 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
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BABY BELL AND OTHER POEMS
BABY BELL
I
Have you not heard the poets tellHow came the dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours?
The gates of heaven were left ajar:
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,
She saw this planet, like a star,
Hung in the glistening depths of even—
Its bridges, running to and fro,
O'er which the white-winged Angels go,
Bearing the holy Dead to heaven.
She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet,
So light they did not bend the bells
Of the celestial asphodels,
They fell like dew upon the flowers:
Then all the air grew strangely sweet.
And thus came dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours.
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II
She came and brought delicious May;The swallows built beneath the eaves;
Like sunlight, in and out the leaves
The robins went, the livelong day;
The lily swung its noiseless bell;
And on the porch the slender vine
Held out its cups of fairy wine.
How tenderly the twilights fell!
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds
And opening springtide flowers,
When the dainty Baby Bell
Came to this world of ours.
III
O Baby, dainty Baby Bell,How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay—
Those deep and tender twilight eyes,
So full of meaning, pure and bright
As if she yet stood in the light
Of those oped gates of Paradise.
And so we loved her more and more:
Ah, never in our hearts before
Was love so lovely born.
We felt we had a link between
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The land beyond the morn;
And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth,
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When Baby came from Paradise,)—
For love of Him who smote our lives,
And woke the chords of joy and pain,
We said, Dear Christ!—our hearts bowed down
Like violets after rain.
IV
And now the orchards, which were whiteAnd pink with blossoms when she came,
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime;
The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The folded chestnut burst its shell,
The grapes hung purpling, range on range:
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Baby Bell.
Her lissome form more perfect grew,
And in her features we could trace,
In softened curves, her mother's face.
Her angel-nature ripened too:
We thought her lovely when she came,
But she was holy, saintly now ...
Around her pale angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame.
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V
God's hand had taken away the sealThat held the portals of her speech;
And oft she said a few strange words
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.
She never was a child to us,
We never held her being's key;
We could not teach her holy things
Who was Christ's self in purity.
VI
It came upon us by degrees,We saw its shadow ere it fell—
The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Baby Bell.
We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,
And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.
We cried aloud in our belief,
“Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief.”
Ah! how we loved her, God can tell;
Her heart was folded deep in ours.
Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!
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VII
At last he came, the messenger,The messenger from unseen lands:
And what did dainty Baby Bell?
She only crossed her little hands,
She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair,
We wove the roses round her brow—
White buds, the summer's drifted snow—
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ...
And thus went dainty Baby Bell
Out of this world of ours.
PISCATAQUA RIVER
Thou singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods, and fields of corn,
Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles
Upon my birthday morn.
By woods, and fields of corn,
Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles
Upon my birthday morn.
But I within a city, I,
So full of vague unrest,
Would almost give my life to lie
An hour upon thy breast!
So full of vague unrest,
Would almost give my life to lie
An hour upon thy breast!
To let the wherry listless go,
And, wrapt in dreamy joy,
Dip, and surge idly to and fro,
Like the red harbor-buoy;
And, wrapt in dreamy joy,
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Like the red harbor-buoy;
To sit in happy indolence,
To rest upon the oars,
And catch the heavy earthy scents
That blow from summer shores;
To rest upon the oars,
And catch the heavy earthy scents
That blow from summer shores;
To see the rounded sun go down,
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town
And burn the tapering spires;
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town
And burn the tapering spires;
And then to hear the muffled tolls
From steeples slim and white,
And watch, among the Isles of Shoals,
The Beacon's orange light.
From steeples slim and white,
And watch, among the Isles of Shoals,
The Beacon's orange light.
O River! flowing to the main
Through woods, and fields of corn,
Hear thou my longing and my pain
This sunny birthday morn;
Through woods, and fields of corn,
Hear thou my longing and my pain
This sunny birthday morn;
And take this song which sorrow shapes
To music like thine own,
And sing it to the cliffs and capes
And crags where I am known!
To music like thine own,
And sing it to the cliffs and capes
And crags where I am known!
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PAMPINA
Lying by the summer sea
I had a dream of Italy.
I had a dream of Italy.
Chalky cliffs and miles of sand,
Dripping reefs and salty caves,
Then the sparkling emerald waves,
Faded; and I seemed to stand,
Myself an old-time Florentine,
In the heart of that fair land.
And in a garden cool and green,
Boccaccio's own enchanted place,
I met Pampina face to face—
A maid so lovely that to see
Her smile was to know Italy.
Her hair was like a coronet
Upon her Grecian forehead set,
Where one gem glistened sunnily
Like Venice, when first seen at sea.
I saw within her violet eyes
The starlight of Italian skies,
And on her brow and breast and hand
The olive of her native land.
Dripping reefs and salty caves,
Then the sparkling emerald waves,
Faded; and I seemed to stand,
Myself an old-time Florentine,
In the heart of that fair land.
And in a garden cool and green,
Boccaccio's own enchanted place,
I met Pampina face to face—
A maid so lovely that to see
Her smile was to know Italy.
Her hair was like a coronet
Upon her Grecian forehead set,
Where one gem glistened sunnily
Like Venice, when first seen at sea.
I saw within her violet eyes
The starlight of Italian skies,
And on her brow and breast and hand
The olive of her native land.
And, knowing how in other times
Her lips were rich with Tuscan rhymes
Of love and wine and dance, I spread
My mantle by an almond-tree,
And “Here, beneath the rose,” I said,
“I'll hear thy Tuscan melody.”
I heard a tale that was not told
In those ten dreamy days of old,
When Heaven, for some divine offence,
Smote Florence with the pestilence;
And in that garden's odorous shade
The dames of the Decameron,
With each a loyal lover, strayed,
To laugh and sing, at sorest need,
To lie in the lilies in the sun
With glint of plume and silver brede.
And while she whispers in my ear,
The pleasant Arno murmurs near,
The timid, slim chameleons run
Through twenty colors in the sun;
The breezes blur the fountain's glass,
And wake æolian melodies,
And scatter from the scented trees
The lemon-blossoms on the grass.
Her lips were rich with Tuscan rhymes
Of love and wine and dance, I spread
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And “Here, beneath the rose,” I said,
“I'll hear thy Tuscan melody.”
I heard a tale that was not told
In those ten dreamy days of old,
When Heaven, for some divine offence,
Smote Florence with the pestilence;
And in that garden's odorous shade
The dames of the Decameron,
With each a loyal lover, strayed,
To laugh and sing, at sorest need,
To lie in the lilies in the sun
With glint of plume and silver brede.
And while she whispers in my ear,
The pleasant Arno murmurs near,
The timid, slim chameleons run
Through twenty colors in the sun;
The breezes blur the fountain's glass,
And wake æolian melodies,
And scatter from the scented trees
The lemon-blossoms on the grass.
The tale? I have forgot the tale—
A Lady all for love forlorn,
A rose tree, and a nightingale
That bruised his bosom on the thorn;
A jar of rubies buried deep,
A glen, a corpse, a child asleep,
A Monk, that was no monk at all,
In the moonlight by a castle-wall.
A Lady all for love forlorn,
A rose tree, and a nightingale
That bruised his bosom on the thorn;
A jar of rubies buried deep,
A glen, a corpse, a child asleep,
A Monk, that was no monk at all,
In the moonlight by a castle-wall.
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Now while the dark-eyed Tuscan wove
The gilded thread of her romance—
Which I have lost by grievous chance—
The one dear woman that I love,
Beside me in our seaside nook,
Closed a white finger in her book,
Half vext that she should read, and weep
For Petrarch, to a man asleep.
And scorning one so tame and cold,
She rose, and wandered down the shore,
Her wind-swept drapery, fold in fold,
Imprisoned by a snowy hand;
And on a bowlder, half in sand,
She stood, and looked at Appledore.
The gilded thread of her romance—
Which I have lost by grievous chance—
The one dear woman that I love,
Beside me in our seaside nook,
Closed a white finger in her book,
Half vext that she should read, and weep
For Petrarch, to a man asleep.
And scorning one so tame and cold,
She rose, and wandered down the shore,
Her wind-swept drapery, fold in fold,
Imprisoned by a snowy hand;
And on a bowlder, half in sand,
She stood, and looked at Appledore.
And waking, I beheld her there
Sea-dreaming in the moted air,
A siren lithe and debonair,
With wristlets woven of scarlet weeds,
And strings of lucent amber beads
Of sea-kelp shining in her hair.
And as I thought of dreams, and how
The something in us never sleeps,
But laughs, or sings, or moans, or weeps,
She turned—and on her breast and brow
I saw the tint that seemed not won
From touches of New England sun;
I saw on brow and breast and hand
The olive of a sunnier land.
She turned—and, lo! within her eyes
There lay the starlight of Italian skies.
Sea-dreaming in the moted air,
A siren lithe and debonair,
With wristlets woven of scarlet weeds,
And strings of lucent amber beads
Of sea-kelp shining in her hair.
And as I thought of dreams, and how
The something in us never sleeps,
But laughs, or sings, or moans, or weeps,
She turned—and on her breast and brow
I saw the tint that seemed not won
From touches of New England sun;
I saw on brow and breast and hand
The olive of a sunnier land.
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There lay the starlight of Italian skies.
Most dreams are dark, beyond the range
Of reason; oft we cannot tell
If they are born of heaven or hell:
But to my thought it seems not strange
That, lying by the summer sea,
With that dark woman watching me,
I slept and dreamed of Italy.
Of reason; oft we cannot tell
If they are born of heaven or hell:
But to my thought it seems not strange
That, lying by the summer sea,
With that dark woman watching me,
I slept and dreamed of Italy.
INVOCATION TO SLEEP
I
There is a rest for all things. On still nightsThere is a folding of a world of wings—
The bees in unknown woods,
The painted dragonflies, and downy broods
In dizzy poplar heights—
Rest for innumerable nameless things,
Rest for the creatures underneath the sea,
And in the earth, and in the starry air.
It comes to heavier sorrow than I bear,
To pain, and want, and crime, and dark despair
And yet comes not to me!
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II
One that has fared a long and toilsome wayAnd sinks beneath the burden of the day,
O delicate Sleep,
Brings thee a soul that he would have thee keep
A captive in thy shadowy domain
With Puck and Ariel and the happy train
That people dreamland. Give unto his sight
Immortal shapes, and fetch to him again
His Psyche that went out into the night!
III
Thou that dost hold the priceless gift of rest,
Strew lotus leaf and poppy on his breast;
Reach forth thy hand
And lead him to thy castle in the land
All vainly sought—
To those hushed chambers lead him, where the thought
Wanders at will upon enchanted ground,
And never human footfall makes a sound
Along the corridors.
Strew lotus leaf and poppy on his breast;
Reach forth thy hand
And lead him to thy castle in the land
All vainly sought—
To those hushed chambers lead him, where the thought
Wanders at will upon enchanted ground,
And never human footfall makes a sound
Along the corridors.
The bell sleeps in the belfry—from its tongue
A drowsy murmur floats into the air
Like thistle-down. There is no bough but seems
Weighted with slumber—slumber everywhere!
Couched on her leaf, the lily sways and dips;
In the green dusk where joyous birds have sung
Sits Silence with her finger on her lips;
Shy woodland folk and sprites that haunt the streams
Are pillowed now in grottoes cool and deep;
But I in chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis of thy castle gate,
Longing to see the charmèd door of dreams
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate Sleep!
A drowsy murmur floats into the air
Like thistle-down. There is no bough but seems
Weighted with slumber—slumber everywhere!
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In the green dusk where joyous birds have sung
Sits Silence with her finger on her lips;
Shy woodland folk and sprites that haunt the streams
Are pillowed now in grottoes cool and deep;
But I in chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis of thy castle gate,
Longing to see the charmèd door of dreams
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate Sleep!
THE FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS
A man should live in a garret aloof,
And have few friends, and go poorly clad,
With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof
To keep the Goddess constant and glad.
And have few friends, and go poorly clad,
With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof
To keep the Goddess constant and glad.
Of old, when I walked on a rugged way,
And gave much work for but little bread,
The Goddess dwelt with me night and day,
Sat at my table, haunted my bed.
And gave much work for but little bread,
The Goddess dwelt with me night and day,
Sat at my table, haunted my bed.
The narrow, mean attic, I see it now!—
Its window o'erlooking the city's tiles,
The sunset's fires, and the clouds of snow,
And the river wandering miles and miles.
Its window o'erlooking the city's tiles,
The sunset's fires, and the clouds of snow,
And the river wandering miles and miles.
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Just one picture hung in the room,
The saddest story that Art can tell—
Dante and Virgil in lurid gloom
Watching the Lovers float through Hell.
The saddest story that Art can tell—
Dante and Virgil in lurid gloom
Watching the Lovers float through Hell.
Wretched enough was I sometimes,
Pinched, and harassed with vain desires;
But thicker than clover sprung the rhymes
As I dwelt like a sparrow among the spires.
Pinched, and harassed with vain desires;
But thicker than clover sprung the rhymes
As I dwelt like a sparrow among the spires.
Midnight filled my slumbers with song;
Music haunted my dreams by day.
Now I listen and wait and long,
But the Delphian airs have died away.
Music haunted my dreams by day.
Now I listen and wait and long,
But the Delphian airs have died away.
I wonder and wonder how it befell:
Suddenly I had friends in crowds;
I bade the house-tops a long farewell;
“Good-by,” I cried, “to the stars and clouds!
Suddenly I had friends in crowds;
I bade the house-tops a long farewell;
“Good-by,” I cried, “to the stars and clouds!
“But thou, rare soul, thou hast dwelt with me,
Spirit of Poesy! thou divine
Breath of the morning, thou shalt be,
Goddess! for ever and ever mine.”
Spirit of Poesy! thou divine
Breath of the morning, thou shalt be,
Goddess! for ever and ever mine.”
And the woman I loved was now my bride,
And the house I wanted was my own;
I turned to the Goddess satisfied—
But the Goddess had somehow flown.
And the house I wanted was my own;
I turned to the Goddess satisfied—
But the Goddess had somehow flown.
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Flown, and I fear she will never return;
I am much too sleek and happy for her,
Whose lovers must hunger and waste and burn,
Ere the beautiful heathen heart will stir.
I am much too sleek and happy for her,
Whose lovers must hunger and waste and burn,
Ere the beautiful heathen heart will stir.
I call—but she does not stoop to my cry;
I wait—but she lingers, and ah! so long!
It was not so in the years gone by,
When she touched my lips with chrism of song.
I wait—but she lingers, and ah! so long!
It was not so in the years gone by,
When she touched my lips with chrism of song.
I swear I will get me a garret again,
And adore, like a Parsee, the sunset's fires,
And lure the Goddess, by vigil and pain,
Up with the sparrows among the spires.
And adore, like a Parsee, the sunset's fires,
And lure the Goddess, by vigil and pain,
Up with the sparrows among the spires.
For a man should live in a garret aloof,
And have few friends, and go poorly clad,
With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof,
To keep the Goddess constant and glad.
And have few friends, and go poorly clad,
With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof,
To keep the Goddess constant and glad.
AN OLD CASTLE
I
The gray arch crumbles,And totters and tumbles;
The bat has built in the banquet hall;
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Sly mosses creep;
The ivy has scaled the southern wall.
No man-at-arms
Sounds quick alarms
A-top of the cracked martello tower;
The drawbridge-chain
Is broken in twain—
The bridge will neither rise nor lower.
Not any manner
Of broidered banner
Flaunts at a blazoned herald's call.
Lilies float
In the stagnant moat;
And fair they are, and tall.
II
Here, in the oldForgotten springs,
Was wassail held by queens and kings;
Here at the board
Sat clown and lord,
Maiden fair and lover bold,
Baron fat and minstrel lean,
The prince with his stars,
The knight with his scars,
The priest in his gabardine.
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III
Where is sheOf the fleur-de-lys,
And that true knight who wore her gages?
Where are the glances
That bred wild fancies
In curly heads of my lady's pages?
Where are those
Who, in steel or hose,
Held revel here, and made them gay?
Where is the laughter
That shook the rafter—
Where is the rafter, by the way?
Gone is the roof,
And perched aloof
Is an owl, like a friar of Orders Gray.
(Perhaps 't is the priest
Come back to feast—
He had ever a tooth for capon, he!
But the capon's cold,
And the steward's old,
And the butler's lost the larder-key!)
The doughty lords
Sleep the sleep of swords;
Dead are the dames and damozels;
The King in his crown
Hath laid him down,
And the Jester with his bells.
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IV
All is dead here:Poppies are red here,
Vines in my lady's chamber grow—
If 't was her chamber
Where they clamber
Up from the poisonous weeds below.
All is dead here,
Joy is fled here;
Let us hence. 'T is the end of all—
The gray arch crumbles,
And totters, and tumbles,
And Silence sits in the banquet hall.
LOST AT SEA
The face that Carlo Dolci drew
Looks down from out its leafy hood—
The holly berries, gleaming through
The pointed leaves, seem drops of blood.
Looks down from out its leafy hood—
The holly berries, gleaming through
The pointed leaves, seem drops of blood.
Above the cornice, round the hearth,
Are evergreens and spruce-tree boughs;
'T is Christmas morning: Christmas mirth
And joyous voices fill the house.
Are evergreens and spruce-tree boughs;
'T is Christmas morning: Christmas mirth
And joyous voices fill the house.
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I pause, and know not what to do;
I feel reproach that I am glad:
Until to-day, no thought of you,
O Comrade! ever made me sad.
I feel reproach that I am glad:
Until to-day, no thought of you,
O Comrade! ever made me sad.
But now the thought of your blithe heart,
Your ringing laugh, can give me pain,
Knowing that we are worlds apart,
Not knowing we shall meet again.
Your ringing laugh, can give me pain,
Knowing that we are worlds apart,
Not knowing we shall meet again.
For all is dark that lies in store:
Though they may preach, the brotherhood,
We know just this, and nothing more,
That we are dust, and God is good.
Though they may preach, the brotherhood,
We know just this, and nothing more,
That we are dust, and God is good.
What life begins when death makes end?
Sleek gownsmen, is 't so very clear?
How fares it with us?—O my Friend,
I only know you are not here!
Sleek gownsmen, is 't so very clear?
How fares it with us?—O my Friend,
I only know you are not here!
That I am in a warm, light room,
With life and love to comfort me,
While you are drifting through the gloom,
Beneath the sea, beneath the sea!
With life and love to comfort me,
While you are drifting through the gloom,
Beneath the sea, beneath the sea!
O wild green waves that lash the sands
Of Santiago and beyond,
Lift him, I pray, with gentle hands,
And bear him on—true heart and fond!
Of Santiago and beyond,
Lift him, I pray, with gentle hands,
And bear him on—true heart and fond!
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To some still grotto far below
The washings of the warm Gulf Stream
Bear him, and let the winds that blow
About the world not break his dream!
The washings of the warm Gulf Stream
Bear him, and let the winds that blow
About the world not break his dream!
—I smooth my brow. Upon the stair
I hear my children shout in glee,
With sparkling eyes and floating hair,
Bringing a Christmas wreath for me.
I hear my children shout in glee,
With sparkling eyes and floating hair,
Bringing a Christmas wreath for me.
Their joy, like sunshine deep and broad,
Falls on my heart, and makes me glad:
I think the face of our dear Lord
Looks down on them, and seems not sad.
Falls on my heart, and makes me glad:
I think the face of our dear Lord
Looks down on them, and seems not sad.
THE QUEEN'S RIDE
AN INVITATION
'T is that fair time of year,
When stately Guinevere,
In her sea-green robe and hood,
Went a-riding through the wood.
When stately Guinevere,
In her sea-green robe and hood,
Went a-riding through the wood.
And as the Queen did ride,
Sir Launcelot at her side
Laughed and chatted, bending over,
Half her friend and all her lover.
Sir Launcelot at her side
Laughed and chatted, bending over,
Half her friend and all her lover.
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And as they rode along,
The throstle gave them song,
And the buds peeped through the grass
To see youth and beauty pass.
The throstle gave them song,
And the buds peeped through the grass
To see youth and beauty pass.
And on, through deathless time,
These lovers in their prime
(Two fairy ghosts together!)
Ride, with sea-green robe, and feather!
These lovers in their prime
(Two fairy ghosts together!)
Ride, with sea-green robe, and feather!
And so we two will ride,
At your pleasure, side by side,
Laugh and chat; I bending over,
Half your friend, and all your lover.
At your pleasure, side by side,
Laugh and chat; I bending over,
Half your friend, and all your lover.
But if you like not this,
And take my love amiss,
Then I'll ride unto the end,
Half your lover, all your friend.
And take my love amiss,
Then I'll ride unto the end,
Half your lover, all your friend.
So, come which way you will.
Valley, upland, plain, and hill
Wait your coming. For one day
Loose the bridle, and away!
Valley, upland, plain, and hill
Wait your coming. For one day
Loose the bridle, and away!
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DIRGE
Let us keep him warm,
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Soon, ah, very soon
We too shall not know
Either sun or moon,
Either grass or snow.
We too shall not know
Either sun or moon,
Either grass or snow.
Others in our place
Come to laugh and weep,
Win or lose the race,
And to fall asleep.
Come to laugh and weep,
Win or lose the race,
And to fall asleep.
Let us keep him warm,
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
What does all avail—
Love, or power, or gold?
Life is like a tale
Ended ere 't is told.
Love, or power, or gold?
Life is like a tale
Ended ere 't is told.
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Much is left unsaid,
Much is said in vain—
Shall the broken thread
Be taken up again?
Much is said in vain—
Shall the broken thread
Be taken up again?
Let us keep him warm,
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Kisses one or two
On his eyelids set,
That, when all is through,
He may not forget.
On his eyelids set,
That, when all is through,
He may not forget.
He has far to go—
Is it East or West?
Whither? Who may know!
Let him take his rest.
Is it East or West?
Whither? Who may know!
Let him take his rest.
Wind, and snow, and sleet—
So the long night dies.
Draw the winding-sheet,
Cover up his eyes.
So the long night dies.
Draw the winding-sheet,
Cover up his eyes.
Let us keep him warm,
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
Stir the dying fire:
Upon his tired arm
Slumbers young Desire.
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ON LYNN TERRACE
All day to watch the blue wave curl and break,
All night to hear it plunging on the shore—
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,
I cannot ask for more.
All night to hear it plunging on the shore—
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,
I cannot ask for more.
Behind me lie the idle life and vain,
The task unfinished, and the weary hours;
That long wave softly bears me back to Spain
And the Alhambra's towers!
The task unfinished, and the weary hours;
That long wave softly bears me back to Spain
And the Alhambra's towers!
Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,
To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;
Below, against the dull esparto grass,
The almonds glimmer white.
To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;
Below, against the dull esparto grass,
The almonds glimmer white.
Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,
Invite my fancy, and I wander through
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns
The world's first sailors knew.
Invite my fancy, and I wander through
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns
The world's first sailors knew.
Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;
Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,
Venice salutes my eyes.
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;
Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,
Venice salutes my eyes.
26
Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;
I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,
And catch, through slits of windows here and there,
Blue glimpses of the Rhine.
I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,
And catch, through slits of windows here and there,
Blue glimpses of the Rhine.
Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fell,
And through bleak wastes to where the sunset's fires
Light up the white-walled Russian citadel,
The Kremlin's domes and spires.
And through bleak wastes to where the sunset's fires
Light up the white-walled Russian citadel,
The Kremlin's domes and spires.
And now I linger in green English lanes,
By garden-plots of rose and heliotrope;
And now I face the sudden pelting rains
On some lone Alpine slope.
By garden-plots of rose and heliotrope;
And now I face the sudden pelting rains
On some lone Alpine slope.
Now at Tangier, among the packed bazaars,
I saunter, and the merchants at the doors
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,
And curved knives of the Moors;
I saunter, and the merchants at the doors
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,
And curved knives of the Moors;
Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;
What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates
The camels make their moan.
What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates
The camels make their moan.
All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,
High on the windy terrace, day by day;
And mine the children's laughter, sweet and clear,
Ringing across the bay.
High on the windy terrace, day by day;
And mine the children's laughter, sweet and clear,
Ringing across the bay.
27
For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;
For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;
And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,
And hollow caves of night.
For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;
And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,
And hollow caves of night.
SEADRIFT
See where she stands, on the wet sea-sands,
Looking across the water:
Wild is the night, but wilder still
The face of the fisher's daughter.
Looking across the water:
Wild is the night, but wilder still
The face of the fisher's daughter.
What does she there, in the lightning's glare,
What does she there, I wonder?
What dread demon drags her forth
In the night and wind and thunder?
What does she there, I wonder?
What dread demon drags her forth
In the night and wind and thunder?
Is it the ghost that haunts this coast?—
The cruel waves mount higher,
And the beacon pierces the stormy dark
With its javelin of fire.
The cruel waves mount higher,
And the beacon pierces the stormy dark
With its javelin of fire.
Beyond the light of the beacon bright
A merchantman is tacking;
The hoarse wind whistling through the shrouds,
And the brittle topmasts cracking.
A merchantman is tacking;
The hoarse wind whistling through the shrouds,
And the brittle topmasts cracking.
28
The sea it moans over dead men's bones,
The sea turns white in anger;
The curlews sweep through the resonant air
With a warning cry of danger.
The sea turns white in anger;
The curlews sweep through the resonant air
With a warning cry of danger.
The star-fish clings to the sea-weed's rings
In a vague, dumb sense of peril;
And the spray, with its phantom-fingers, grasps
At the mullein dry and sterile.
In a vague, dumb sense of peril;
And the spray, with its phantom-fingers, grasps
At the mullein dry and sterile.
Oh, who is she that stands by the sea,
In the lightning's glare, undaunted?—
Seems this now like the coast of hell
By one white spirit haunted!
In the lightning's glare, undaunted?—
Seems this now like the coast of hell
By one white spirit haunted!
The night drags by; and the breakers die
Along the ragged ledges;
The robin stirs in his drenchèd nest,
The wild-rose droops on the hedges.
Along the ragged ledges;
The robin stirs in his drenchèd nest,
The wild-rose droops on the hedges.
In shimmering lines, through the dripping pines,
The stealthy morn advances;
And the heavy sea-fog straggles back
Before those bristling lances.
The stealthy morn advances;
And the heavy sea-fog straggles back
Before those bristling lances.
Still she stands on the wet sea-sands;
The morning breaks above her,
And the corpse of a sailor gleams on the rocks—
What if it were her lover?
The morning breaks above her,
And the corpse of a sailor gleams on the rocks—
What if it were her lover?
29
THE PIAZZA OF ST. MARK AT MIDNIGHT
Hushed is the music, hushed the hum of voices;
Gone is the crowd of dusky promenaders,
Slender-waisted, almond-eyed Venetians,
Princes and paupers. Not a single footfall
Sounds in the arches of the Procuratie.
One after one, like sparks in cindered paper,
Faded the lights out in the goldsmiths' windows.
Drenched with the moonlight lies the still Piazza.
Gone is the crowd of dusky promenaders,
Slender-waisted, almond-eyed Venetians,
Princes and paupers. Not a single footfall
Sounds in the arches of the Procuratie.
One after one, like sparks in cindered paper,
Faded the lights out in the goldsmiths' windows.
Drenched with the moonlight lies the still Piazza.
Fair as the palace builded for Aladdin,
Yonder St. Mark uplifts its sculptured splendor—
Intricate fretwork, Byzantine mosaic,
Color on color, column upon column,
Barbaric, wonderful, a thing to kneel to!
Over the portal stand the four gilt horses,
Gilt hoof in air, and wide distended nostril,
Fiery, untamed, as in the days of Nero.
Skyward, a cloud of domes and spires and crosses;
Earthward, black shadows flung from jutting stonework.
High over all the slender Campanile
Quivers, and seems a falling shaft of silver.
Yonder St. Mark uplifts its sculptured splendor—
Intricate fretwork, Byzantine mosaic,
Color on color, column upon column,
Barbaric, wonderful, a thing to kneel to!
Over the portal stand the four gilt horses,
Gilt hoof in air, and wide distended nostril,
Fiery, untamed, as in the days of Nero.
Skyward, a cloud of domes and spires and crosses;
Earthward, black shadows flung from jutting stonework.
High over all the slender Campanile
Quivers, and seems a falling shaft of silver.
Hushed is the music, hushed the hum of voices.
Listen—from cornice and fantastic gargoyle,
Now and again the moan of dove or pigeon,
Fairily faint, floats off into the moonlight.
This, and the murmur of the Adriatic,
Lazily restless, lapping the mossed marble,
Staircase or buttress, scarcely break the stillness.
Deeper each moment seems to grow the silence,
Denser the moonlight in the still Piazza.
Hark! on the Tower above the ancient gateway,
The twin bronze Vulcans, with their ponderous hammers,
Hammer the midnight on their brazen bell there!
Listen—from cornice and fantastic gargoyle,
30
Fairily faint, floats off into the moonlight.
This, and the murmur of the Adriatic,
Lazily restless, lapping the mossed marble,
Staircase or buttress, scarcely break the stillness.
Deeper each moment seems to grow the silence,
Denser the moonlight in the still Piazza.
Hark! on the Tower above the ancient gateway,
The twin bronze Vulcans, with their ponderous hammers,
Hammer the midnight on their brazen bell there!
THE METEMPSYCHOSIS
The thing I am, and not the thing Man is,
Fills my deep dreaming. Let him moan and die;
I know my own creation was divine.
I brood on all the shapes I must attain
Before I reach the Perfect, which is God,
And dream my dream, and let the rabble go;
For I am of the mountains and the sea,
The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,
The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
Fills my deep dreaming. Let him moan and die;
I know my own creation was divine.
I brood on all the shapes I must attain
Before I reach the Perfect, which is God,
And dream my dream, and let the rabble go;
For I am of the mountains and the sea,
The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,
The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
I was a spirit on the mountain-tops,
A perfume in the valleys, a simoom
On arid deserts, a nomadic wind
Roaming the universe, a tireless voice.
I was ere Romulus and Remus were;
I was ere Nineveh and Babylon;
I was, and am, and evermore shall be,
Progressing, never reaching to the end.
A perfume in the valleys, a simoom
On arid deserts, a nomadic wind
Roaming the universe, a tireless voice.
31
I was ere Nineveh and Babylon;
I was, and am, and evermore shall be,
Progressing, never reaching to the end.
A hundred years I trembled in the grass,
The delicate trefoil that muffled warm
A slope on Ida; for a hundred years
Moved in the purple gyre of those dark flowers
The Grecian women strew upon the dead.
Under the earth, in fragrant glooms, I dwelt;
Then in the veins and sinews of a pine
On a lone isle, where, from the Cyclades,
A mighty wind, like a leviathan,
Ploughed through the brine, and from those solitudes
Sent Silence, frightened. To and fro I swayed,
Drawing the sunshine from the stooping clouds.
Suns came and went, and many a mystic moon,
Orbing and waning, and fierce meteors,
Leaving their lurid ghosts to haunt the night.
I heard loud voices by the sounding shore,
The stormy sea-gods, and from fluted conchs
Wild music, and strange shadows floated by,
Some moaning and some singing. So the years
Clustered about me, till the hand of God
Let down the lightning from a sultry sky,
Splintered the pine and split the iron rock;
And from my odorous prison-house a bird,
I in its bosom, darted; so we fled,
Turning the brittle edge of one high wave,
Island and tree and sea-gods left behind!
The delicate trefoil that muffled warm
A slope on Ida; for a hundred years
Moved in the purple gyre of those dark flowers
The Grecian women strew upon the dead.
Under the earth, in fragrant glooms, I dwelt;
Then in the veins and sinews of a pine
On a lone isle, where, from the Cyclades,
A mighty wind, like a leviathan,
Ploughed through the brine, and from those solitudes
Sent Silence, frightened. To and fro I swayed,
Drawing the sunshine from the stooping clouds.
Suns came and went, and many a mystic moon,
Orbing and waning, and fierce meteors,
Leaving their lurid ghosts to haunt the night.
I heard loud voices by the sounding shore,
The stormy sea-gods, and from fluted conchs
Wild music, and strange shadows floated by,
Some moaning and some singing. So the years
Clustered about me, till the hand of God
Let down the lightning from a sultry sky,
Splintered the pine and split the iron rock;
And from my odorous prison-house a bird,
I in its bosom, darted; so we fled,
32
Island and tree and sea-gods left behind!
Free as the air from zone to zone I flew,
Far from the tumult to the quiet gates
Of daybreak; and beneath me I beheld
Vineyards, and rivers that like silver threads
Ran through the green and gold of pasture-lands,
And here and there a convent on a hill,
And here and there a city in a plain;
I saw huge navies battling with a storm
By hidden reefs along the desolate coasts,
And lazy merchantmen, that crawled, like flies,
Over the blue enamel of the sea
To India or the icy Labradors.
Far from the tumult to the quiet gates
Of daybreak; and beneath me I beheld
Vineyards, and rivers that like silver threads
Ran through the green and gold of pasture-lands,
And here and there a convent on a hill,
And here and there a city in a plain;
I saw huge navies battling with a storm
By hidden reefs along the desolate coasts,
And lazy merchantmen, that crawled, like flies,
Over the blue enamel of the sea
To India or the icy Labradors.
A century was as a single day.
What is a day to an immortal soul?
A breath, no more. And yet I hold one hour
Beyond all price—that hour when from the sky
I circled near and nearer to the earth,
Nearer and nearer, till I brushed my wings
Against the pointed chestnuts, where a stream,
That foamed and chattered over pebbly shoals,
Fled through the briony, and with a shout
Leapt headlong down a precipice; and there,
Gathering wild-flowers in the cool ravine,
Wandered a woman more divinely shaped
Than of the creatures of the air,
Or river-goddesses, or restless shades
Of noble matrons marvellous in their time
For beauty and great suffering; and I sung,
I charmed her thought, I gave her dreams, and then
Down from the dewy atmosphere I stole
And nestled in her bosom. There I slept
From moon to moon, while in her eyes a thought
Grew sweet and sweeter, deepening like dawn—
A mystical forewarning! When the stream,
Breaking through leafless brambles and dead leaves,
Piped shriller treble, and from chestnut boughs
The fruit dropt noiseless through the autumn night,
I gave a quick, low cry, as infants do:
We weep when we are born, not when we die!
So was it destined; and thus came I here,
To walk the earth and wear the form of Man,
To suffer bravely as becomes my state,
One step, one grade, one cycle nearer God.
What is a day to an immortal soul?
A breath, no more. And yet I hold one hour
Beyond all price—that hour when from the sky
I circled near and nearer to the earth,
Nearer and nearer, till I brushed my wings
Against the pointed chestnuts, where a stream,
That foamed and chattered over pebbly shoals,
Fled through the briony, and with a shout
Leapt headlong down a precipice; and there,
Gathering wild-flowers in the cool ravine,
Wandered a woman more divinely shaped
Than of the creatures of the air,
Or river-goddesses, or restless shades
Of noble matrons marvellous in their time
33
I charmed her thought, I gave her dreams, and then
Down from the dewy atmosphere I stole
And nestled in her bosom. There I slept
From moon to moon, while in her eyes a thought
Grew sweet and sweeter, deepening like dawn—
A mystical forewarning! When the stream,
Breaking through leafless brambles and dead leaves,
Piped shriller treble, and from chestnut boughs
The fruit dropt noiseless through the autumn night,
I gave a quick, low cry, as infants do:
We weep when we are born, not when we die!
So was it destined; and thus came I here,
To walk the earth and wear the form of Man,
To suffer bravely as becomes my state,
One step, one grade, one cycle nearer God.
And knowing these things, can I stoop to fret,
And lie, and haggle in the market-place,
Give dross for dross, or everything for naught?
No! let me sit above the crowd, and sing,
Waiting with hope for that miraculous change
Which seems like sleep; and though I waiting starve,
I cannot kiss the idols that are set
By every gate, in every street and park;
I cannot fawn, I cannot soil my soul;
For I am of the mountains and the sea,
The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,
The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
And lie, and haggle in the market-place,
Give dross for dross, or everything for naught?
No! let me sit above the crowd, and sing,
Waiting with hope for that miraculous change
Which seems like sleep; and though I waiting starve,
I cannot kiss the idols that are set
By every gate, in every street and park;
I cannot fawn, I cannot soil my soul;
For I am of the mountains and the sea,
The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,
The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
34
BAYARD TAYLOR
In other years—lost youth's enchanted years,Seen now, and evermore, through blinding tears
And empty longing for what may not be—
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Norland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
What sounds are these of farewell and despair
Borne on the winds across the wintry main!
What unknown way is this that he has gone,
Our Bayard, in such silence and alone?
What dark new quest has tempted him once more
To leave us? Vainly, standing by the shore,
We strain our eyes. But patience! When the soft
Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft,
Whitening the hawthorn; when the violets bloom
Along the Brandywine, and overhead
The sky is blue as Italy's, he will come ...
In the wind's whisper, in the swaying pine,
In song of bird and blossoming of vine,
And all fair things he loved ere he was dead!
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |