Laurella and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Twas morning in Sorrento; voiceless lay
The sea, beneath the dim grey eyes of dawn;
Vesuvius' breath, low-looming, crept away
O'er town and town, to where white Naples shone;
On misty peaks still wandered the young day,
Yet void was every house, the townsfolk gone;
The beach was all alive, where by the cliffs
The fishers hauled their nets or launched their skiffs.

II

Like gulls awaked by morning's earliest beaming
From ocean-haunted sleep, woke that wild clan;
Like gulls upon the shore they clustered, screaming
Harshly their guttural Neapolitan.
With gull-like greed their eager eyes were gleaming
O'er shuddering heaps of fish; even children ran
To swell the concourse mustering there, to reap
With clamorous toil the harvest of the deep.

III

A motley throng, and not an idle hand
Able to haul a rope or grasp an oar!
Stout women, brown and barelegged, on the strand
Toiled with their mates to tug the nets ashore;
Young girls were sorting fish; boys with their tanned
And weather-grizzled grandsires proudly bore
Their manly part—rove haulyards, mended sails,
Or, just afloat, shook canvas from the brails.

IV

‘O pescator del onne, zi-ghe-zi!’
The song went quivering through the clear, cold air,
Shrill, yet so sweet that coy Tranquillity,
Bending to hear, flung back her dewy hair.
It seemed as the wild gladness of the sea
Cheerily leaped to greet the morning fair;
But we must leave the ethereal fields of song
For the more mundane babble of the throng.

V

Not a red-kerchieft crone, who, bent with age,
The twirling wool from breast-borne distaff twitched,
But gossiped shrill with true Calabrian rage,
News-tingling tongues discharged in ears that itched.
Like household Fates they plied their labour sage,
Spinning the daily fleece of life, enriched

With crimson threads of scandal—bits of colour
In the dull yarn which without these were duller.

VI

A conclave high of powers grandmotherly,
Awful as Goethe's ‘Mothers!’ and around
Their feet, like saplings round the veteran tree,
Were children gathered, making mirthful sound.
Here impish boys tumbled in boisterous glee,
And there small girls sat gravely on the ground,
Motherlike nursing their live dolls of brothers,
Or drinking wisdom from their fathers' mothers.

VII

‘Look, granny, granny,’ cried a chit of ten,
Sedately posed at one grey sibyl's side,
Treasuring their gossip to retail again,
While with the best her inch of spindle vied.
‘Here comes our Padre!’ ‘Drop your curtsey then.’
‘Your manners pazzarella! God be his guide!
The Virgin bring him back!’ whereon the chorus,
With shrieked-out blessings cracked their tongue sonorous.

VIII

‘He's bound for Capri—Tonio rows him there,
The grand Signora his confession waits;

She kneels to none but him, since at his prayer
Our Lady drove death's angel from her gates;
Ay, though ten doctors, come from Heaven knows where,
Gloomy as gravestones, shook their learned pates.’
‘God bless him!’ chimed the chorus, ‘for her cure
She left a heap of ducats for the poor.’

IX

The shoreward-moving Priest, whose cassock black
Clothed with heaven's grace a maccaroni-fed
Brisk little plump Curato, smiling back,
Returned the blessings rained upon his head.
A kindly man he looked, yet did not lack
A genial shrewdness in his visage red,
Which beamed upon his flock, as round his throat
He drew his cloak and entered Tonio's boat.

X

This Tonio (he's our hero) was a youth,
A smart young fellow of the fisher kind;
To climb, row, swim, or sail a boat, in sooth,
In all the coast his peer 'twere hard to find;
His clear, brown face, too, wore a look of truth
Rare in those parts; his limbs were well designed,
At least for Nature's handiwork; for surely
She often moulds our human clay but poorly.

XI

He was a sturdy, not ill-tempered fellow,
Deemed handy by the local cognoscenti;
Was poor, no doubt, in metals white and yellow,
But all the world's our own at three-and-twenty.
And in this sun-loved land of Masaniello
Mere life is joy, mere maccaroni plenty;
And Tonio, though his life was somewhat rough,
Lived in the sun and air blithely enough.

XII

Besides, he was not without ‘expectations:’
He had been left an orphan, it is true,
And poorly off; but he had snug relations,
Especially one thrifty uncle, who,
Wealthy by land and sea, tried Tonio's patience
By hinting what he would or would not ‘do’
On his behalf, when he had sunk his money
In a long-talked-of fishery for tunny.

XIII

Tonio should be Padrone, if he pleased him,
A prospect Tonio hailed with huge delight;
But nothing came of it; and then he had teased him
To wed some girl—a rich ill-tempered fright,
Whereat when Tonio kicked, the humour seized him
To keep the culprit so extremely tight,

The whole town cried out Shame! There's not a doubt he
Had very crusty ways, although not gouty.

XIV

Thus Tonio was compelled, for bare existence,
To scratch this dunghill of a world for bread:
He had his boat, and toiled with her assistance
Above the waves of life to hold his head.
By petty jobs he gained his scant subsistence,
Ferrying to-day, for instance, as they said,
The Priest to Capri—carrying in addition
His uncle's oranges upon commission.

XV

‘How looks the day, Antonio?’ quoth the Priest,
Casting an anxious glance upon the sky.
‘For heat, sir,—no mistral to-day at least.’
‘Off, then, before the sun gets scorching high—
‘What keeps you, man?’ he asked, as Tonio ceased
His off-shove in mid act, and fixed his eye
Where, by a path precipitous, from the height
A girl ran down, waving her kerchief white.

XVI

‘See, Padre, by your leave,’ he answered shyly,
‘She wants to go—we've room, sir, and to spare,
For three the size of that’—and with a smile he
Jerked thumb apologetic towards this fair

But extra freight. ‘Oho!’ the Priest said drily,
‘Laurella, eh? To Capri?—and why there?’
Antonio shrugged his shoulders with a sigh,
And murmured softly: ‘That God knows, not I.’

XVII

Meanwhile the girl came swiftly to the shore,
Lithe as a cat, eager as the young year;
Her dress, though mean, was rentless, and she wore
All with a savage grace no court could peer.
And with a savage pride her head she bore,
Stepping the earth as one who knows not fear;
You would have vowed, so queenly was her air,
She felt a crown above her crisp dark hair.

XVIII

‘Hey, la Rabbiata!’ cried a hulking wag,
Raising rude laughter, ‘how go frowns to-day?
Heavens, what a face! last night she met some hag,
And stole her mali umori!’ Her proud way,
With feet that hasted not, nor yet did lag,
Straight through the crowd she held; nought did she say,
But her brown face grew pale, and her deep eyes
Blazed like the first swift flash from thunderous skies.

XIX

‘Good-day, Laurella—are you for the sea?
You go with us to Capri?’ said her Pastor,
With his most gracious smile; and coldly she:
‘Yes, Padre, if I may.’ ‘We'll go the faster,
So Tonio thinks—step in then; as for me,
You're welcome, child, but ask the vessel's master.’
She laid a half carlin where Tonio sat—
‘There is my fare, if I may go for that.’

XX

Her voice was cold, and from Antonio's face
She kept her eyes averted with a frown,
Which somehow but enhanced her savage grace.
And Tonio, too, sat with his eyes cast down;
But at her words he shifted in his place,
And with an injured air he viewed the brown
And battered coin, then growled out sullenly,
‘Keep it—God knows you need it more than me.’

XXI

‘I will not go for nothing.’ ‘Have your way.’
‘Come, come!’ the Priest said, ‘step into the boat;
Don't let this wrangling keep us here all day.
He's a good lad, Antonio—see, his coat
He has spread here for your comfort—more, I'll say,
Than e'er he did for me. So—we're afloat.’

Without a word she had thrust the coat aside,
And his fierce seaward shove meant, ‘Curse her pride!’

XXII

Thus did they leave the land, and soon their skiff
Danced o'er the glittering wavelets of the sea.
The oarsman, chafing inly from their tiff,
Worked off his wrath in vigorous strokes; but she,
Frowning no more, gazed at the east, as if
The dawnlight lulled her to a reverie.
The Priest broke silence first: ‘What have you there,
In that small bundle, child, lapped with such care?’

XXIII

‘Silk, Padre, and some hanks of homespun thread,
And a brown loaf. The silk I hope to sell
To one in Anacapri—Nita said
She wanted silk for ribbons, thread as well,
And I spin both, you know. The loaf of bread,
That's for my dinner.’ ‘Why, you worked a spell
At ribbons once yourself?’ ‘Mother's so bad
I can't hire out—a loom we never had.’

XXIV

‘Your mother worse? When did I see her last?
At Easter was it? She was finely then.’
‘She has been failing, sir, these three years past,
And those bleak winds racked her poor bones again,

Just like last year, and now she's breaking fast.’
‘That's sad, that's sad! Pray, my child, pray; for when
Troubles come God is nighest, and in our need
The Holy Mother loves to intercede.’

XXV

A moment's pause, and a new question came:
‘What was that ugly word they called you, child,
“Good morning, la Rabbiata?”—What a name!
A Christian maiden should be meek and mild.’
The brown face flushed, again the indignant flame
Leaped from her tameless eyes in lightning wild.
‘They mock me so because I will not sing,
Chatter, and dance, like every idle thing.’

XXVI

‘Well, well, you are no idle thing, I know,
And not much given to chattering; but your tongue
Shoots bitter arrows sometimes—is't not so?
You have your trials, hard for one so young;
But patience is a grace. You are lonely though,
And poor, yet scorn to wed, they tell me.’ Stung
With some fierce thought, she turned first pale, then red,
And burst out: ‘They say true—whom should I wed?’

XXVII

‘There was that painter—what has come of him?
Not a bad man, they say; and yet you lent him

But angry ears, and would not, through some whim,
Let him even paint you.’ ‘Would none else content him?
There's fifty prettier girls,’ she answered grim;
‘Why did he want my face? What would preven him,
For all I know, if I had given him that,
Bewitching me? I saw what he was at.’

XXVIII

She was much moved. It seemed as though a chill
Ran shuddering through her spirit—that cold blast
Pure natures feel when first the breath of ill,
Pleading from angel's tongue, they stand aghast
In a half-dazed defiance. Kindly still
The Priest went blundering on: ‘My daughter, cast
Such heathenish fears aside. The Lord will keep
His faithful, as the shepherd does the sheep.

XXIX

‘And the man loved you, child, and would have raised
Above all want.’ ‘Curse on such love!’ she cried;
‘Better my want.’ Her Pastor was amazed;
This wild volcanic wrath the Church must chide.
A young thing too! perhaps the girl was crazed?
‘O fie! Laurella, fie! what means this pride?’
‘I want no husband—no man's love!’ she said.
‘Then would you be a nun?’ She shook her head.

XXX

'Tis quite appalling, and the masculine mind,
Lining or coat or cassock, must perplex
After whole centuries' culture still to find
This wilful wild-oats in the gentler sex;
To see (O tempora!) well-tamed womankind
Turn restive, tear the yoke from their soft necks,
Kick up their heels, and, like Laurella here,
Bolt from that paddock blandly termed ‘their sphere’!

XXXI

The good man was perplexed. She would not wed,
Nor take the veil! The thing was strange—what notion
Had got into the little vixen's head?
Most women have two poles—love and devotion,
But neither could be fairly credited
With this abnormal outburst of emotion;
Yet he half guessed 'twas love; for at eighteen
What else could such preposterous conduct mean?

XXXII

Still he was much perplexed: he rubbed his knees,
And then his glasses, to read clear this treason
Against the feminine proprieties,
And, in pure zeal, grown ‘instant out of season,’

For the girl's motives he began to teaze.
She writhed and cut him short: ‘I have a reason—
For God's love, Padre, question me no more;
I'll tell you all, but let us get ashore.’

XXXIII

And surely 'twas a little indiscreet,
If one may charge a priest with indiscretion,
With Tonio not two yards from off their seat,
To urge the girl to such a frank confession.
She glanced at Tonio as she spoke, and sweet
Most certainly was not her eyes' expression!
The Padre then was wide enough awake
To see that he had made a slight mistake.

XXXIV

Poor Tonio, though, to do him justice, seemed
As deaf as he was dumb. His cap was drawn
Low o'er his brow; he looked as though he dreamed,
And rarely raised his eyes. Meanwhile the dawn
Had flown. Into the haze of heaven had steamed
The mountain mists, as day came dancing on;
And, his confessional titbit awaiting,
The good man found the voyage quite elating.

XXXV

Like a great burst of singing came the day,
After the dawn's soft prelude, from heaven's cave

Swooping to clasp the billowy-bosomed bay
In his ecstatic arms, wooing each wave
To give him kiss for kiss. His glorious way
Was pioneered by the brisk winds, which gave
New life to the waking world, and filled each sense
With measureless desire and hopes immense.

XXXVI

In short, it was a most delicious morn—
What clouds there were soared in the upper sky,
Or round the mountains died as they were born
In the bright haze that clung mysteriously
To the dim coast. An Amalthea's horn
Of rathe delight seemed emptied from on high
On all the progeny of land and sea—
Shore-maidens sang, and sea-birds shrieked for glee.

XXXVII

There was a breath of fragrance in the air
That stole upon the spirit like young love,
An incense wafted from you knew not where—
From thymy dell and seaweed-scented cove.
Ocean and earth had found each other fair,
And mingled their fresh lips—the tamarisk grove
Sighed for the kiss of the wave, and waves leaped up
To yield the winds dew for the myrtle's cup.

XXXVIII

'Twas wondrous pleasant as the boat's light prow
Danced o'er the brine to Tonio's measured strokes,
And nearer, clearer rose the rocky brow
Of the fair Isle. The Priest, though, scarce could coax
From boy or girl a random answer now,
Or civil smile, even, at his little jokes,
And so grew silent, dying to discover
Who, if love ailed the minx, could be her lover.

XXXIX

Small need for talk when breathing is delight.
Before them, blind with sun, the shadowy isle
Grew, changing like a vision; on the right,
Far o'er the waves, lay Naples many a mile;
And off to sea the tunny-fishers' white
And gleaming sails basked in the morning's smile.
All owned that sunny spell, that breezy zest,
Claude best has caught—when Claude is at his best.

XL

At length they touched the ground; Antonio bore
The Padre from the boat, and high and dry
Set him with reverent care. A little sore
Perhaps he felt when past him, holding high
Bundle and boots, Laurella splashed ashore,
Deigning him not a look, and sulkily

Waited the Priest. To him he made his bow,
And turned to haul his boat up, lighter now.

XLI

‘Don't wait for me, Antonio, I must stay
Here over-night,’ the Priest said. ‘O, but surely
You must go back, Laurella?’ ‘Yes, if—’ ‘Eh?’
‘If I can find a boat.’ She wrung demurely
Her skirts; but frowned when Tonio, come to lay
His oars upon the sand, said in a surly
And careless tone, ‘I stay till Av' Mari’—
Come then; if not, 'twill be all one to me.’

XLII

‘Yes, yes, your mother can't be left alone,’
The little man broke in—‘she'll go, she'll go—
That's settled. Bless me, how the time has flown!
Come, child, you want to speak to me, you know.’
He briskly led the way, and on a stone
Under a sheltering bush the rocks below
He took his seat. The girl before him stood,
Biting a twig in most unquiet mood.

XLIII

‘Laurella, you have something on your mind,
Something that, breathed in your confessor's ear,

May leave your heart the lighter. 'Tis unkind
That name they call you; but I greatly fear
You have a stubborn will. These whims, you'll find,
Have cost your poor sick mother many a tear.
She soon must leave you. Seems it not Heaven's plan
That you should wed? Why scorn an honest man?’

XLIV

Our good Curato, be it gently said,
Had one sweet feminine idiosyncrasy.
Celibate himself, if other folk must wed,
His fingers itched to make their marriage-pie.
Some gossip, too, had put it in his head
That the girl's mother was certain (Heaven knows why)
This painter with tall talk and big umbrella
Would be the very husband for Laurella.

XLV

His ghostly words were kindly spoken. She
Stood moodily, with strangely-working face,
Her fingers writhing as she gazed to sea—
Impatience, anguish, scorn in furious chase
Wantoning through her breast. Then suddenly
She turned upon him with a questioning gaze,
While some wild storm of speech fought with her pride:
‘You did not know my father, sir,’ she sighed.

XLVI

‘Your father? (rest his soul in Paradise!)
Why, he's been dead these years. You can't have been
More than—not ten years told, when last your eyes
Looked on his face,—and now you're’—? ‘Just eighteen;
He's nine years dead.’ ‘A fatto! And has this wise
Resolve to do with him? Saints! how that keen
Eye in his handsome face would sometimes glow!
You're his live image often, do you know?’

XLVII

Her irids 'gan to glow and to dilate
With some fierce, tearless passion, which scarce found
Way through her pale and twitching lips—some great
And life-deep woe, that laid upon each sound
Of her revealing voice its crushing weight,
Seeming to strangle it, and to astound
Her ears with alien accents: ‘It was he—
O, he has killed my mother!’ answered she.

XLVIII

‘Killed her!’ ‘Ay, killed her—beat her.’ Quick and deep
Her breath came pantingly. ‘They never knew—
I lay so still; they thought I used to sleep.
But I saw all, heard all. What could I do,

Gesu-Maria! but lie still and weep,
And pray the saints that saw to make him rue?
Those blows! they broke my heart—froze me claycold!
The bedclothes weighed on me like churchyard mould.

XLIX

‘Gran’ Dio, Padre! when you talk to me
Of marriage—love—you fill my eyes and ears
With horrible sights and sounds. She loved him, she
Was Christ-like meek—had only prayers and tears
For shield against his curses—strove to be
Duteous in all, like the poor dog that fears
His love may prove his fault. He beat her! O
'Twere shame to see a dog even beaten so!

L

‘Then, when she fainting lay upon the floor,
His mood would change, and he would hug her close
And kiss her till she screamed. His blows she bore,
But moaning, “Gesu!—Gesu mio!”—but those
False kisses, those vile claspings that made sore
Her breast with love's pretence, hurt more than blows,
Murdering the holiest joys of love. And he
Laughed when she cried, “O God, you smother me!”

LI

‘Yet this she bore—forgave him everything!
And why? Love made her tame; she loved him still,
And when his sickness came, she all that spring
Nursed him both day and night, though O so ill!
And all through him. Since that vile suffering
She has never held her head up—never will.
He broke her heart, and before God I say
'Tis he has killed her if she dies to-day.’

LII

With the last words her voice grew stern and strong,
Like an accusing spirit's, and her eyes
Half caught that strange expression which you long
To fathom in the Cenci's—early wise
In horror of such God-confounding wrong,
As blots the gladness from youth's virgin skies;
Her lips, too, half-recalled the Cenci's, wrung
With agony too deep to find a tongue.

LIII

That patience dumb of sibylline despair
Was not Laurella's, though; fierce she defied
All tyranny, and everything would dare,
Still feeling, somehow, Heaven upon her side.
The good Curato heard her with the air
Of one who ventures upon ground untried,

Shook his round head, then scratched his tonsure, then
Coughed, and began his homily again.

LIV

‘My daughter, my dear child, your story's one
To wring the heart, and much I feel for you;
But now that your poor father's dead and gone,
Why thus rake up his faults? It may be true—
Is true, I fear—that this has told upon
Your mother's health. But what can rancour do?
Let bygones then be bygones. Think no more
Of those sad times that make your spirit sore.

LV

‘You're young, my dear, and youth is all too prone
To judge the sins it cannot comprehend.
Alas! we all have sins, child, of our own,
Enough to sink us without Christ to friend.
Think what forgiveness God to us has shown,
And we the like to others should extend.
Then, O Laurella, while your mother lives,
Receive her heart—forgive as she forgives!’

LVI

‘Forgive!’ she cried, ‘ay, but forget, forget!
Never! that horror lies upon my heart
Like a stone on a flower—it cannot grow. I fret
In vain against these memories. But I start

In life as no man's slave; and durst one set
His lips or hands on me, could make him smart—
Not like my mother. Nothing e'er shall make
Me so love man, so suffer for his sake.’

LVII

‘Tut, tut! when love knocks at a maiden's door
He will not be denied. Your turn must come.
Be just, be just. Must all men pay the score
Of your poor father's faults? There's many a home
Happier, thank God! than yours, many a mean floor
Love makes a step towards Heaven; and surely some
Such homes you must have seen. Why then suppose
Your painter friend would treat his wife to blows?’

LVIII

‘Padre, I may be young, and little know
Of the great world, and you are good and wise;
But things like these put me in such a glow,
I see God's blessed truth bare of all lies.
You do not know that man you fancy so—
Your goodness blinds you. Ugh! he made those eyes
I've seen my father make when bent on cheating
My mother to forget her latest beating.

LIX

‘I know those eyes—bright with deceitful fire,
And selfish, wolfish hunger. None shall dare

Insult me with such eyes. No wheedling liar
Shall make me tame with love. A man may swear
A thousand oaths, and kiss till fancy tire,
Yet kill the trustful thing that loves him. There,
I've said my say. Ere love makes me a slave,
May the sweet Virgin hide me in my grave!’

LX

Her passion's tempest, finding vent at last,
Raged itself out; its lightnings quenched in rain,
For in her eyes the tears were gathering fast—
She strove to stay them, but she strove in vain.
The Priest was mute, though through his mind there past
A murmuring host of maxims sage and sane;
But none seemed quite adapted to the case—
He could but sigh, ‘God send you greater grace!’

LXI

The girl's fierce wrath he could not but withstand,
Yet with a smile that left her bosom light,
He blessed her as he rose. She kissed his hand,
And so they parted, he going left, she right;
He took his thoughtful way along the strand,
She, like a goat, began to scale the height.
Meanwhile poor Tonio watched her from his boat
More keenly than he would have watched a goat.

LXII

She had gone, not deigning him one small good-bye,
One little word of thanks, and there she went
Up through the myrtles—never turned an eye,
Pausing not once in all that steep ascent!
At last, when clear she stood against the sky
(Was it to rest, or did her heart repent?)
She turned—their eyes met, and their faces flamed
With some fond shame, whereof each felt ashamed.

LXIII

Tonio fell straight to work, and roundly swore
That to her airs he would not dance a jig,
Hastening to heave his oranges ashore,
Calling himself a dolt, an ass, a pig!
While, as she walked, Laurella's beauty wore
Its most gorgonian armour. Not a fig
She cared for this young fool. What did it matter
If Tonio stared his eyes out gazing at her?

LXIV

They went their ways—Laurella toiling on
By rocky paths, and sultry fields, where grilli
Chirred in the grass, and brown bees hummed upon
Sweet knolls of thyme and tufts of mountain-lily;
While Tonio on his head bore, one by one,
His baskets to the village, chanting shrilly
A careless barcarole. And so, success
Attend their labours!—who could wish them less?

PART SECOND.

I

We scarce have breathed coy morning's odorous sighs,
As her young bridegroom lifts her maiden veil,
Ere she confounds us with her matron eyes
And buxom cheeks—no more a virgin pale!
Now—full-blown afternoon, august in guise,
With vintage crowned—the morning of our tale
Had lulled her lord in such a close embrace,
Her glowing bosom hid his jovial face.

II

All nature took siesta—sultry sleep,
Brooding in russet haze, had whelmed all things
In fiery interfusion. On the deep
The winds, like wearied gulls, with folded wings,
Slept with the sleeping waves, which still did keep
A breathing motion with low murmurings;
Yet Tonio, broad awake, stood by his boat
On the slow-heaving waters half-afloat.

III

Alone he kept his watch, his brow still bent
Upon Laurella's path, in hunter's gaze

Of most impatient patience, as he leant
Against the prow, full in the blinding blaze;
Save when at times with growing discontent
He turned to watch the southward-gathering haze,
Half angry with the ripplets, though they beat
Their grateful coolness through his naked feet.

IV

The sea looked lovely as some siren thing,
Feline and feminine, whose dumb repose
Maddens to tempt its dangerous power, and cling
To its dread bosom passionately close.
Far off the filmed horizon's eastern ring
Shone with a bronzéd purple, o'er which rose
A hot mirage of mountains, looming there
Like steadfast clouds just gathered out of air.

V

He felt it in his fashion; for he spurned
Wave after wave, as each came fawning o'er
His ankles, like a tiger's tongue; then turned,
With a grim smile, gloomily to pace the shore.
But all at once in his dark eyes there burned
The fire of triumph: there she came once more—
As though his gaze had drawn her from the abyss
Of sightless fancy, to become its bliss!

VI

Perhaps his gaze was potent to compel
From distant ways Laurella's petulant feet;
She really moved as though some uncouth spell
Dragged her reluctant steps the boy to meet.
(What brought her there I never quite could tell,
I mean in Tonio's boat of all the fleet;
But now being brought, and having paid her fare,
She clearly held a stake in ‘cette galère.’)

VII

She halted by the cliff, seemed half-inclined
Again to vanish from Antonio's day—
Made three steps back; then doubtless changed her mind,
Walked towards the sea three-quarters of the way;
Then paused again; while Tonio, who divined
Her wavering, scarce knew what to do or say,
But cried: ‘Come, let's get home before the storm!
Unless you want to keep the fishes warm.’

VIII

‘Have you no other passenger?’ she said,
Anxiously glancing toward the little town
Some furlong o'er the sand. He shook his head.
‘Come, come—'tis late!’ With an embarrassed frown
She turned away. ‘Who'll make your mother's bed
If here you stay?’ he cried, and flung his brown

And vigorous arms around her—fairly bore
His prize aboard, and shoved in haste from shore.

IX

Here was a situation for the pair!
Laurella, flushed and angry, not subdued,
Though conquered, in the stern sat with an air
Of loftiest abstraction from vain feud—
A look like that a captive queen might wear
In the scorned presence of her captors rude;
And Tonio, somehow, felt himself, for all
His brilliant coup de main, extremely small.

X

Women from even defeat can forge a chain
To bind and captivate their vanquishers;
For men are stupid creatures in the main,
Though strong. Laurella gagged and fettered hers
To his own oar with gyves of cold disdain—
He trembled as he sat; could scarce immerse
His oar-blades in the sea; sighed like a fool;
And, hot and cold at once, tried to keep cool.

XI

She felt the sun, and, with hands trembling too,
Kerchieft her head sedately from its shining;
Then, with deliberate coolness, out she drew
Her olives and brown bread, and fell to dining,

Slicing the loaf daintily, as though it grew
To luxury through her sharp knife's refining;
While Tonio, touched to see this meagre meal,
Tender protecting pangs began to feel.

XII

Rarely she raised her eyes—but to withdraw,
Gazing beyond him, into privacy;
Yet he could make no movement but she saw,
Of all his moods as conscious as was he.
His oars she soon heard pause. He stooped to draw
From their rich nest, and offer bashfully,
Three splendid oranges. ‘Take these,’ he said;
‘'Twill be a relish for your bit of bread.

XIII

‘Dry bread is thirsty food. Don't think I kept them,
Thinking of you. They're some I did not sell,
So back into the basket here I swept them.
Not bad ones though—just try how nice they smell.’
She deigned not even to touch, much less accept them,
But proudly spoke her thanks. Said Tonio: ‘Well,
Perhaps your mother—won't you take them to her?
Would 'twere some greater service I could do her.’

XIV

He reddened as he spoke; his wish to please
Gleamed in his eyes' pathetic eagerness;

Yet their soft beams but harder seemed to freeze
Laurella's ice. This time she gave him less
Than coldest thanks. ‘We have heaps as good as these
At home,’ she said: ‘who fancies our distress
A mark for stranger's bounties? For my mother
I can provide, I hope, as well as another.’

XV

‘The Virgin dry my tongue up, if I meant
The least offence!—and you might take them still,
With my respects—do; tell her they were sent
Just as a mark of kindness and goodwill.’
‘She does not know you,’ said the girl, and bent
Her brows more sternly. Tonio felt a thrill
Of inward rage; yet bore it like a lamb,
And meekly said: ‘You'll tell her who I am.’

XVI

‘I do not know you either,’ she replied,
With languid sullenness, calm as a Fate
Which, businesslike, sans triumph, haste, or pride,
Cries to our foolish mortal hopes Checkmate!
(This was the third time she had thus denied
His bare acquaintance in set terms of late;
The first being once while still the painter haunted her,
When with poor Tonio's penchant he had taunted her.)

XVII

‘Then you won't take them?’ ‘No.’ This downright blow
Struck fire at last. ‘To the devil with them then!’
And overboard they went, to dance and glow
Upon the glowing waves. Some mermaiden
Robbed the devil of his due, for all I know,
Ere the waves flung them to the shore again,
Tribute returned. Laurella did not stir;
Either was welcome to them, as for her.

XVIII

So sat they in this most unblest of boats,
Like deadliest enemies; but first must fight
Their hearts, which leaped like tigers at their throats,
As though they meant to strangle them outright:
Their traitor pulses, sounding dreadful notes,
Besieged their bosoms with a fond affright;
At their lives' doors some passion knocked like death—
No wonder they felt rather out of breath.

XIX

Poor Tonio, raging like a wounded whale,
With his two oars began to lash away,
Blindly as that stupid monster with its tail,
Till in Laurella's eyes he sent the spray.
She would not heed; but let her fingers trail
Over the side, as with the waves to play,

Then on her cheeks her palms all cool and wet
She softly laid, ignoring Tonio's pet.

XX

Her cheeks would burn, however, spite of pride
And of cold water; and—she knew not why—
She felt, though 'twould be most undignified,
A huge desire to have one hearty cry;
But with ‘that creature’ there she would have died
Rather than shed a tear. He had filled her eye
With some salt splashings of the outer ocean,
But should not stir the unsailed brine of emotion.

XXI

Meanwhile the haze grew fire. Above the pair
Brooded some elemental passion, pent
Like thunder in the dungeons of the air,
Which seemed to palpitate, as though there went
Through it an unseen lightning. Floating there,
They were alone with the vast discontent
Of nature's ominous calm. The sun's own heart,
Throbbing through theirs, its impulse did impart.

XXII

The sea was glassy calm—a tideless swell
And windless ripple made it gleam and glance;
But, in her dabbling, where the shadow fell
Her mirrored face Laurella caught by chance.

Her hair was tossed, she saw; she might as well
Just set it right—'twere some deliverance
From sheer constraint to smooth it and re-coil it;
And so, in Tonio's teeth, she made her toilet.

XXIII

He did not seem to heed; but soon she heard
His irritable oar-blades pause again:
She felt some tempest more than common stirred
The mounting billows of his mental main.
He strove to speak, she knew, yet found no word;
But something great was coming—that was plain.
At last between his teeth she heard him hiss:
‘Per Baccho, I must make an end of this!’

XXIV

‘Laurella, wherefore should you use me so?
If you have sworn to kill me, take that knife
And cleave my heart at once. Well you must know
I love you—love you ten times more than life.
I'll bear these flouts of yours no longer. O,
Are you too proud to be a poor man's wife?
Give me some hope, or end me on the spot.
A pin might goad me now to—God knows what!’

XXV

His voice bespoke his earnest, with its wail
Of passionate appeal. She raised her long

Lashes at last, and grew a little pale;
For men, though foolish creatures, yet are strong,
And when their gusty passions mount to a gale,
Will bluster o'er all barriers, right or wrong;
But for the faintest soupcon of coercion
Laurella had the most profound aversion.

XXVI

‘I want no love of yours,’ she curtly said;
‘Mind your own business, and leave me to mine;
I will not have your name, alive or dead,
Tacked to my tail by gossips o'er their wine.
I want no husband—have no mind to wed,
You nor no other.’ ‘Ay, ay, mighty fine!
You think so now,’ said Tonio, ‘but some day
You'll know the worth of what you have thrown away.

XXVII

‘O, for the love of Christ, for your own sake,
Consider what you do; don't drive me mad!
My heart's not much, God knows, for you to break—
Though 'tis a man's who loves you, good or bad,
More than his hopes of heaven; but sour you'll make
The wine of your sweet life, your Angel sad.
You want no love? Altro! I say the woman
Who wants no love's a monster, and not human.

XXVIII

‘Now you are young and wild, but some fine day,
Alone and poor, as the world wags, you'll find
Husband and home not bad things in their way.’
‘Then,’ said Laurella, ‘I can change my mind.
What's that to you, if so? Perhaps I may—
There are more men than you. When I'm inclined,
Heaven send me luck!’ ‘Cospetto!’ Tonio roared,
And fiercely jerked his dripping oars aboard;

XXIX

Clearing his decks for action, as it seemed.
Laurella wondered what was coming next—
His face grew pale, and in his eyes there gleamed
A dangerous fire, as past all patience vext.
Perhaps he thought she of some rival dreamed,
Pondering the jealous lover's favourite text.
‘Santissimo diavolo!’ he broke out,
‘You think I'll live to bear that too, no doubt?

XXX

‘What's that to me, you say? What's that to me!
O nothing, nothing! I must see you smile
In some curst fellow's face—sit still and see
Some simpering scoundrel win you with his guile;
See your delusion his felicity,
And feel myself in hell—hell all the while!

No, by the saints! I tell you one small earth
Can't hold us both—one must have narrower berth.’

XXXI

If Tonio's blood was up, so was Laurella's.
‘How dare you talk to me like that? For shame!
What right have you, I ask you, to be jealous,
Though I should fancy the first fool that came?
You show me you can stoop to threats, as well as
The rest of your brave sex. What earthly claim
Have you upon my life, that you should rave
Against me thus? Promise I never gave.

XXXII

‘Don't prate to me of love. I may be young,
But I can reckon, better than you think,
The worth of those sweet drops from a man's tongue,
Which many a woman's ears greedily drink.
You flatter fair, to trample us like dung
Once we are won. I know you—hate you—shrink
From wedlock bondage as I shrink from shame.
What claim have you to me—I say what claim?’

XXXIII

‘What claim!’ he cried—‘one that is none less good
Because engrossed by no curst lawyer's quill,
But here by God's own hand, in my heart's blood,
Which aches with longings you alone can still.

O, as the eye craves light, the opening bud
The dew of the morn, because 'twas God's good will
To make them what they are, I faint for you—
You are my noonday light, my morning dew.

XXXIV

‘You are mine, I say, by that divine decree
Which for all natural wants made sweet provision—
For birds the air, sea for the fish, for me
You, only you, by love's supreme decision.
If any comes between us, you shall see
My claim's no matter for the fool's derision.
Let him beware, that's all; let him beware—
The meekest may grow dangerous in despair!’

XXXV

From her pale face her dark eyes flamed their scorn:
‘Yes, you're a man—your will's a law divine;
Every man thinks so—but no man yet born
By coward threats shall shake resolve of mine.
I am free, and mean to keep so.’ ‘I'll be sworn,’
Cried Tonio, fairly drunken with the wine
Of baffled passion, ‘I will tame you yet—
Must two lives fail through a perverse coquette!’

XXXVI

He leaped upon his feet and stamped with rage,
Making her heart bound like a startled deer.

‘Here you shall do my bidding, I'll engage;
You're in my power, Miss—I'm your master here.’
Laurella felt like one cooped in the cage
Of some wild beast, and the cold touch of fear
Crept o'er her cheek; yet with undaunted air
She faced him: ‘You may kill me if you dare.’

XXXVII

‘Your blood be on your head,’ he groaned; ‘the sea
Will hold us both! None ever so loved bride;
But now—! O God, you have willed it—it must be!
To-night we shall be lying side by side,
Cold, but together. You have maddened me,
And now, Christ pardon us!’ Then at a stride
He came, as Death might—with pale, piteous face,
To clasp some loved one in his chill embrace.

XXXVIII

He bent to seize her, but with startled cry
Drew back. Without a word she had let him come;
But the roused tigress does not tamely die—
She had made her sharp white teeth meet in the thumb
That grasped her; then flung off her enemy,
Scared by her fierce rebellion, deep though dumb.
‘Now am I in your power,’ she cried, ‘or free?’
And, laughing wildly, leaped into the sea.

XXXIX

She sank, but rose again, and boldly spread
Her arms upon the water—her long hair
Loosed in the plunge, afloat behind her head,
The wavelets rippling round her bosom fair.
Sobered by shock, yet palsied half with dread,
With neck outcraned, Tonio could only stare,
As though God's blessed bread for sinners broken.
Between his lips, against his sins, had spoken.

XL

Then, slapping his dank brow, he seized his oars,
And in her wake rowed swiftly; though the blood
From his torn thumb came ‘rushing out of doors,
To be resolved if’ gentle creature could
Inflict such wounds as that. The chase of course,
Though a stern one, was not long—flesh against wood
Had not a chance. He soon was at her side—
‘For God's sake come aboard again!’ he cried.

XLI

‘Laurella, hear me! you may trust me now—
Come in, come in, for our dear Lady's sake—
I am mad no more, by all the saints I vow!
O if you come to harm my heart will break!
Hate me, but trust me. Come, and I'll allow
You tie my wrists and ankles till they ache,

Then fling me in the sea. I will not live
To vex you—do not ask you to forgive.’

XLII

She deigned no notice of this fond appeal,
But for the distant shore swam bravely on,
Going along easily as a little seal,
Her bare feet through the water glancing wan.
‘Think of your mother—think what she will feel
If you should sink,’ he said, ‘and, ere you have gone
A third the distance home, you must go down—
Yon land's two miles off yet—why will you drown?’

XLIII

This was bare truth, she knew. She eyed the land
Wistfully once; then, with a swelling throat,
Swam up without a word. He stretched his hand
To draw her in, but, clutching at the boat,
She clambered o'er the gunwale, with a grand
Last pride of independence. Tonio's coat
Slipped, as his craft lurched with Laurella's weight,
O'erboard, and went unrescued to its fate.

XLIV

Sullen she took her former seat, and wrung
The water from her hair and clothing scant,
Which, like thin drapery, classically clung
To her lithe limbs and bosom all apant

With its unwonted toil. Tonio had sprung
Back to his oars when he could fairly chant
His pæan for her safety—though the wood,
Galling his hand, was crimson with his blood.

XLV

She saw the stain, and gave a little start,
And, as when moved, (we know the habit), frowned;
But some remorseful thought stirred in her heart—
Tonio was maimed if she was nearly drowned.
Promptly (as the French would say) she ‘took her part’—
‘Shew me your hand,’ she said, and deftly bound
The wound up with her kerchief; took the oar,
And, rowing stoutly, looked at him no more.

XLVI

Ah! but his blood—there was the shaft all red—
She could not take her eyes off that; in fact,
'Twas clearly on her hands, if not her head.
Awed by the vision of their reckless act,
They rowed home pale and silent; neither said
A word in answer when the boatmen cracked
Their wanton jokes upon their strange appearance,
Disdaining with such coast-guards to make clearance.

XLVII

O'er Procida the lurid sun, just setting,
Flamed stormy portent from his blood-red eye,

As they touched land. No worse for toil or wetting,
Laurella found her garments nearly dry.
She leaped ashore, but paused a moment, letting
One little word, as Tonio passed her by
Carrying a basket, from her proud lips fall—
She merely said, ‘Addio!’—that was all.

XLVIII

And then away she ran, ere she had caught
His answering ‘Buona notte!’ murmured low,
With downcast eyes, and cheeks red with the thought
That now in his disgrace she graced him so.
Shouldering his oars, his lonely lair he sought,
Like a beaten hound—with heavy steps and slow
Mounting the stone stair to his little hut,
Glad in the whole world's face his door to shut.

XLIX

At home once more with soothing solitude,
His dingy chamber he began to pace,
But paused before his Virgin carved in wood,
Seven gilded stars around her smiling face.
To her divine and pitying motherhood,
Bereaved of joy, he dumbly looked for grace,
While, from his heart o'erwearied, tears would rise,
Veiling her glory, mist-like, from his eyes.

L

Ah, Dio, what a day! Our lives' true rate
Not ticking clocks but beating hearts may measure,
In dreams a moment swells with centuries' fate,
And Love, the dreamer, in a day finds leisure
For lifelong bale or bliss. Tonio with hate
This long day lingering yet for his displeasure
Saw through his tears, and dashed the shutter to;
But could not shut Laurella from his view.

LI

Her bite, keen as remorse's, rankled still—
His wounded hand throbbed hotly in its sheath.
He loosed the bandage, and a little rill
Of dolorous blood oozed slowly from beneath
The swollen edges. With a curious thrill
He viewed the red pits of the maiden's teeth—
As lovers kiss Love's wound he kissed her bite.
‘I was a brute,’ he said. ‘She served me right.’

LII

He washed the wound in water clean and cold,
And bound it up once more—that eased the pain—
Then mused awhile: To see her were too bold,
But she must have her handkerchief again—
Beppo should take it to her. He unrolled
And washed it clean from every crimson stain.

Well, she should ne'er set eyes upon him more,
And yet—he never loved her so before!

LIII

Poor lad! slight loss of blood had left him weak
To all appearance; for, his hectoring done,
His mournful spirit waxed extremely meek,
The stage of self-abasement now begun.
He vowed, with tender tears upon his cheek,
For her dear sake far from her face to run,
In that wild rapture of renunciation
For your young lover such a sweet sensation.

LIV

He kissed the precious cloth, and reverently
Hung it to dry; then on his meagre bed
Threw himself wearily with a deep-drawn sigh,
And strove to think; but slumbered soon, instead;—
Till some distracting noise bade slumber fly—
'Twas someone at the door! ‘Who's there?’ he said,
Then rose to open, in no friendly mood,
And—'wildering vision—there Laurella stood!

LV

Yes, it was she indeed—she and the storm,
They had come together; for the lightning's glare
Revealed against the night her slender form,
And the first gust of the gale was in her hair.

Without a word she entered; but the warm
Blood to her cheek, at Tonio's wondering stare,
Leapt, as she laid her basket down, drew breath,
And faced him, like a martyr facing death.

LVI

‘You are come to fetch your handkerchief,’ said he.
‘No need for that—you should have it clean,
By Beppo's hands to-morrow, punctually.’
‘No, 'tis not that,’ she panted; ‘but—I have been
For herbs, to heal your hurt—up yonder—see!’
And off the basket's lid went. ‘What do you mean?’
He asked. ‘For me! Buon Dio, you're too good!
I have got no worse than 'twas most just I should.

LVII

‘My hand's all right—if not, I earned it all,
And twice as much. This trouble is too kind—
I see great drops of rain upon your shawl.’
(He had lit his lamp, which flickered in the wind,
Though closed the door.) ‘Why come in such a squall?
At such an hour? The neighbours are not blind,
Nor dumb, confound them! Goodness will not balk
Their gossiping tongues—you know how they can talk.’

LVIII

‘Who fears their tongues?’ she sharply asked. ‘Not I!
I came to see your hand;’ and she unbound

The linen swathes; but gave a shuddering cry,
‘Gesu-Maria!’ when she saw the wound.
‘Bah! there's some swelling,’ Tonio said, ‘but why
Make all this work about it?’ Yet he found
A blessed surgery in her soothing touch,
And liked the operation very much.

LIX

She went about her business in such grave,
Deft, motherly fashion, that her patient smiled
For deep undreamed content; and mutely gave
Himself to her tendance—like a naughty child,
Outwearied and forgiven. Ah, could she lave
That hand for ever thus! He felt exiled
From new-found home, when, cooling herbs laid on,
And drest the unfevered wound, she must be gone.

LX

‘Thank you,’ he sighed, with a new rush of sadness
‘This favour is too great, yet makes me bold
To ask another. O forgive my madness!
Forget those words of passion uncontrolled
I spoke to you to-day. Not downright badness
Of heart it was, I hope—the thing got hold
Of body and soul, in a shark's flash. But now
I'll never vex you more—never, I vow.’

LXI

Quite fiercely she broke out: ‘The fault was mine.
Why do you beg my pardon? I'm to blame,
And should beg yours. I took a wicked line,
My crossness 'twas that made your anger flame.
And then—that dreadful bite!’ ‘'Twas God's design
To bring me to my mind. I bless His name,
And thank you for it. It did me only good—
Here is your handkerchief, clean of my blood.’

LXII

He held it out to her; yet still she lingered,
Dumb with some inward struggle. In the pause,
Tonio, without, the wild wind shrilly sing heard,
And grudged to trust her in the tempest's jaws.
But something in her basket still she fingered—
‘I want you to take this,’ she said, ‘because
You have lost your nice new jacket—all through me;
Your purse as well—this is worth something—see!’

LXIII

She drew a rosary forth, with silver beads
And cross. ‘This was my aunt's—before she died
She gave it me—and now my foolish deeds
Have left me in your debt.’ He shrank aside
As from a serpent. ‘No, no, no! What needs
This talk? My loss is nothing.’ ‘O,’ she cried,

‘Think of your uncle's money—all gone down,
Because—because you would not let me drown!’

LXIV

Her earnest face flushed, and her pleading grew
Almost a sob. ‘'Tis not enough, I know,
But there is nothing that I would not do
To make it up; while mother sleeps I'll sew,
Or spin, or—’ Tonio groaned. ‘'Tis but your due,’
The girl persisted. ‘Due!’ he cried, ‘you owe
Nothing to me, and nothing I will take.
Why will you talk like that? My heart you'll break!’

LXV

‘No, no—forget me; if we chance to meet,
For God's great pity look another way—
Your eyes would make drop down in the street
For very shame. But meet we never may—
I'll leave the place. Forget me, I entreat,
Or pardon me, when I am far away.
There is your cross. No more you'll see my face.
Good-night—good-bye, and thank you for your grace.’

LXVI

Twitching the beads with fingers purposeless
She stood, her eyes cast down; then let them drop
Back in the basket—answering his address
With silence; folded neatly on the top

The handkerchief; then, why he could not guess,
Kept fumbling with the lid; then seemed to stop
Vaguely; and then—he saw, with huge surprise,
That big round tears were raining from her eyes.

LXVII

‘Madre Santissima! are you ill? (She'll fall!)
Why do you tremble so? Here—take this chair!’
‘No, no,’ she said, ‘not ill—'tis nought at all;
But—I must go to mother—must have air.’
She staggered towards the door, but 'gainst the wall
Leant feebly, with strong sobs that seemed to tear
Her heart-strings. Then—arms out—she reeled to his breast,
And weeping, blushing, close and closer prest!

LXVIII

‘O,’ she sobbed out, ‘you give me good for ill—
I cannot bear it! Beat me, trample me,
Curse me—or—if—if you can love me still,
Though why you loved me I could never see,
Take me—for yours—do with me as you will;
But send me not away so patiently!
So coldly!’ All unused to women's ways,
Tonio beheld this change with blank amaze.

LXIX

He held her arms—felt her wild heart
Beat against his, and so found words at last:
‘Can love you still! Gran’ Dio! My blood would start
From every vein, to wash away the past,
If I could hope—ah, you but play this part
To try me; or your pity runs too fast,
And would betray your goodness! Do not waste
Your life on me with this too generous haste.’

LXX

But no—a woman knows her course too well
When passion fills her canvas. Where Love's feet
Touch land, she follows, be it heaven or hell,
And burns her boats, mad to forestall retreat.
Laurella raised her eyes, in his to dwell,
And simply said, ‘Io t' amo!’ Strange and sweet
That tearful look, bright with the touching splendour
Of a proud woman's perfect self-surrender.

LXXI

He strained her to him with a choking sob,
Humbled by his great triumph. ‘I'm your wife,’
She whispered; ‘take this earnest—none shall rob
Your lips of this, my virgin kiss. For life—
For death!’ She kissed him thrice. He felt the throb
Of her warm lips on his, and like a knife

A thrill of joy ran through him, feeling so
Her beauty through his being melt and glow.

LXXII

Once won, he was not slow to take possession
Of his sweet prize, and slake his lifelong thirst
For love, joy, peace, now that by rich progression
Blind discord into harmony had burst;
But women kiss like artists by profession—
Men are mere amateurs; and so at first,
His lips untaught just failed his love to smother.
Poor girl!—she bore it better than her mother.

LXXIII

There is a kiss of passion that would drain
More of the soul than in mere lips can live,
When lovers yearn for love, like babes that strain
The mother's breast for more than it can give;
Which kiss, not lightly to be kissed again,
Soon lapsed into the kiss contemplative—
The kiss of peace; and then Laurella's tongue
Warbled new music from her heart that sung.

LXXIV

‘Tonino mio! you love me then—can pardon
My nasty cross-grained ways? O if you knew
How I have feared to love you—set a guard on
My thoughts, to vex you! Yes, my love, 'tis true—

I feared to love you always—strove to harden
My heart against you—you, you, only you!
Ah that poor heart, you tugged it every way—
You don't know how I hated you to-day!

LXXV

‘But now, O now, I'll be so different!
How could I bear to pass you, when we met,
Without one look? And so you really meant
To run away, and thought I could forget
Your words of love? Ah, now you must relent—
Must stay—to make me good! I'll never fret
Your soul again—never!’ ‘O be my home,’
He cried, ‘and God forbid I e'er should roam!’

LXXVI

And so in deep communion, breast to breast,
They stood, their sweet love-language, like a song,
Murmuring between, while, just to mark each rest,
Light fluttering kisses to their lips would throng.
Laurella in his arms, her blissful nest,
Grew lovelier every moment, as more strong
The new, sweet concords through her bosom swept—
Till, for mere ecstasy, he could have wept.

LXXVII

For women are like roses—love, their sun,
Awakes their hearts from some dull winter's trance,

Their crimson petals opening one by one
To bounteous richness in his radiance.
Laurella's odorous blooming had begun—
Tonio might thank the saints! With pleading glance
At last she sighed: ‘Now I must go—'tis late—
Your hand needs rest—good angels on you wait!’

LXXVIII

With one last kiss she went. Her dainty waist
Slid from his clasp. ‘No, no, you must not come—
The rain's just over now. I love to taste
A night like this—the moon will see me home.
I fear no man but you.’ And out she raced
Into the storm. He saw the billows foam
Behind her, as she turned to smile: ‘Addio!
Think of your hand, for my sake, Amor mio!’

LXXIX

He was alone; but the sweet warmth of her
Was in his arms, and heart, and the deep wells
Of life. His blood was gay; his pulse astir
With that tumultuous triumph which rebels
Against the tyrant fates, to spur, spur, spur,
On to the immortal victories faith foretells!
Conflict he craved. Plague on this crib confined!
Abroad he rushed, to buffet with the wind.

LXXX

The thunder had gone by, and growled afar
Among the mountains; following in its course,
The rain rushed after; but the wind made war
Upon the sea; the sea, with rage grown hoarse,
Tore at the beach. Above, with scarce a star,
The moon fought with the clouds, which in mute force
Drove on her by battalions—like a bark
That rides and rives huge billows looming dark.

LXXXI

He paced the roaring beach, with a wild bliss
To wrestle with the tempest. O to feel
Its might on breast and limb; to hear the hiss
Of the salt surges, mark them rave and reel
Around his feet! 'Twas grand to feel all this,
And know himself a man—to plant his heel
On all things base! The world was at his feet,
And love had made the world so new, so sweet!

LXXXII

But with our good Curato we began,
With him must end. He heard a strange confession
Some few days thence, which left the worthy man
Tapping his snuff-box with benign expression;
A maiden's 'twas—indeed none other than
Laurella's own, which put him in possession

Of some important facts about the present
State of her soul, as wonderful as pleasant.

LXXXIII

‘Oimè!’ he chuckled, ‘what a minx it was
To lead us such a dance! An hour ago
I hoped to plead humility's mild cause
With my poor homilies; but who may know
The ways of God? Love laughs at our wise saws.
The girl's right—likely lad, this Tonio;
The uncle, though, will take it much in dudgeon.
Well, we must reason with the old curmudgeon.

LXXXIV

‘Ay, la Rabbiata, we must change your name—
We'll better it now, please God! Well, well, how soon
The Lord in wisdom has seen meet to tame
This wild and wayward bird to sing love's tune!
Hey, la Rabbiata? Bless me, when she came,
Looking as lovely as a rose in June,
I scarcely knew her! Well, well, God knows best—
May His continual blessing on them rest!’

THE DAUGHTER OF HIPPOCRATES.

A LEGEND OF COS.

Whilome—when still the world's great heart was young,
Making wild music as the minstrel sung;
When still fair creatures of the poet's dream
Haunted each legendary grove and stream,
And still the pallid shades of throneless gods
Lingered in wrath around their loved abodes,
Ere from their shrines all awe was past away—
In Sicily a Norman King bore sway.

And on a day from that delightful isle
There sailed a ship for Smyrna—many a mile
Of treacherous sea to compass, many a night
To battle with the winds, ere hove in sight
The snows of Tmolus, and they furled her sails
Securely in the gulf. Right costly bales
Waited her coming; yea, a goodly prize
Had been that vessel with her merchandise—
Great pearls, and antique gems, and rare perfumes;

Tissue of silver; webs of Indian looms
Or Persian, glowing like their orient skies
With woven gold and deep imperial dyes.

Fair blew the wind as gay they sailed for home,
But on the second day in sudden foam
Leaped the Ægean billows to the blast
Of the fierce-rushing North; whereon they cast
Their heaviest lading overboard, and wore
The shuddering ship; and fearfully before
The ever-threatening surge two days they ran
With bare and groaning spars. Then first began
The storm to slacken; but they nothing knew
Where they were driven, for none of all the crew
Could surely name the land which rose to crown
The sick-eyed hopes that saw the gale go down:
Howbeit they anchored in a quiet bay
At evenfall, and waited for the day.

Joy to those storm-tost mariners! The dawn
Revealed a land where many a pleasant lawn
Sloped greenly to the white and shelving shore,
Where lazy breakers tumbled with a roar
Of bygone tempest. From the circling hills
The mists rose, and they saw the gleam of rills
Which headlong leaped in flashing waterfalls,
And dark yews clinging to the rocky walls,
And in the valleys many a stately tree,
And all fair things thriving deliciously.

Joy to those storm-tost mariners! O bliss,
To stretch their numb and wearied limbs in this
Undreamed-of Paradise! They pushed ashore
Gleefully all, and none, I ween, forbore
His jest or song, as each man filled his cask
Or sluiced his salt-sore face. 'Twas joy to bask
On the white shingle; for the brisk sea-air
Was filled with living sunshine, and all care
Was lifted from their hearts.

A wooded glen
Enticed them from the beach, and gently then
Emerged upon a lawny solitude,
Kept secret from the sea by sheltering wood.
There centuried cedars and great fig-trees made
In the hot noon broad tents of placid shade,
And vagrant vines and gourds wove pleasant bowers—
Lairs of cool grass, whereby sun-loving flowers
Breathed all around. The sultry hum of bees
Boomed in the dreaming air; but in the trees
The birds were hushed for heat, and did not sing.
The languid wind that set heath-bells aswing,
Stirred with its wings such incense of wild thyme,
It seemed the wafture from a tropic clime.
At every step they roused some startled thing,
Which gazed at them a moment, wondering,
Then bounded from its browsing up the slopes,
Off to the hills—wild goats or antelopes;

But sign was none that ever man had come
To make in that sweet solitude a home.

Thereat much marvelling, they wandered on,
Gay as the myriad butterflies. Anon
They came upon a steeply-rising ground,
And, mounting on through laurel thickets, found
A broad space of rank grass, where thistles tall,
Brambles, and burs pushed through the ivied wall
Which still made crumbling shift to fence it in.
It seemed an ancient garden; for some sin,
In ages past committed, surely curst.
The leprous fruit-trees knelt to quench their thirst
About a stagnant pool; and nettles rank
And nightshade revelled o'er each mound and bank,
As in an ill-kept graveyard. Here and there
A satyr face grinned leeringly in air,
Fallen from its mossy pedestal; awry
And totteringly still stood the Termini;
And in the centre rose a marble Pan
From a festooning vine which overran
His goatish thighs, and on his lifted arm
Hung its deep-purpling clusters.

What grave charm
Locked every lip, when mid the trees a pile
Of melancholy marble, whose proud style
Made boast of bygone splendour, came in view?
I know not; but in silence paused the crew

Before yon central wonder of the place,
Gazing on that dumb dwelling in amaze—
On the serene Greek sculptures of the frieze,
Chaste-cut entablatures, and traceries
Where Æsculapian snakes gordianing twined;
On mystic symbols wondrously designed,
Time-mouldering plinth, and ruined portico,
And grass-grown steps—well worn ages ago!
It seemed a lonely palace of the dead
Guarded by silence; and a ghostly dread
Fell on them, even when at times a hare
Took fright and scampered to its grassy lair:
For there were hares in legions—strangely tame,
They sat to watch the men, and went and came
Through the high classic doorway.

Suddenly
A sailor, pale with terror, whispered, ‘See!’
And clutched his Captain's arm, and turned to go.
Then to their anxious question, what could so
Have shaken him, he only answered, ‘There!
That window! Look! 'Tis gone; but I could swear
I saw the thing!’ Each felt a secret pang
Shoot cold to the roots of life; and feebly rang
The fear-born laugh flouting their comrade's fear;
But, seeing naught, they mocked his altered cheer
With ready jest: ‘'Fore God, it seems the place
Turns men to marble—look but at his face!

What thing is this? Hast seen a ghost?’ But he,
Beckoning a youth who gazed, said tauntingly,
Yet with a timorous eye, which roved in vain
The horror it had known to meet again:
‘Now, Sieur Gualtier, if your heart be stout,
Prove it; for here you may, past touch of doubt.
Here stand the lists pitched for that valorous deed
You oft have sighed to seek—God be your speed!
And ye, who look so bold, see out the play—
The Devil make me an ass if here I stay!
Come, come—we stand upon enchanted ground:
I know it now, Christ keep us! we have found
That spot of Cos where dwells—what scarce I dare
To name—O Queen of Heaven, look there, look there!’

They looked. A sudden pallor blanched each cheek,
And not a man had power to move or speak;
For there a hideous serpent raised its head,
And gazed upon them keenly with its red
And fiery eyes, and stretched its squamous neck
Horribly towards them—every lustrous speck
And lurid circlet glittering in the sun
With hateful splendour. And they could not run,
But spell-bound stood. The monster raised its crest
Sharply as might a heron, eager lest
The prey should 'scape, with little backward jerks;
And so stayed keenly gazing—all the cirques

Of its tremendous length yet coiled within.
Then with weak knees they struggled to begin
Their trembling flight.

But Gualtier did not fly;
The glittering mazes of the serpent's eye
Wrought in his brain, like some Circean wine,
With a delirious joy. He felt divine
As Adam with the juice sweet on his lips,
And wisdom's day new-burst from its eclipse,
Eve glowing at his side. All dreams he had dreamed
Of love and fame grew quick in him.

He seemed
No common sailor, by his noble air
And rich though sea-stained dress. A young Trouvère
He was indeed, who came with them along,
Seeking adventures or new themes of song;
And now fame hovered near. Stung to dare all,
He firmly turned, his comrades to recall;
‘Friends, 'tis a gentle creature, as men say,
And these tame hares bear witness—let us stay.’
‘Stay then,’ replied the Captain; ‘try your fate
With your tame snake. Come, men! Good fortune, mate—
Keep your mad bones unpicked to dream on.’

Then
Gualtier was left alone.

He looked again—
The snake had vanished. Like an evil dream
Drawing to its final horror all did seem.
Irresolute he stood, in act to fly;
Yet, with a fearful courage, eagerly
His heart leapt for the proof. There comes a time
For each man when his nature stands sublime
In one stern moment's light, when all his past
Blossoms in one instinctive act. At last
Death witnesses the bond with fortune sealed.
Even thus the whole man Gualtier stood revealed:
His life was full in blossom. There he stood,
The chivalrous passion tingling through his blood,
Yet half-faint, agonising on the tense
Of expectation. By all gates of sense
The scene infixed itself upon his soul.
In an eternal present glowed the whole
Charmed garden in the hush of high mid-noon;
The feverous hum of bees and creaking tune
Of myriad crickets thronging through the grass
Boomed in his ears; but all things seemed to pass
In the dim background of his mind.

Then came
A sudden rustling, and those eyes of flame
Burnt at his very feet. It was too late
For flight—he sickened in the grasp of fate;
And a cold shiver stirred his rising hair.

Trembling, yet with a heart that bayed despair,
He gazed upon the cruel-fangèd jaws
That fawned around him, making gentle pause
As though to win his pity.

Awed he spake:
‘In the name of God, what art thou?’

Then the snake
Answered him in a human voice—none less
Appalling for its feminine slenderness:
‘Hast thou not heard of me?’

He made essay,
With dry and tuneless tongue, to stammer, ‘Yea,
Thou art—the fearful Thing of Cos!’

Again
The monster spoke, writhing as if in pain,
And its voice shook: ‘I am that loathly thing.’
Then it was dumb; but every lurid ring
Swelled with a passionate grief, which seemed at last
To tear itself a way, as fierce and fast
Words followed words: ‘Ay, thou hast heard my tale—
Thy ears have heard; but how shall I assail
With this chill tongue thy heart? How shall my woe
Plead there in sacred human guise? Yet O
Believe, believe, I was not always barred
By this dread prison from my kind's regard!
Not always was I thus—a thing to flee!—
Teach the clear eyes of thy just soul to see

Beneath this husk of hideousness a form
That hath moved men to love—a bosom warm
With more than woman's tenderness—a heart
Where passions, pent for centuries, ache to start
Into wild life. O dost thou long for love?
How I could love thee—with a strength above
All that thy dreams—nay, woe is me, I rave!—
Love hissed upon this tongue moves loathing! Brave
As thou art proved, that were a dream too dread.
Yet mercy, mercy! Since thou hast not fled,
Save me—be pitiful! Ah, was ever fate
More piteous than mine, whom Dian's hate—
Think of it—tortures thus, age after age?
That tale is true; my father was the sage
Hippocrates! How measure you the years
That have remoulded nature since his tears
Fell, unavailing as his prayers, for me?
Since the fierce gods, in vengeful cruelty
Cursing the issues of my mortal breath,
Bound me to hateful life? No nearer death
For aging all the long, long century through,
I cast my slough, my hideous youth renew—
Ah, think, think, think of it, and save me! O
Salve with a moment's pang this age-long woe!
Cancel this curse of Dian—laid on me
Until—’ Her keen eyes sparkled horribly,
Her jaws dilating as she raised her crest

At once eagerly upward to his breast.
‘O gentle youth, kiss me upon the mouth!’

Shuddering, he started back—a deadly drouth
Parching his tongue, and all his flesh a-creep
With a damp chill. The serpent seemed to weep,
For twice he heard a piteous inward groan;
Then down she grovelled, with a sobbing moan,
Upon the ground; a wailing smote his ears,
As when a woman weeps, and warm large tears
Sprang in her eyes and bathed her loathsome cheek.
Gualtier was moved, and said: ‘What boots to speak,
O Lady—if thou lady art indeed—
Of curse of that false goddess, whom our creed
Holds for a devil? 'Tis a thing of naught.
I cannot kiss thee!’ At the sickening thought
Such charnel savours to his palate rose
As presage oft a swoon, and death drew close,
With icy fingers clutching at his heart.
He shook them from him, crying, with a start
That caught the flying life: ‘But I will sign
Thy forehead with that pledge of love divine—
The Cross of Christ our Lord; and in His name
I bless thee!’

All her colours went and came
Marvellously,—then, pale for drearihead,
She turned her from him droopingly, and said:
‘The Cross, the Cross! Alas! so talk they all,

Pouring its blood on the fair world in gall;
Cold hearts to fashion's pearls turn pity's tears;
Sweet can he sing of love divine who fears
To wear love's earthly thorns; ease would be kind,
Ruffling no feather. Deem'st thou canst find
In holy sign quittance from holy deed?
Can blessèd names disfever wounds that bleed
For tender hands? Not so, by Him who died!’
Sharply in Gualtier's eyes, with wonder wide,
From her deep orbs she flashed indignant fire.
Her words stung like a scourge. Then, lifting higher
Her crested strength, she spoke again: ‘This curse
A thing of naught! O what a cloud perverse
Hangs in the heaven of thy fair sympathy!
I tell thee 'twas my sin, though none in thee,
That I denied this goddess. I was made
The hated thing I am, because I paid
No worship at her altars. Hated? Lo!
So past all hate, that thou, who seest my woe,
In pitiless loathing wilt redungeon me
Where love and joy, like wailing spectres, flee
My passion's clasp; where on the iron door
Wan hopes beat out their lives for evermore!
O foulness, foulness, with what mortal blight
Thou nipp'st my womanhood's grace! Thy gorgon sight
Chills men to marble gods, whom beauty's tale

Had found refreshing rivers. Hence with that pale
And comfortless face of thine!—for my despair
Has dreadful promptings, which this moment tear
My breast like tigers. Hence I charge thee—fly!
Fair as thou art, I would not have thee die;
But misery breeds fell brood—a tyrant thought
Shakes all my feeble soul, long overwrought
With passion self-represt, and I could well—
Nay go! I will not harm thee.’

Then she fell
A-weeping in contorted agony;
And Gualtier, filled with wonder thus to see
Her sorrowing rage for cruelty confest,
Felt such a fascination in his breast
As a man feels when hideous temptings rise
To an abhorrèd sin. He kept his eyes
Fixed on her writhing neck, and clutched his sword,
Ready to strike.

But now she turned her tow'rd
Her palace, with a passionate shriek of: ‘Go!’
Then Gualtier spoke again: ‘How can I know
Thou dost not lure me to some dreadful doom—
Death—or a death-in-life of spell-bound gloom,
With thee, for ages in this charmèd isle?
I pity thee—yet—I fear thy serpent guile.’

Thereat she slowly rose, swelling her height
Like a majestic wave; serener light

Gleamed in her eyes, and in her voice awoke
A grand and mournful music as she spoke:
‘O green and happy woods, breathing like sleep
In quiet sunshine! Living things that creep,
Or run, or fly amid these glades in peace!
O earth! O sea! O heavens, that never cease
Your gentle ministry, witness my truth!
Must every word that melts man's heart to ruth,
Move grim suspicion and the fear of lies?
O powers of nature, grand benignities
Of all this dumb creation! must the clay
That shades our delicate lamp from the fierce day
Of boundless life, lie on us like a mound
Of graveyard earth, that shuts us from the sound
Of all the kindly world, smothers our pale
And struggling lips, and makes our feeble wail
Come strangely to men's ears, like a ghost's cry?
My voice appals? Alas! 'tis one deep sigh
To be made lovely by one loving act;
Yet he who hears leagues me in horrid pact
With nether powers of ill. Farewell, thou fair
Dream of a man, who comest, like despair,
To torture me in happy human shape.
Man's faith is not like woman's—nought can 'scape
His sceptic fears—not faith itself—farewell!
Thy doubts did ice the tender founts that swell
Here in my breast a moment; but once more

They gush as warm as tears. My passion's o'er—
I blame thee not. Farewell, and happy be;
But in thy distant world remember me!’

Two frisking hares just then came racing by;
Starting from Gualtier, they couched timidly
Among her serpent coils. She bent her head
And licked them gently, weeping.

Gualtier's dread
Changing, chameleon-fashion, as her mood
Took tenderer lights, had grown less deadly-hued,
Shot through with pity's colours. All his powers,
Like stripling soldiers whom the first stern hours
Of battle veterans make, now burnt to dare
That final grip with danger which did scare
The vanward fancy; like a captain now,
Who stares across the field with resolute brow,
He rallied them, as with a trumpet-call
Sounding to desperate charge. ‘Stand I or fall,
O Christ,’ he murmured, ‘whom the wormy grave
Held three days in its womb, us men to save
From our corruptions, I will follow thee
Even to the death! Shed now thy blood in me,
To save this soul and mine!’ Aloud he spake,
And shuddering closed his eyes: ‘I'll kiss thee, snake!’
And held his lips out, thinking on His name
Who cast, when she besought him in her shame,

Seven devils out of Mary Magdalen;
And with the cross he signed himself.

O then
In his blind agony he seemed to sink
In a cold sea of horror. He must drink
The cup of loathing to the very lees.
He felt the kiss approaching by degrees—
That venomous toad-mouth, with its clammy chill;
Now!—now!—

It came at last. A sudden thrill
Ran through his frame. A soft mouth fast and warm
Was prest on his—about his neck an arm
Clung rapturously. He looked, and, O surprise!
O transport! gazed into the sweetest eyes
That ever made a heaven for mortal man.
It was too vast revulsion—faint and wan,
He sank upon the ground.

The hares had fled
That sudden apparition in the stead
Of the familiar creature of their love:
For there a beauteous woman bent above
The swooning youth, and kissed his eyes and hair,
And lips, and brow; and chafed with tender care
His languid hands, and to her bosom prest;
And, motherlike, cherished his feeble breast
With the glad warmth of her own; and made ado
To stir his fluttering heart with pulses new

From hers, which yearned to pour its blood for him.
O happy Gualtier, through whose senses, dim
And winter-chill, her glowing summer played!
Thrice-happy Gualtier, with so sweet a maid
To kiss him back to life! For she was fair
As virgins are; her cheek and bounteous hair
Had drunk the sunshine from the rising day
And gave it back in beauty; the glad play
Of youth was in her limbs; and all her form
Kept its auroral curves, as though the storm
Of agony had never swept the shore
Of her lone life. But never virgin wore
Brows of such ripe love-wisdom; virgin eyes
Ne'er held in their grave deeps such mysteries
Of sorrow and love; never did virgin lips
Kindle and quiver to their tender tips
With such rare smiles, wherein transfigured pain
Grew love. Thrice-happy Gualtier, when each vein
Ached with new-flowing life, and he awoke
Nested in home-like peace! Wondering he spoke:
‘Mother of God, do I behold thy face?
And am I snatched, through Christ's exceeding grace,
From hell to heaven? O if it be a dream,
Let me not wake!’ With a low tuneful scream
Of laughing joy she caught him to her breast:
‘O let me be thy heaven, thy haven of rest,
As thou art mine! 'Tis I, thy ransomed—I

Who cling so close. These lips thou wilt not fly?
O tell me I am loved—at last, at last—
And make me all thine own! My slough is cast—
Call me Aglaïa, give me back my name—
That too! Ah! was this snake so hard to tame,
Who, coiling ever closer, burns to be
Thy home, thy bride, thy happy snake—by thee
Restored to love—and death!’

Long did they live, and long from every land
Thronged to them annually a pallid band
Of sick folk, by their hands to be made whole;
For, as was blazed abroad, they had control
Of all diseases—skilled in secret lore
And occult arts; and ever more and more
Their fame grew loud, and of their wondrous cures,
And wealth, and charities, the noise endures
Even to this day in Cos, their island home.

THE LOST VIOLIN-THEME.

I.

In the waning-time of the autumn
We sat in the dusk—we three;
On glasses emptied of Rhine-wine,
The fire gleamed fitfully.
Ghostly and huge our shadows
Went wavering over the wall,
And hushed by the Twilight-Spirit,
Silence possessed us all.

II.

We heard but the tranquil flowing
Of grand old Father-Rhine,
And the wailful coming and going
Of wind through the aisles of pine.
We sat in the dusk and pondered,
Each lone with his lonely heart,
Ah! when shall we meet, we wondered,
We three, whom to-night must part?

III.

At last when between the pine-trees
The moon rose large and red,
Up started Fritz from his musing,
But never a word he said,
Never a word; but sighing
He past to his room within,
And a voice rang clear through the twilight,
The voice of his violin.

IV.

We knew it well:—it had thrilled us
A thousand times or more;
But now! what fine transport filled us?
It never spake thus before!
It came like a revelation,
That shrill, small, passionate voice,
Sublimed in its exaltation,
Wild woes—ineffable joys.

V.

Keen bliss ran shuddering through us,
And anguish of deep delight,
On wings of the great Tone-Angel
Our spirits were rapt that night.
No awful beauty of dawning,
No tender freshness of morn,

No solemn glory of sunset,
No sweetness of stars new-born,
Nor grandeur of calm-crowned mountains,
Nor river's majestic flow,
Nor balmy sadness of pine-woods,
Recall that adagio!

VI.

It rose, as a quaint arch rises,
In curves of delicate strength;
In languor of sweet surprises
It sighed itself out at length.
And then for one golden moment
The silence alone we heard,
And tranced in that blissful moment,
We neither spoke nor stirred.

VII.

Anon, like a sudden tempest
That swoops upon silent trees,
In moonless glades of the forest,
With shriek of strange agonies,
The wrath of his terrible bowing
Made vocal the strings within;
It moved us, beyond things human,
The wail of that violin!

VIII.

What demon possessed its master?
What madness wrought in his brain,
As, whirling faster and faster,
The senses reeled to the strain?
No nightmare-ridden, who, clinging
O'er some infernal abyss,
Grows dizzy with deathful singing,
Half hearing the snake-fiend's hiss;
No lover who stands death-stricken
At sight of his lady's death,
E'er felt all his soul more sicken
Than we, as we held our breath.

IX.

But ever, above the rushing
And agony of the strings,
There soared a strain, like the rainbow
That over a torrent springs,—
A strain like that transient iris
Which gleams and again grows pale,
But wavers not from its poising
However the hues may fail.

X.

At first it was but a yearning,
Half-lost in the fierce unrest,

Returning and still returning,
Unshattered and unreprest—
So pure, so ghostly, so tender,
So fraught with delicious tears,
So full of unearthly splendour,
'Twill live in our dying ears;
Returning and still returning—
Was ever a strain like this
For sadness of infinite yearning,
For fervour of infinite bliss?

XI.

At length, waxed brighter and brighter,
It filled our hearts with its light;
The whirl of that terrible music
No longer could vex the night,
Crescendo and still crescendo,
Outraying joy through the gloom,
It blazed to its ultimate triumph,
Then Fritz came back from his room.

XII.

And we? I scarce durst greet him,
So rapt was his face, so pale;
But Gottfried sprang up to meet him
With ‘Ruler of spirits, hail!
Great master, come and be chidden;
He merits no less, I vow,

Whose bushel so long has hidden
Such light as we wot of now!’

XIII.

And Fritz sat down in the moonlight:
‘To-night we three must part—
And a drear voice whispers, “Forever!”
The voice of my boding heart;
But ere we take leave forever,
Fill round to old Father-Rhine,
And list to the wonderful story
Of this wonderful theme of mine.

XIV.

‘In the Schwarzwald beside a river
A lonely cottage stood,
The river rolled by forever,
Above waved ever the wood;
And there in the gloom of the forest
Was born a bright-haired boy,
Through whom, when their need was sorest,
Two hearts were made one in joy.

XV.

‘And there in the haunted forest
He lived and grew strong—that child,
His masters the frank wood-spirits,
His playmates all glad things wild.

Self-weaned from his mother's kisses,
He roamed all day like an elf,
With song, and shouting, and laughter,
Or silent, lay by himself,
Deep-hidden beneath the pine-trees,
In trances of blissful awe
(Some folk say hearing and seeing
What none ever heard or saw).
But hugely he loved at twilight
To climb on his father's knees,
Or sit at his mother's footstool,
Discoursing them mysteries:
Then often some brave old Volkslied,
Flung free in three careless parts,
Would tell how throbbed in their cottage
That trio of happy hearts.

XVI.

‘But soon the kind years brought him
Their seasons of joy supreme,
When his sun-burnt father taught him
His wood-craft of glade and stream:
And down the mysterious river
They rafted it, down and down,
New wonders sailed by forever,
And then the long-dreamed-of town!

And there, blest beyond all measure,
New life stirred the life within;
There found he a fairy-treasure—
God gave him a violin!

XVII.

‘Years passed—his innermost nature
Was known to those haunted trees;
In rapture of earnest music
He poured his soliloquies—
All anguish of aspiration,
All passion of deep love-dreams,
All throes of the virgin spirit
Took form in fantastic themes.

XVIII.

‘'Twas autumn. At twilight falling
His hair with strange awe was stirred;
Faint whispers, low voices calling,
Soft sighing of harps he heard:
With shuddering of heart and swelling,
He followed their ghostly guide,
Till far from his father's dwelling
He stood by the river-side.
Sullen the clouds were rolling
Away from the chilly west,
Nought tendering and nought consoling
Brought peace in the vague unrest;

But all was pallor and bleakness—
A menace—a phantom dread—
A mockery of his weakness
Hung hatefully o'er his head.

XIX.

‘And filled with despair and yearning,
And choking with unshed tears,
He longed for death that might hide him
From horror of coming years;
Till sternly, as in defiance,
He lifted himself from woe,
And poured to God in his torment
That solemn adagio.

XX.

‘Sudden the deeps of heaven
Were full of splendour and sound;
Outleapt the might of the levin,
The thunders were all unbound.
O the fierce bliss of lightning
Which spirits heroic know!
Through fingers tingling and tight'ning
It wrought in his fiddle-bow.
Death-pale with sublime self-scorning
And impulse of warrior-glee,
As Jacob wrestled till morning
For blessing, so wrestled he:

But none ever knew what vision
He saw in that holy place—
Thereafter his dreams Elysian
Were filled with one woman's face.

XXI.

‘Years passed. He wandered—still wandered,
But never in joy or pain,
For thinking, or longing, or striving,
That music would come again.
He wandered abroad—still wandered,
Impatient, from place to place,
In search of that long-lost music—
In search of that ne'er-found face.

XXII.

‘It came at last—the fruition
Of years of sorrow and toil—
The world had its one musician,
Too pure for the world to spoil;—
It came—that face! Its divineness
Made heaven in the concert-room;
Half languid in lone benignness
Those pure deep eyes of his doom!
O this fierce bliss of lightning,
How sings the blood in its glow!
Thro' fingers tingling and tight'ning
It wrought in his fiddle-bow.

His love, at last! He had found her!
Outleaped that theme like a flame,
And fast in its love-spell bound her:
His bride was his crown of fame.

XXIII.

‘That bride, O friends, was my mother,
My father that child of light,
That mystic theme was none other
Than that ye have heard to-night.
That strain was his swan-song dying
(Once more to our dear old Rhine!)
My father's’—he ended, sighing,—
‘Who knows but it may be mine?’

XXIV.

And so we took leave forever—
Fate spoke in his boding vein,
For never on earth, O never,
That theme shall be heard again!