.
Before my sadden'd eyes
Obedient dolours rise,
A thousand subject passions pale and glow!
And each new wrong she bears
Thou actest in mine ears,
And ill complains to ill, and blow resounds to blow!
How oft thy fancies paint
Each changing mood of her unchanging woe.
Before my sadden'd eyes
Obedient dolours rise,
A thousand subject passions pale and glow!
And each new wrong she bears
Thou actest in mine ears,
And ill complains to ill, and blow resounds to blow!
148
But what shall paint the power
Of that disastrous hour,
When coarse oppression struck with ruder hand,
And, at some worst disgrace,
She raised her bleeding face,
And saw with folded arms her sons consenting stand?
Of that disastrous hour,
When coarse oppression struck with ruder hand,
And, at some worst disgrace,
She raised her bleeding face,
And saw with folded arms her sons consenting stand?
My harp! at that last gaze
Her eyes, dishonoured, raise,
Thou, with Timanthean woe grown utterless,
Changing the unequal key
Of slaves that might be free,
But rot and smile in unavenged duresse,
Thy descant of disdain
Loud liftest, till our pain
Shows us the shade of her ineffable distress.
Her eyes, dishonoured, raise,
Thou, with Timanthean woe grown utterless,
Changing the unequal key
Of slaves that might be free,
But rot and smile in unavenged duresse,
Thy descant of disdain
Loud liftest, till our pain
Shows us the shade of her ineffable distress.
Then the mists are breaking!
Then our hearts are waking!
We call her ‘mother’! and she answers! Then
The blood that won these plains
Boils in our modern veins,
Years are unlived! Italia! once again,
Where thy proud eagles shine
All Roman, and all thine,
We rise and—bah! I dream'd that we were men!
[Great confusion and outcry; in the midst of which the
Monk disappears.
Then our hearts are waking!
We call her ‘mother’! and she answers! Then
The blood that won these plains
Boils in our modern veins,
Years are unlived! Italia! once again,
Where thy proud eagles shine
All Roman, and all thine,
We rise and—bah! I dream'd that we were men!
| The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell | |