 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
225
ZIA NICA.
Old Zia Nica, she had looked through life—
Its deeps and shoals had sounded—felt the strife
Of storms—sailed round its capes and reefs—and known
The absolute whole of passion's burning zone.
Queen of the osteria there she sat,
Half listening, while around her buzzed its chat:
Her red-rimmed eyes, all bloodshot from carouse,
Half shut, and peering out 'neath shaggy brows;
And now and then a grim sardonic smile
Quivering at some coarse speech across her lips,
As up she sharply glanced, and ceased the while
To drum the table with her finger-tips.
All taste for gracious things was gone; her tongue
Craved the sharp whet of savage words, the zest
Of some lewd speech, some bitter, biting jest,
That like raw brandy for a moment stung.
Thus stern she sat, amid her compeers there,
Over her sunken cheeks her coarse gray hair
Straggling, a wicked sharpness in her look,
Like some spent fury. Now and then she struck
Sharply her clenched hand on the board, until
The glasses rang, and every man was still
To listen, as with voice high, harsh, and shrill,
She shrieked some savage taunt, or jest so lewd,
It seemed to prick the skin and draw the blood;
And then with coarse laugh opening wide her jaws
(Where, either side the mouth's red-roofed ravine,
Two yellow teeth, like ruined piers, were seen),
She paused, expectant of the fierce applause.
“Bravo, per Bacco! Zia Nica's shot
Is in the very bull's-eye—is it not?”
Its deeps and shoals had sounded—felt the strife
Of storms—sailed round its capes and reefs—and known
The absolute whole of passion's burning zone.
Queen of the osteria there she sat,
Half listening, while around her buzzed its chat:
Her red-rimmed eyes, all bloodshot from carouse,
Half shut, and peering out 'neath shaggy brows;
And now and then a grim sardonic smile
Quivering at some coarse speech across her lips,
As up she sharply glanced, and ceased the while
To drum the table with her finger-tips.
All taste for gracious things was gone; her tongue
Craved the sharp whet of savage words, the zest
Of some lewd speech, some bitter, biting jest,
That like raw brandy for a moment stung.
Thus stern she sat, amid her compeers there,
Over her sunken cheeks her coarse gray hair
Straggling, a wicked sharpness in her look,
Like some spent fury. Now and then she struck
Sharply her clenched hand on the board, until
The glasses rang, and every man was still
To listen, as with voice high, harsh, and shrill,
226
It seemed to prick the skin and draw the blood;
And then with coarse laugh opening wide her jaws
(Where, either side the mouth's red-roofed ravine,
Two yellow teeth, like ruined piers, were seen),
She paused, expectant of the fierce applause.
“Bravo, per Bacco! Zia Nica's shot
Is in the very bull's-eye—is it not?”
If beauty, maidenly reserve, and grace,
Once, as they say, in earlier, happier hours,
Grassed softly over this volcano's vent,
The time has long gone by of grass or flowers;
Ay, and the passionate and flaming days,
They, too, have passed, and all their fury spent,
And left but ashes, scoriæ, blasted stones,
Cast forth by passion, the dead wreck of sin.
Yet impotent, low growls, and rumbling moans,
And sharp convulsive throes, still stir within;
Still the old crater, burnt out at its heart,
At times a savage tongue of flames will dart;
And Zio Tonio trembles even now,
Despite his coward smile, so faint and grim—
Trembles, as down she shuts her dinted brow,
And her eyes, closing, take slow aim at him.
Once, as they say, in earlier, happier hours,
Grassed softly over this volcano's vent,
The time has long gone by of grass or flowers;
Ay, and the passionate and flaming days,
They, too, have passed, and all their fury spent,
And left but ashes, scoriæ, blasted stones,
Cast forth by passion, the dead wreck of sin.
Yet impotent, low growls, and rumbling moans,
And sharp convulsive throes, still stir within;
Still the old crater, burnt out at its heart,
At times a savage tongue of flames will dart;
And Zio Tonio trembles even now,
Despite his coward smile, so faint and grim—
Trembles, as down she shuts her dinted brow,
And her eyes, closing, take slow aim at him.
And yet not wholly vanished is all grace;
One vein of love runs like a singing stream
Through all this scoriæ; and across her face,
Praise but her grandchild, shoots a sudden gleam,
As she strokes down his curled and tangled hair.
Touch him for harm,—the tiger from her lair
Is not more swift to spring, more wild to scream,
More fierce with hand and tongue to rend and tear.
One vein of love runs like a singing stream
227
Praise but her grandchild, shoots a sudden gleam,
As she strokes down his curled and tangled hair.
Touch him for harm,—the tiger from her lair
Is not more swift to spring, more wild to scream,
More fierce with hand and tongue to rend and tear.
Come, Zia Nica, fill a brimming glass!
Nay, sit not thus, your hands upon your knees,
But drain its red blood down unto the lees.
Yours is no heart to strike to an “alas”;—
Up! while the mandoline and thrummed guitar
Ring through the osteria's vaulted wall,
And all our glasses jar and voices call—
Hark to the echoes of the days afar!
Hands on your broad hips,—shuffle down the floor
A tottering salterello,—pipe once more
That old cracked voice,—and while the noisy jar
Of Passatello stops, and we who quaff
The rich red wine of Tonio's choicest bin,
Strike down our tumblers,—shriek out shrill and long
The quavering fragment of that wicked song,
And let us hear your wild defiant laugh
Closing the final strophe of its sin.
Then shall the black vault echo to the din,
The benches leap, the lumbering tables spring,
The brass lucerna's rattling pendants swing,
The hanging lamp in quivering circles shake,
And o'er the ceiling whirl its gleaming ring,
Ay, and the framed Madonna, shuddering, quake.
Nay, sit not thus, your hands upon your knees,
But drain its red blood down unto the lees.
Yours is no heart to strike to an “alas”;—
Up! while the mandoline and thrummed guitar
Ring through the osteria's vaulted wall,
And all our glasses jar and voices call—
Hark to the echoes of the days afar!
Hands on your broad hips,—shuffle down the floor
A tottering salterello,—pipe once more
That old cracked voice,—and while the noisy jar
Of Passatello stops, and we who quaff
The rich red wine of Tonio's choicest bin,
Strike down our tumblers,—shriek out shrill and long
The quavering fragment of that wicked song,
And let us hear your wild defiant laugh
Closing the final strophe of its sin.
Then shall the black vault echo to the din,
The benches leap, the lumbering tables spring,
The brass lucerna's rattling pendants swing,
228
And o'er the ceiling whirl its gleaming ring,
Ay, and the framed Madonna, shuddering, quake.
Up, Zia Nica! hear you not the strain?
Once you could dance. Old Tonio, stand aside.
Push back the benches! make the circle wide!
The music rouses the old strength again.
Ay! when this Tonio took her for his bride,
Was there, of all the maids on hill or plain,
One that with this fierce mænad could compare?
More firm of waist, with such black eyes and hair?
Once you could dance. Old Tonio, stand aside.
Push back the benches! make the circle wide!
The music rouses the old strength again.
Ay! when this Tonio took her for his bride,
Was there, of all the maids on hill or plain,
One that with this fierce mænad could compare?
More firm of waist, with such black eyes and hair?
Stand back! there 's danger in her eyes; for lo!
Upstarting with a sharp shriek from her seat,
With arms flung wide, and heavy shuffling feet,
Around the cleared space see her circling go.
Her trembling hands now twitching at her gown,
Now snapped aloft in air,—till, flushed with heat,
All reeking, panting, shaking, in her seat,
With open mouth, she drops, exhausted, down,
Crying—“Old Zia Nica 's not dead yet!”
To Zia Nica, then, your glasses drain!
And let the low room echo to the cry—
Eviva! and eviva! and again
Eviva!—may our Zia never die!
Upstarting with a sharp shriek from her seat,
With arms flung wide, and heavy shuffling feet,
Around the cleared space see her circling go.
Her trembling hands now twitching at her gown,
Now snapped aloft in air,—till, flushed with heat,
All reeking, panting, shaking, in her seat,
With open mouth, she drops, exhausted, down,
Crying—“Old Zia Nica 's not dead yet!”
To Zia Nica, then, your glasses drain!
And let the low room echo to the cry—
Eviva! and eviva! and again
Eviva!—may our Zia never die!
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |