 | Poems and Transcripts |  |
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I. POEMS IN BLANK VERSE
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A DWARF.
In the strong daylight of reality,
I came upon a being who belonged
Not to the present, but the distant past;
A thing mis-issued from the womb of Time,
Which called the mind away from present sights,
And seemed to give the measure of an age.
I saw him at Verona in the street;
And with that empty street, in which the sun
Poured floods of light upon the heated stones,
He seemed as out of keeping as a bat.
He was a cripple and a dwarf, of face
Close-shaven, warped, and pleasureless, who stood
Upon his crutches, in the dreary garb
Of a medieval almshouse, eyeing us.
He might have been an imp-like ornament,
Detached from some cathedral buttress black,
And vivified by now forgotten spells;
The incarnate spirit of the Ages Dark,
Thrown on our path to make us love these days.
I came upon a being who belonged
Not to the present, but the distant past;
A thing mis-issued from the womb of Time,
Which called the mind away from present sights,
And seemed to give the measure of an age.
I saw him at Verona in the street;
And with that empty street, in which the sun
Poured floods of light upon the heated stones,
He seemed as out of keeping as a bat.
He was a cripple and a dwarf, of face
Close-shaven, warped, and pleasureless, who stood
Upon his crutches, in the dreary garb
Of a medieval almshouse, eyeing us.
He might have been an imp-like ornament,
Detached from some cathedral buttress black,
And vivified by now forgotten spells;
The incarnate spirit of the Ages Dark,
Thrown on our path to make us love these days.
I let my thoughts revert to those black times,
When prowled the monk, the leper, and the witch
Amid the rubbish of a nobler world;
When blunted was the mind by ignorance
And dull despair, and much the body, too,
Was stunted, and misshapen, and debased
By centuries of famine, when mankind
Were but a herd of mean and trembling slaves,
Beneath the lash of heaven, and their voice
A litany unceasing. Then the Dwarf
Became the sculptor's model; and the more
Distorted and malignant was his face,
The more he served his purpose. Everywhere
He leered from out the stonework, in the gloom
Of cloister and of church, where he sustained
The short and thick-set pillarets with pain
On his ignoble shoulders; or he peeped
With apish goblins as a water-spout,
Over the belfry's brink, or crouched high up,
And seemed to jeer beneath the Gothic eaves;
And in the twilight, struck a sickening fear
In women's hearts, and made them oft, perhaps,
Give birth unto his like. Had the pale sun
Not strength enough, in those ill-omened times,
To warm men's hearts to gladness, and a sense
Of human beauty? Did not Nature speak?
And came no voices from the distant past?
No voices came, or, if they came, were faint.
In premature decrepitude, the world
Had little memory of its golden youth,
When held in honour was the human form,
And when, in Greece, the sculptor loved to mould
The youth still sprinkled with Olympic dust;
When Phidias and Praxiteles had clothed
Immortal Gods in Man's most beauteous shape,
And shown to all the Zeus of mighty brow,
The armed and placid Pallas, or the young
Triumphant Phœbus, in his radiant strength;
And her who rose from ocean's tossing foam,
Supremely fair; or happy leaf-eared Fauns,
O'er-filled with life, and fresh from woodland glades.
Those days were dead: the Gods of Hellas slept
Within the bosom of the patient earth;
What was not dust was hidden in the dust,
And half a thousand years had still to pass
Before their waking day. And even then,
When once again they stood in Heaven's light,
In their own grand serenity, how few
Were those whose hearts could recognise their rule,
Or give the disinherited their due!
Alas, alas! for beauty's noblest world!
When prowled the monk, the leper, and the witch
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When blunted was the mind by ignorance
And dull despair, and much the body, too,
Was stunted, and misshapen, and debased
By centuries of famine, when mankind
Were but a herd of mean and trembling slaves,
Beneath the lash of heaven, and their voice
A litany unceasing. Then the Dwarf
Became the sculptor's model; and the more
Distorted and malignant was his face,
The more he served his purpose. Everywhere
He leered from out the stonework, in the gloom
Of cloister and of church, where he sustained
The short and thick-set pillarets with pain
On his ignoble shoulders; or he peeped
With apish goblins as a water-spout,
Over the belfry's brink, or crouched high up,
And seemed to jeer beneath the Gothic eaves;
And in the twilight, struck a sickening fear
In women's hearts, and made them oft, perhaps,
Give birth unto his like. Had the pale sun
Not strength enough, in those ill-omened times,
To warm men's hearts to gladness, and a sense
Of human beauty? Did not Nature speak?
And came no voices from the distant past?
No voices came, or, if they came, were faint.
In premature decrepitude, the world
Had little memory of its golden youth,
When held in honour was the human form,
And when, in Greece, the sculptor loved to mould
The youth still sprinkled with Olympic dust;
When Phidias and Praxiteles had clothed
Immortal Gods in Man's most beauteous shape,
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The armed and placid Pallas, or the young
Triumphant Phœbus, in his radiant strength;
And her who rose from ocean's tossing foam,
Supremely fair; or happy leaf-eared Fauns,
O'er-filled with life, and fresh from woodland glades.
Those days were dead: the Gods of Hellas slept
Within the bosom of the patient earth;
What was not dust was hidden in the dust,
And half a thousand years had still to pass
Before their waking day. And even then,
When once again they stood in Heaven's light,
In their own grand serenity, how few
Were those whose hearts could recognise their rule,
Or give the disinherited their due!
Alas, alas! for beauty's noblest world!
The Middle Ages, like a sea of lead,
Extend immense and desolate; a sea
On which the sun appears for ever set,
And through the lasting twilight we perceive
Some few wrecks of Antiquity. Look back
With me upon those times of woe, when first
The bell's dull tolling marked the close of day,
And rendered sadder nightfall's saddening hour.
The thousand woodland gods of Greece were gone;
The sunlit glades were empty, which had once
With joyous beings teemed. But in the gloom,
In damp and chilly dells of evil name,
Where clumps of henbane and of monkshood grew,
A thousand other beings dwelt instead,
Spiteful and ugly, who on toadstools sat
And waited for the passer-by to cross
His path and bode him ill. The dreaded Nix
Dwelt in the depths of sunless forest pools,
And lured the fisher, while the dwarfish Gnomes
Betrayed the miner in the caves of earth.
The world was peopled with fantastic shapes
Of ugliness and fear, which man, alas,
Had formed in his own image. Fear and Hate
And Hunger reigned. The lean and stunted serf,
Nailed to his clod of unproductive earth,
Looked at the frowning castle near at hand,
Whence came all desolations, and worked on
In silent hatred. Near him, tall and black,
The gibbet stood against the leaden sky.
A sound of brutal revelry at times
Fell on his ear, or else a chaunt of monks,
Monotonous and soulless, from afar.
Unless the plague swept by and took him off
With his lean children, and with monk and lord,
He struggled on, and asked no human help.
But often, by the moon's precarious light,
Upon some wild, ill-omened heath, as bare
As the dead level of his misery,
He offered up a midnight mass to him
Who first rebelled. The witch, his priestess, stood,
Not old and shrivelled, as some now might think,
But with an impious beauty in her face,
And black and snake-like locks, and braved aloud
All heaven's bolts. The great satanic reel
Went ever faster, and the pale, chaste moon
Drew o'er her face a fleecy veil of cloud.
Extend immense and desolate; a sea
On which the sun appears for ever set,
And through the lasting twilight we perceive
Some few wrecks of Antiquity. Look back
With me upon those times of woe, when first
The bell's dull tolling marked the close of day,
And rendered sadder nightfall's saddening hour.
The thousand woodland gods of Greece were gone;
The sunlit glades were empty, which had once
With joyous beings teemed. But in the gloom,
In damp and chilly dells of evil name,
Where clumps of henbane and of monkshood grew,
A thousand other beings dwelt instead,
Spiteful and ugly, who on toadstools sat
And waited for the passer-by to cross
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Dwelt in the depths of sunless forest pools,
And lured the fisher, while the dwarfish Gnomes
Betrayed the miner in the caves of earth.
The world was peopled with fantastic shapes
Of ugliness and fear, which man, alas,
Had formed in his own image. Fear and Hate
And Hunger reigned. The lean and stunted serf,
Nailed to his clod of unproductive earth,
Looked at the frowning castle near at hand,
Whence came all desolations, and worked on
In silent hatred. Near him, tall and black,
The gibbet stood against the leaden sky.
A sound of brutal revelry at times
Fell on his ear, or else a chaunt of monks,
Monotonous and soulless, from afar.
Unless the plague swept by and took him off
With his lean children, and with monk and lord,
He struggled on, and asked no human help.
But often, by the moon's precarious light,
Upon some wild, ill-omened heath, as bare
As the dead level of his misery,
He offered up a midnight mass to him
Who first rebelled. The witch, his priestess, stood,
Not old and shrivelled, as some now might think,
But with an impious beauty in her face,
And black and snake-like locks, and braved aloud
All heaven's bolts. The great satanic reel
Went ever faster, and the pale, chaste moon
Drew o'er her face a fleecy veil of cloud.
I love those ages not; but even they,
Barren and mean and cruel as they were
Have left us things of beauty. Then arose
The great cathedrals, which uplift the cross
Into the clouds, high o'er the hum of life.
See how the patient generations worked
For far posterity. They sought not fame,
But deemed that he would not have lived in vain
Whose hand had added to the glorious pile
An oriel window or a sculptured porch,
Though lost should be his name. The work was slow.
Full well they knew that ere the latest stone
Of dazzling white was laid, high in the sky,
The first would long have blackened been by age,
And unborn kings be sleeping in the crypt.
But year by year the marble forest grew;
The Gothic columns, like gigantic sheaves
Of mighty rushes, higher, higher rose,
And spread, and bent, and met above the aisles
In loftiest arch, and took the tints of time,
While wondrous vistas formed, where, far away,
The softened light streamed through the stainéd glass.
Yes, even those cold ages, when men looked
So little on the beauty of the world,
Bequeathed us things of beauty which endure.
But that was when the long-retarded dawn
Already struggled with the night. For, lo,
A change was coming o'er the face of earth.
Barren and mean and cruel as they were
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The great cathedrals, which uplift the cross
Into the clouds, high o'er the hum of life.
See how the patient generations worked
For far posterity. They sought not fame,
But deemed that he would not have lived in vain
Whose hand had added to the glorious pile
An oriel window or a sculptured porch,
Though lost should be his name. The work was slow.
Full well they knew that ere the latest stone
Of dazzling white was laid, high in the sky,
The first would long have blackened been by age,
And unborn kings be sleeping in the crypt.
But year by year the marble forest grew;
The Gothic columns, like gigantic sheaves
Of mighty rushes, higher, higher rose,
And spread, and bent, and met above the aisles
In loftiest arch, and took the tints of time,
While wondrous vistas formed, where, far away,
The softened light streamed through the stainéd glass.
Yes, even those cold ages, when men looked
So little on the beauty of the world,
Bequeathed us things of beauty which endure.
But that was when the long-retarded dawn
Already struggled with the night. For, lo,
A change was coming o'er the face of earth.
A change, indeed; all nature's face was changed,
And rendered youthful in the eyes of men.
The trees, which for a thousand years had seemed
Like gibbets in a mist, took beauteous forms;
The scentless flowers filled the air with scent,
And claimed their tints of yore. The dew-drops shone,
The ripened corn resumed its golden hue,
And through the world there passed a breeze of life.
See how Æneas Sylvius takes delight
In the blue waving fields of flow'ring flax;
And thou, Lorenzo, who didst note the charm
Of early winter in thy princely home
Of Ambra, where the dry and rustling leaves
Made, in the thinnéd woods, the steps of one
Sound like the steps of many; where the cranes,
In homeward flight, were printed on the sky;
Where still the cypress some few birds concealed.
What hand in painting nature equals thine?
For thee the Nereids sported as of old
Among the sparkling waters, and the Fauns
Lurked 'mid the forest green. For thee the streams
Were weed-crowned Gods, with voices sweet and low.
All Fancy's numberless creations fair
Repeopled nature; for at last, at last,
The long-lost world of Hellas had been found;
The Sea of Ages, in whose silent depths
Antiquity lay buried, then cast up
Its richest treasures. Every passing day
Brought some new waif: a priceless manuscript,
A noble statue, or an antique gem.
Italian painters did what once the Greeks
Had done in marble, and created forms
Of lasting beauty. Nay, the very Gods
Of Greece revived, and on the canvas stood
Disguised as saints. On capital and frieze
The curly Greek Acanthus bloomed again
Beneath the chisel; Tritons spouted high
From Tuscan founts; and Greek divinities
Peeped from the oaken carvings of a chair.
Those days are far; though still the Sea of Time
Casts on the shore, at intervals, a waif—
An armless Venus or a shattered Faun—
From the great wreck of Greek antiquity.
And who can tell what treasures of the past
Still in the bosom of the future lie?
All sleeping beauty must at last awake,
Nor in its sleep grows old.
And rendered youthful in the eyes of men.
The trees, which for a thousand years had seemed
Like gibbets in a mist, took beauteous forms;
The scentless flowers filled the air with scent,
And claimed their tints of yore. The dew-drops shone,
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And through the world there passed a breeze of life.
See how Æneas Sylvius takes delight
In the blue waving fields of flow'ring flax;
And thou, Lorenzo, who didst note the charm
Of early winter in thy princely home
Of Ambra, where the dry and rustling leaves
Made, in the thinnéd woods, the steps of one
Sound like the steps of many; where the cranes,
In homeward flight, were printed on the sky;
Where still the cypress some few birds concealed.
What hand in painting nature equals thine?
For thee the Nereids sported as of old
Among the sparkling waters, and the Fauns
Lurked 'mid the forest green. For thee the streams
Were weed-crowned Gods, with voices sweet and low.
All Fancy's numberless creations fair
Repeopled nature; for at last, at last,
The long-lost world of Hellas had been found;
The Sea of Ages, in whose silent depths
Antiquity lay buried, then cast up
Its richest treasures. Every passing day
Brought some new waif: a priceless manuscript,
A noble statue, or an antique gem.
Italian painters did what once the Greeks
Had done in marble, and created forms
Of lasting beauty. Nay, the very Gods
Of Greece revived, and on the canvas stood
Disguised as saints. On capital and frieze
The curly Greek Acanthus bloomed again
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From Tuscan founts; and Greek divinities
Peeped from the oaken carvings of a chair.
Those days are far; though still the Sea of Time
Casts on the shore, at intervals, a waif—
An armless Venus or a shattered Faun—
From the great wreck of Greek antiquity.
And who can tell what treasures of the past
Still in the bosom of the future lie?
All sleeping beauty must at last awake,
Nor in its sleep grows old.
But I perceive
That, in my flight through ages, I have left
The Dwarf behind me, somewhere in the tenth
Or the eleventh century, his own
Black times. He suits these better days but ill;
So let him in his own black times remain.
That, in my flight through ages, I have left
The Dwarf behind me, somewhere in the tenth
Or the eleventh century, his own
Black times. He suits these better days but ill;
So let him in his own black times remain.
Part of Lorenzo de Medici's poem of “Ambra” will be found among the translations at the end of this volume.
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THE LADDER.
Life is a ladder which we all must climb;Some climb alone and some in company;
Some clad in purple, some in tattered rags;
Some climb it followed by their fellow-men
In livery, and some by hungry duns;
Some followed by policemen half the way;
Some climb the ladder boldly, sword in hand,
And others slowly, yawning at each step;
And each man bears a load upon his back:
With one it is a heavy bag of gold;
Another upwards with a load of aches,
Or, worse, a load of evil conscience goes,
All with a weight of care. And all along
The ladder's length are overhanging boughs,
With fruits and flowers for the strong to pluck;
But many, snatching, overreach and fall.
And there are boughs, beneath whose grateful shade
We fain would stop, but we are hurried on,
As in a treadmill, to the journey's end;
And woe to him who looks too far ahead,
Nor feels each step that comes beneath his foot.
Much angry hustling on the way occurs;
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Some men, in mounting, cling to others' skirts,
But some to others lend a helping hand,
And care but little how they fare themselves.
Some on the ladder write their names for those
Behind to read, but most can leave no trace.
Most climbers drop before they get half-way;
Some, jostled off by treacherous neighbours, fall;
And some jump off, of their own sad accord.
But few are those who reach the topmost bars,
With hair fast whitening as they upward go,
And gathering honours as they take each step;
And when once there, they heave a gentle sigh,
And, scarcely conscious, softly smile—and die.
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THE WARNING.
I stood with others in a Paris street,And watched the soldiers marching to the war.
Their silken colours fluttered in the breeze,
Their polished bayonets glittered in the sun,
Their martial music played a merry tune,
And each man bore a flower or sprig of green
Stuck in his cap, or fastened to his gun;
And as they went, they loudly laughed and sang,
And aimed a jest at many a looker-on.
But all around a gloomy silence reigned,
And not a word in answer did they get,
But every face a look of pity wore.
'Tis strange, I thought, that those who die should laugh,
And those should mourn whose fate it is to live.
An old old woman standing by my side,
All shrunk and bent, with hair as white as snow,
Put out her hands and cried aloud, “O God!
The wretched boys are singing! Don't they know
That they are marching to the butcher's shop?”
But all unheeding passed the human stream;
Her warning words fell on no ear but mine.
She still stood there long after they had passed,
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As the gay sounds in distance died away.
And well she might; ere three short weeks had passed,
Most of those men were killed at Mars-la-Tour.
'Tis thus perhaps the white-winged angels stand
By the roadside of this our daily life,
And wring their hands, and call in vain to stop,
As we pass by, with jest and laugh and song,
And hurry on to many a bitter end.
Man laughs the loudest on the road to ruin—
A hollow laugh, no doubt, but loud enough
To drown the voice that warns him of his fate.
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THE STORY OF A TRUNK.
A simple tale about a common thing—Or rather say, it is no tale at all,
But a mere sketch. But oft prosaic things
Possess a deeper pathos for the heart,
When on them falls a tear of pity shed
At hope deferred or petty tyranny,
Than all the lyrics born of laurelled brows.
A poor French governess had, in ten years
Of patient work in Russia, earned enough
To found a schoolroom in her native land.
As evil fate would have it, she returned
Just at the moment when the war broke out
Between the French and Germans. Who forgets
Those July days of fatal 'Seventy,
All dark and sultry with the coming storm;
When, like an omen, all the Paris leaves
Came prematurely whirling to the ground;
When on both sides was hurried mustering
Of horse and foot; when wild confusion seized
All those who by their honest commerce lived,
And traffic ceased between the hostile States?
She made her way to Paris, but, alas!
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Now this unlucky trunk contained wellnigh
Her little all, and, what she valued most,
Her Russian testimonials, without which
She could do nothing; and, who knows, perhaps
Some tender tokens or some letters dear,
For who can pass the earliest bloom of youth
And not have such? The poor woman wrote
And wrote again, and almost gave up hope;
But yet at last the long-wished answer came
From the officials of the rail at Köln.
All full of hope, without a moment lost,
She brought the letter for me to translate,
As she could not read German, and I could.
She might be thirty-two or thirty-three;
She was not handsome, yet I oft have seen
A handsome woman that has pleased me less,
For there was something in her eyes that said
She was not of the vulgar or the vain.
The note began with mock civility:
The writer was a soldier, and would bring
Her trunk himself to Paris very soon,
For he was going thither with his king
And full five hundred thousand German hearts,
And then. . . . I crushed the letter in my hand,
And begged that she would let me tear it up,
Because, I said, I could not read the rest,
As it contained an insult foul and base.
She nodded slowly in assent, and heaved
A sigh that seemed to say, “Can such men be?”
But spoke no word of anger nor of scorn:
For like an arrow aimed against a rock,
A jest aimed at the breast of Purity,
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And if a tear was trickling down her cheek,
I think it was not at the cruel joke,
But for her luckless trunk. She thanked me then,
And went her way; nor have I seen her since.
She sank in that great whirlpool of a siege.
The Prussian soldier doubtless kept his word,
And came to Paris with his regiment.
I wish that I could add that there he met
The fate that should such cowards overtake.
But 'tis more like the ways of life to think
That he returned to Prussia, with his share
Of laurels and a medal on his breast,
While the poor victim of his insolence
Stood hours daily in the melting snow,
To get her share of black and mouldy bread;
As many a thousand other women did,
With no reward, except a smile from heaven.
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THE STARER.
I call to mind a little silent sceneI one day witnessed in a quiet street.
The war had barely hurried to its close;
The dead were buried, and the wounded men
Were slowly now emerging from their beds,
And feebly crawling in the April sun—
Pale, broken shadows of their former selves.
An open carriage stood before a door,
And on a chair had just been lifted in
A young lieutenant of the French Hussars,
Crippled for life by fragments of a shell.
As his attendant left him for a while,
To seek for something left within the house,
A woman of the lower classes, plain,
Shabbily dressed and elderly, took up
Her stand close to the carriage door, and stared.
She stared in so intent and strange a way,
No human creature could have stood it long.
The wounded youth in turn looked hard at her,
And on his brow a gathering frown appeared,
That plainly said, “Now, woman, pass thy way,
For thou hast stared enough at me.” When lo!
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And like a cloud the frown from off it passed;
A something in the woman's eye had gleamed,
A murmured word had dropped upon his ear,
That showed she stared in pity at his woe,
And not in mere offensive idleness.
The wounded youth stretched out a feeble arm,
And gently pressed the woman's hand in his;
And then the carriage bore him swift away.
A stare is ever an unseemly thing;
But still I think that such a stare as this,
If humbly pleaded at the gate of heaven,
By some excluded Peri of to-day,
Would gain admittance for that erring soul.
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SUNSET SKETCHES.
I. IN THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY.
'Tis sweet in early summer, at the closeOf a long dreamy afternoon, to stand
Upon the lower slope of Apennine,
Above Æmilia's capital, and look
On to the plain of northern Italy.
Below is stretched the many-towered town,
A world of brown tile roofs, from which, confused,
A hum of life uprises and a sound
Of many bells; the boundless plain, which is
At first a maze of gardens, villas, walls,
Of fields of corn and hemp crossed and recrossed
By lanes of green acacia and of elm,
Becomes a bluish Lombardy immense,
With here and there a whitish patch which may
Be Modena or Reggio, or aught else.
And so it keeps until the set of sun,
When, letting fancy play, we might suppose
That the great Painter of the Universe
Displays his palette to the eyes of all;
A skyey palette, on whose western edge
Are spread, at random, all the brilliant hues
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To paint the fruits and flowers of the world,
The fields, the meads, the woods, the lakes, the hills,
And the broad ocean. There are long bright streaks
Of crimson on a golden ground, and green
And crocus, saffron, orange, pearl, and tints
Purpureal, fitted for some brighter world
Than this of ours; and through the whole there shines
A wondrous light, transcendent, which divides
In fan-like rays. But it is well to turn
Away before the earth and sky relapse
Into the tintless twilight, and the hour
Brings something like a sadness to the heart.
II. ON THE ALPS.
Say, have ye stood at eve in Chamonix,And watched the boundless slopes of snow and ice
That midway hang between the earth and heaven,
Lit up and bathed with crimson by the sun,
When to itself the mountain seems to take
All that there is of colour in the world?
Then, when the transient flush has reached its height.
And for a moment in its glory stood,
It quickly fades into a paler pink,
Which next becomes a dove colour that wanes
Into a grey. And then the chill of death
Appears to pass upon the giant mass
That cold and dull and unsubstantial stands,
And mingles in the twilight with the sky.
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THE MOON-FIEND.
It is the forest in the dead of night,
Moonlit and beautiful. The silence weighs
Oppressive on the mind; and fancies come
Unbidden, for the old and moss-grown trees
Take shapes most human, and they seem to watch
The lonely traveller, lest he should chance
To overhear the secrets which they pass
Unto each other. See, their leafy heads
Incline and touch, and then the whisper runs
From tree to tree.
Moonlit and beautiful. The silence weighs
Oppressive on the mind; and fancies come
Unbidden, for the old and moss-grown trees
Take shapes most human, and they seem to watch
The lonely traveller, lest he should chance
To overhear the secrets which they pass
Unto each other. See, their leafy heads
Incline and touch, and then the whisper runs
From tree to tree.
A single rider goes
Across the forest through the night; and now
The road lies by interminable pools
Of sleeping water left by recent floods.
Far as the eye can see on either hand
Is moonlit water and the trunks of trees
Mossy and ancient; overhead the boughs.
The forest in its sleeping beauty seems
Implanted in a pure and moonlit lake,
Through which the horse and rider thread their way.
The trembling column which the moon projects
Upon the water, dances by their side,
Playing at hide-and-seek behind the trees.
Why starts the horse thus with a sudden fear,
And trembling, with distended nostrils, stands,
Rooted to earth? Why does the rider feel
A sudden thrill strike strangely through his frame?
Upon the water, there among the trees,
Now seen, now hidden, moves a female form,
Bathed in the moonlight, in a silvery dress,
Which mingles with the water as she glides,
And dies away in a long rippling wake.
No words she utters as she moves along:
But when she seems about to disappear
Behind the trees, she slowly turns and shows
Her deadly beauty to the traveller,
And beckons twice. And on the following morn
They find him lying in the road, beside
The stagnant pool; and near him stands his horse,
And wistful looks, and neighs as if for help.
Across the forest through the night; and now
The road lies by interminable pools
Of sleeping water left by recent floods.
Far as the eye can see on either hand
Is moonlit water and the trunks of trees
Mossy and ancient; overhead the boughs.
The forest in its sleeping beauty seems
Implanted in a pure and moonlit lake,
Through which the horse and rider thread their way.
The trembling column which the moon projects
Upon the water, dances by their side,
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Why starts the horse thus with a sudden fear,
And trembling, with distended nostrils, stands,
Rooted to earth? Why does the rider feel
A sudden thrill strike strangely through his frame?
Upon the water, there among the trees,
Now seen, now hidden, moves a female form,
Bathed in the moonlight, in a silvery dress,
Which mingles with the water as she glides,
And dies away in a long rippling wake.
No words she utters as she moves along:
But when she seems about to disappear
Behind the trees, she slowly turns and shows
Her deadly beauty to the traveller,
And beckons twice. And on the following morn
They find him lying in the road, beside
The stagnant pool; and near him stands his horse,
And wistful looks, and neighs as if for help.
23
A SUMMER STORM.
A sigh seems by awakening Nature heaved—A sigh that passes on from tree to tree,
And misses not a single blade of grass
In yonder fields. The greyish olive-trees
Turn white as if by magic, and appear
Endowed with life. The aspens by the stream
Become a silver ripple, and the stream
Itself is backward brushed by hand unseen
And rapid; while the few dead leaves upon
The road are suddenly caught up
And whirl. And then a sound which is this time
Not Nature's sigh, but Nature's hiss, runs through
The valley, and the tallest trees are bent
Like wands. Then, Earth, thy chastisement begins.
And angry Heaven's cruel lash of rain
Falls on thy hilly shoulders. To the storm
All quickly yields: the light-green rising corn
Is beaten down and lies in clotted sheaves;
The vines which lately were in garlands hung
Between the poplars, are torn off, and stream
High in the wind. But a few moments more,
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But there is calm; and men can look abroad,
And through the rain see sunlight on the hills.
No sound is heard around, save the dull roar
Of the augmented stream, until the note
Of some impatient bird strikes on the ear,
From dripping boughs.
25
THE TWINS.
Know ye the fate of that unhappy Twin
Who, to his brother bound by fleshy tie
Unseverable, woke one day to find
That brother dead, and felt himself alive?
And how, in frightful company with Death,
He died, of an unutterable fear?
Who, to his brother bound by fleshy tie
Unseverable, woke one day to find
That brother dead, and felt himself alive?
And how, in frightful company with Death,
He died, of an unutterable fear?
There be two other twins of ancient race,
Body and Mind, bound by like fatal tie;
Ordained to walk through life with equal step,
And under pain most horrible condemned
To leave the world together, even as
They entered it. Woe to the longer-lived!
Woe to the Body when the mind has fled,
Poor helpless clod, that knows not where to turn!
But worse the fate of the imperious Mind,
Born to create, to soar, and to command,
That wakes one day and finds its brother dead,
And calls upon him vainly to arise;
Bound to a corpse, it feels the thrill of life.
Body and Mind, bound by like fatal tie;
Ordained to walk through life with equal step,
And under pain most horrible condemned
To leave the world together, even as
They entered it. Woe to the longer-lived!
Woe to the Body when the mind has fled,
Poor helpless clod, that knows not where to turn!
But worse the fate of the imperious Mind,
Born to create, to soar, and to command,
That wakes one day and finds its brother dead,
And calls upon him vainly to arise;
Bound to a corpse, it feels the thrill of life.
26
POMPEII.
No trace remained upon the face of earthOf those forgotten cities which lay deep
Entombed, in all their beauty, at the foot
Of treacherous Vesuvius, but whose fate
Had once appalled mankind. The world was old:
Near twice a thousand springs had passed since then,
Near twice a thousand autumns. Year by year
The unsuspecting peasant drove his plough
Above the sleeping streets, and year by year
The rustling ripple of the golden corn
Passed and repassed with every shifting breeze;
While underneath, until the day should come,
The fresco and mosaic still endured
In all the freshness of their pristine tints,
And all the records of a daily life,
So like our own, brought to a sudden stop,
As by a day of judgment premature
And partial, lay intact. And now we stroll
In these unburied streets, or sit and watch
The bright green panting lizards as they dart
And pause, and peep, and dart again among
The antique walls and pavements; while the mind
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Until the great catastrophe appears
In all its vivid horror. Once again
The city lives, nor fears. We see its throng,
Its sunny beauty and its carelessness,
The many coloured awnings of its streets,
Its verdure, and its flowers, and its fruits,
Its houses, and their shady inner courts;
We even hear the splash of fountains still.
When dreamy noontide's heat had lulled the mind,
And Nature basked in sunshine; when the capes
And distant hills were shadowy and faint;
When all was listless, and no sound was heard
Save lapping wavelets of the tideless sea;
When every flower drooped its languid head,
And air was heavy with the August scents,
Day turned to night; the face of earth was changed,
And Hell let loose on Heaven;—for what shores
Could claim the name of Heaven, if not these?
In that unnatural gloom none knew or cared
When came the real night, which brought no peace;
But ever and anon, with lurid glare,
The torches of the fugitives, who sought
Each other in the quickly altering streets,
Lit up the falling ashes, and exposed
Some face of horror. High above the shouts—
Above the unknown sounds that came from earth—
Above the crash of columns and of walls,—
Rose the shrill cry of wounded animals,
Or shriek of women trodden under foot.
Death came from every side. The wretches found
No safety in the courage of despair,
No pity in the elements. The air
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Like lurid snowdrifts in the plains of Hell;
The waving earth refused to bear their steps,
Or suddenly enwrapt them in their flight
With vapours deadly and invisible, which made
The mother drop the babe she held, the bride
Her bridegroom's hand, the miser drop his gold
And bite the dust; and then the ashes hid
Their bodies; while, in cellars too secure,
Where many sought for life, Death took his time,
And dealt in nameless horrors, as with him
Who, taking refuge with his dog, died first,
And then was eaten. But all this was deep
Beneath the livid ashes which enclosed
Pompeii now, and hid her from the world.
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