 |
 | Graffiti d'Italia |  |
119
IN THE ANTECHAMBER OF MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO.
Our master will be Cardinal ere long—
Is he not made for one?—so smooth and plump,
With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes,
Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet,
Which only need red stockings. Even now
He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait
Upon his tender toes, while you behind
Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off,
The pious footsteps of the holy man.
How many years have you thus stalked along
Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasselled hat,
In your stiff lace and livery, trained to pause
Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix
His Fifthly on his fingers to some dull
Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side?
Then, when that point is drilled into his brain
(Proving the blessedness of poverty,
Or how the devil has no cursed wiles
To lure the world to hell like liberty—
The only one great good being obedience),
Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk
That streams behind, and on you march again;
While the gilt carriage lumbers in the rear,
And the black stallions nod their tufted crests.
Is he not made for one?—so smooth and plump,
With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes,
Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet,
Which only need red stockings. Even now
He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait
Upon his tender toes, while you behind
Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off,
The pious footsteps of the holy man.
How many years have you thus stalked along
Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasselled hat,
120
Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix
His Fifthly on his fingers to some dull
Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side?
Then, when that point is drilled into his brain
(Proving the blessedness of poverty,
Or how the devil has no cursed wiles
To lure the world to hell like liberty—
The only one great good being obedience),
Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk
That streams behind, and on you march again;
While the gilt carriage lumbers in the rear,
And the black stallions nod their tufted crests.
Yours is a noble station, clinging there
Behind it as you clatter through the town,
Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar,
The mark and sneer of half the world you meet.
Ah, well! 'tis wretched business yours and mine;
I know not which is worst—but then it pays;
The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt
To those who win? Though now the stakes are small,
We'll hold the court-cards when the suit is red;—
And so it will be soon; why, even now
I seem to see red stockings on his legs;—
And yesterday I said, “Your Eminence,”
As if I thought he now was Cardinal—
“Your Eminence,” indeed! At that he smiled
That oily smile of his, and rubbed his hands—
Those thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring
Flashes ('tis worth at least a thousand crowns)—
And said, “Good Giacomo, not ‘Eminence,’
I'm but a Monsignor, and that's too much
For my deserts.” Then I, “Your ‘Reverence’
Ought to be ‘Eminence,’ and will be soon;
The tassel's almost old upon your hat.”
“Sei matto, Giacomo,” he said, and smiled.
You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er
His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you,
“Am I not kind and good?” and all the while
Your soul protests, and calls out “Knave and cheat.”
But, then, how can one call him by such names,
When, even with that smile upon his face,
He slips a scudo in one's hand and says,
“Go, Giacomo, and drink my health with this”?
What can one do but bow and try to blush?
“Oh—Eminenza—thanks—you are too good.”
Behind it as you clatter through the town,
Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar,
The mark and sneer of half the world you meet.
Ah, well! 'tis wretched business yours and mine;
I know not which is worst—but then it pays;
The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt
To those who win? Though now the stakes are small,
121
And so it will be soon; why, even now
I seem to see red stockings on his legs;—
And yesterday I said, “Your Eminence,”
As if I thought he now was Cardinal—
“Your Eminence,” indeed! At that he smiled
That oily smile of his, and rubbed his hands—
Those thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring
Flashes ('tis worth at least a thousand crowns)—
And said, “Good Giacomo, not ‘Eminence,’
I'm but a Monsignor, and that's too much
For my deserts.” Then I, “Your ‘Reverence’
Ought to be ‘Eminence,’ and will be soon;
The tassel's almost old upon your hat.”
“Sei matto, Giacomo,” he said, and smiled.
You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er
His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you,
“Am I not kind and good?” and all the while
Your soul protests, and calls out “Knave and cheat.”
But, then, how can one call him by such names,
When, even with that smile upon his face,
He slips a scudo in one's hand and says,
122
What can one do but bow and try to blush?
“Oh—Eminenza—thanks—you are too good.”
Dear man! sweet man! in all those troublous times
What zeal was his!—how earnestly he worked!
Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice,
His virtuous deeds, above this world's reward—
Done for pure Christian duty—done, of course,
For Holy Church—all was for Holy Church—
(Without a notion of this world's reward)—
All for the good of souls and Holy Church—
(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)—
All to bring sinners back again to God,
And from the harvest root the devil's tares—
In omnia sæcula—amen—amen.
We don't forget—well! you know whom I mean
No need to mention names, though no one's nigh;
We don't forget him whose anointed hands
Were flayed by order of his Reverence,
Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down
Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through
The half-closed blind, saw him throw up his hands
And forward fall upon his face, and writhe,
When the sharp volley rang against the walls.
What zeal was his!—how earnestly he worked!
Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice,
His virtuous deeds, above this world's reward—
Done for pure Christian duty—done, of course,
For Holy Church—all was for Holy Church—
(Without a notion of this world's reward)—
All for the good of souls and Holy Church—
(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)—
All to bring sinners back again to God,
And from the harvest root the devil's tares—
In omnia sæcula—amen—amen.
We don't forget—well! you know whom I mean
No need to mention names, though no one's nigh;
We don't forget him whose anointed hands
Were flayed by order of his Reverence,
Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down
Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through
123
And forward fall upon his face, and writhe,
When the sharp volley rang against the walls.
Those oily fingers wrote that sentence down!
That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone,
While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom.
Who could help weeping when that pious man,
Professing horror at his victim's crime,
And bidding him confess and pray to God,
And saying, “God would pardon him, perhaps,
As he himself would, if the power were his,
But, being the instrument of Church and State,
No choice was given,” with his priestly foot
Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave?
That bloody stain is still upon the walls,
Of the same colour as the scarlet hat
Our master soon will wear; and, after all,
Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul,
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire?
He shall be raised who doth abase himself!
The good and faithful servant shall be made
The ruler over many! Ah! my friend,
He nothing lost by all those deeds of his.
He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice—
'Twas all for Holy Church. His secret life,
Perhaps, was not quite perfect! Who of you
Is without sin let him first cast a stone;—
No one, you see; so let us think no more
Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less
At all his compliments and unctuous words
As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes
He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,—
Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance,
He is so modest,—and with undertone
Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands,
While with her fan she covers half her face?
He knows as well as any man that lives
How far to venture;—covers his foul jokes
With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them;—
Treads on the edge of scandal—not a chance
He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals
Of innuendo;—in pure earnestness
(Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands
And holds them—presses them, as to enforce
His argument;—for this, our Monsignor,
Lifted above temptation, with, of course,
No carnal thought, may do before the world—
Because it must be done through innocence.
Fie on his foul mouth who should hint 'twas wrong!
Who'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man?
He would go home and pray for that lost soul!
That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone,
While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom.
Who could help weeping when that pious man,
Professing horror at his victim's crime,
And bidding him confess and pray to God,
And saying, “God would pardon him, perhaps,
As he himself would, if the power were his,
But, being the instrument of Church and State,
No choice was given,” with his priestly foot
Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave?
That bloody stain is still upon the walls,
Of the same colour as the scarlet hat
Our master soon will wear; and, after all,
Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul,
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire?
He shall be raised who doth abase himself!
The good and faithful servant shall be made
124
He nothing lost by all those deeds of his.
He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice—
'Twas all for Holy Church. His secret life,
Perhaps, was not quite perfect! Who of you
Is without sin let him first cast a stone;—
No one, you see; so let us think no more
Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less
At all his compliments and unctuous words
As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes
He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,—
Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance,
He is so modest,—and with undertone
Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands,
While with her fan she covers half her face?
He knows as well as any man that lives
How far to venture;—covers his foul jokes
With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them;—
Treads on the edge of scandal—not a chance
He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals
Of innuendo;—in pure earnestness
(Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands
125
His argument;—for this, our Monsignor,
Lifted above temptation, with, of course,
No carnal thought, may do before the world—
Because it must be done through innocence.
Fie on his foul mouth who should hint 'twas wrong!
Who'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man?
He would go home and pray for that lost soul!
And yet, how can a woman pure in heart,
Without disgust, accept his compliments,
And let him feed on her his gloating eyes?
Of course, it's just because she's innocent.
Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor,
Not fat and oily like our Monsignor,
And so I can't endure his nauseous ways;—
All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think,
Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus,
And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring,
Show like silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons,
And fish for women with a net like this?
Those soft fat hands—those sweet anointed hands—
Those hands that wear the glittering emerald ring—
Those hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayer—
Those hands that fondle high-born ladies' hands—
Those hands that give their blessing to the poor—
Those hateful, hideous hands are red with blood!
Think! Principessa, when you kiss those hands—
Think! Novice, when those hands upon your head
Are laid in consecration—think of this!
Without disgust, accept his compliments,
And let him feed on her his gloating eyes?
Of course, it's just because she's innocent.
Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor,
Not fat and oily like our Monsignor,
And so I can't endure his nauseous ways;—
All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think,
Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus,
And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring,
Show like silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons,
And fish for women with a net like this?
126
Those hands that wear the glittering emerald ring—
Those hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayer—
Those hands that fondle high-born ladies' hands—
Those hands that give their blessing to the poor—
Those hateful, hideous hands are red with blood!
Think! Principessa, when you kiss those hands—
Think! Novice, when those hands upon your head
Are laid in consecration—think of this!
Stop, Master Giacomo! don't get too warm!
When Monsignore gave you yesterday,
With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands,
Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not?
Yes! I confess! the world will be the world!
One must not ask too much of mortal man,
Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo!
But yet we cannot always keep a curb
Upon our feelings, school them as we will;
And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day,
Detest at times my very self, and grow
So restive 'neath my rank hypocrisy,
I must break loose and fling out like a horse
In useless kicks, or else I should go mad.
God knows I hate this man, and so at times,
Rather than take him by the throat, I come
And pour my passion out in idle words;
They ease me. You're my friend; but if I thought
A word of this would reach his ears; but, no!
We know each other both too well for that.
When Monsignore gave you yesterday,
With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands,
Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not?
Yes! I confess! the world will be the world!
One must not ask too much of mortal man,
Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo!
But yet we cannot always keep a curb
Upon our feelings, school them as we will;
And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day,
Detest at times my very self, and grow
So restive 'neath my rank hypocrisy,
127
In useless kicks, or else I should go mad.
God knows I hate this man, and so at times,
Rather than take him by the throat, I come
And pour my passion out in idle words;
They ease me. You're my friend; but if I thought
A word of this would reach his ears; but, no!
We know each other both too well for that.
One or two questions I should like to ask,
If Monsignor would only answer them,
As this—what Sora Lisa says to him
At her confession, once a-week at least
(For Monsignor, having her soul in charge,
When she don't come to him, must go to her).
She used to be so poor, but times are changed,
And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now;
And those old gowns, by some “Hey, presto, change,”
Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears
Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows,
When she's the mind, in her own opera box.
Well! well! that office our good Monsignor
Gave her poor husband from pure love of him
May pay for these; and if it don't, why, then,
It don't—what business is it of ours?
And then, who knows, some uncle may have died
(Uncles are always dying for such folks)
And made her rich;—why should we peep and pry?
Her soul is safe at least with Monsignor.
If Monsignor would only answer them,
As this—what Sora Lisa says to him
At her confession, once a-week at least
(For Monsignor, having her soul in charge,
When she don't come to him, must go to her).
She used to be so poor, but times are changed,
And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now;
And those old gowns, by some “Hey, presto, change,”
Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears
Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows,
When she's the mind, in her own opera box.
Well! well! that office our good Monsignor
128
May pay for these; and if it don't, why, then,
It don't—what business is it of ours?
And then, who knows, some uncle may have died
(Uncles are always dying for such folks)
And made her rich;—why should we peep and pry?
Her soul is safe at least with Monsignor.
And this reminds me—did you ever know
Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl,
With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook
Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?—
She that was friend to Monsignor while yet
He was a humble Abbé—born indeed
In the same town and came to live in Rome?
Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared
Some ten years back, and God knows how or why?
Well, Nina,—are you sure there's no one near?—
Nina—
Per Dio! how his stinging bell
Startled my blood, as if the Monsignor
Cried out, “You, Giacomo; what, there again
At your old trick of talking? Hold your tongue!”
And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;—
Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence.
Nature, as Monsignor has often said,
Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue,
As if to say, “Tell half you see and hear;”
And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on,
After such lessons. There he rings again!
Vengo—per Dio—Vengo subito.
Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl,
With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook
Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?—
She that was friend to Monsignor while yet
He was a humble Abbé—born indeed
In the same town and came to live in Rome?
Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared
Some ten years back, and God knows how or why?
Well, Nina,—are you sure there's no one near?—
Nina—
Per Dio! how his stinging bell
Startled my blood, as if the Monsignor
Cried out, “You, Giacomo; what, there again
129
And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;—
Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence.
Nature, as Monsignor has often said,
Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue,
As if to say, “Tell half you see and hear;”
And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on,
After such lessons. There he rings again!
Vengo—per Dio—Vengo subito.
199
TO FORTUNE.
Oh Goddess! fixed and fair and calm,
That bearest in thy grasp the palm—
That bearest in thy grasp the rod—
Oh voice of Fate! oh smile of God!—
That bearest in thy grasp the palm—
That bearest in thy grasp the rod—
Oh voice of Fate! oh smile of God!—
Be gracious—lend to us thy ear—
Be not too awful, too austere.
Against thy will no power avails;
Without thy aid all struggle fails.
Be not too awful, too austere.
Against thy will no power avails;
Without thy aid all struggle fails.
Stayed by thy hand, no reed so spare
But, column-like, life's weight will bear;
Reft of thy hand our steps to lead,
The brazen shaft is like a reed.
But, column-like, life's weight will bear;
Reft of thy hand our steps to lead,
The brazen shaft is like a reed.
200
Blow but thy breath across the sea,
Our galleys go triumphantly;
Avert thy face, though skies are fair
We sink and founder in despair.
Our galleys go triumphantly;
Avert thy face, though skies are fair
We sink and founder in despair.
Dear Goddess, turn to us thy face!
Not justice we implore, but grace;
Give us what none can win or buy—
Thy godlike gift, prosperity.
Not justice we implore, but grace;
Give us what none can win or buy—
Thy godlike gift, prosperity.
279
THE LILAC.
The lilac-bush is in blossom,
It hath the balmy smell
Of that dear delicious summer,
Of love's first miracle.
I feel, as I breathe its fragrance,
The old enchanting pain,
The sweet insatiate longing,
Thrill through my heart and brain.
It hath the balmy smell
Of that dear delicious summer,
Of love's first miracle.
I feel, as I breathe its fragrance,
The old enchanting pain,
The sweet insatiate longing,
Thrill through my heart and brain.
Oh youth! youth! youth! where are you?
I call, but you come no more!
I weep, but afar you mock me!
And you laugh when I implore!
Yet you hide within the lilac,
With an odour you shoot me through,
And a whiff of the old you fling me
That is better than all the new.
I call, but you come no more!
I weep, but afar you mock me!
And you laugh when I implore!
280
With an odour you shoot me through,
And a whiff of the old you fling me
That is better than all the new.
How proudly we struggled to leave you,
When you implored us to stay!
How bitterly grieve to regain you
When once you have fled away.
Too late, too late, we love you,
And long for your laugh of surprise,
And we only truly can see you
With manhood's tears in our eyes.
When you implored us to stay!
How bitterly grieve to regain you
When once you have fled away.
Too late, too late, we love you,
And long for your laugh of surprise,
And we only truly can see you
With manhood's tears in our eyes.
You flung your arms around me
And pelted me with flowers;
You clung to me as we wandered
Among those lilac bowers.
You kissed me, half laughing, half crying,
Beseeching me to remain,
But impatient I shook you from me—
And you never will come again.
And pelted me with flowers;
You clung to me as we wandered
Among those lilac bowers.
You kissed me, half laughing, half crying,
Beseeching me to remain,
But impatient I shook you from me—
And you never will come again.
281
Your lilacs are ever blooming
In happy gardens of play,
But they love you not who have you,
And fain would they flee away.
They long for the fields of freedom
Where the fruit of ambition grows,
And for manhood's heights, that are lifted
Against a sky of rose.
In happy gardens of play,
But they love you not who have you,
And fain would they flee away.
They long for the fields of freedom
Where the fruit of ambition grows,
And for manhood's heights, that are lifted
Against a sky of rose.
282
THE GAUCHO.
Over the lonely, desolate Pampas,
A sinewy horse my flying throne,
Coiled at my saddle-bow the lasso,
In my belt a knife that reaches the bone.
I am the Gaucho,—riding, hiding,
Whirling the bolas, wielding the knife,
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
A sinewy horse my flying throne,
Coiled at my saddle-bow the lasso,
In my belt a knife that reaches the bone.
I am the Gaucho,—riding, hiding,
Whirling the bolas, wielding the knife,
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
Ne'er a tide but the fleeting seasons
Sweeps o'er the inland sea of grass;
Roaring herds, like clouds of thunder,
Over its lonely levels pass.
Jaguars yell; and, striding, hiding,
Ostriches rush—for they fear the knife—
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
Sweeps o'er the inland sea of grass;
Roaring herds, like clouds of thunder,
Over its lonely levels pass.
283
Ostriches rush—for they fear the knife—
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
With my tongues of cows and gourd of yerba,
And the cigaritos smoke on my hearth,
I laugh at your houses; my saddle 's my pillow,
My chamber a thousand miles of earth.
With the stars above me gliding, hiding,
I lie at ease, as I grasp my knife.
On the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who awakes me look out for his life!
And the cigaritos smoke on my hearth,
I laugh at your houses; my saddle 's my pillow,
My chamber a thousand miles of earth.
With the stars above me gliding, hiding,
I lie at ease, as I grasp my knife.
On the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who awakes me look out for his life!
Look! in the distance a cloud is rising;
In with the spur! fling loose the rein!
Sharp sings the lasso's loop as it whizzes,—
And the bellowing bull drops on the plain.
Out from my saddle sliding, gliding,
Deep in his throat my flashing knife.
O'er the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
In with the spur! fling loose the rein!
Sharp sings the lasso's loop as it whizzes,—
And the bellowing bull drops on the plain.
Out from my saddle sliding, gliding,
Deep in his throat my flashing knife.
O'er the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
284
Keep your dragoons at home—I warn you!
For the Gaucho writes his laws in blood;
The bolas are ready; coiled is the lasso;
And this white dust can be red mud.
You for the crows, and, riding, riding,
I for the Andes with my knife.
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
For the Gaucho writes his laws in blood;
The bolas are ready; coiled is the lasso;
And this white dust can be red mud.
You for the crows, and, riding, riding,
I for the Andes with my knife.
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
308
CASTEL GANDOLFO.
[Dedicated to L. C.]
The fountain on the moonlight plays,
And old Castello's turrets rise
Darkly against the silvery skies,
And voices laugh along the ways.
And old Castello's turrets rise
Darkly against the silvery skies,
And voices laugh along the ways.
The moonlight sleeps upon the square;
And from the castellated town
The sharp dark blocks of shadow thrown
Lie cut out in the whiteness there.
And from the castellated town
The sharp dark blocks of shadow thrown
Lie cut out in the whiteness there.
Among the trees the luccioli
Show fitfully their wandering light,
And far away across the night
The owl prolongs his dreary cry.
Show fitfully their wandering light,
309
The owl prolongs his dreary cry.
How still! how exquisitely still!
No sound disturbs the silentness
Save the untiring cricket's stress,
And the continuous fountain's spill.
No sound disturbs the silentness
Save the untiring cricket's stress,
And the continuous fountain's spill.
The weeds along the old grey wall
Hang moveless, casting spots of shade;
And all is beautified, and made
More perfect where the moonbeams fall.
Hang moveless, casting spots of shade;
And all is beautified, and made
More perfect where the moonbeams fall.
What magic light that thus can hide
The ravages of time, and grace
The commonest and meanest place,
And veil the earth as 'twere a bride!
The ravages of time, and grace
The commonest and meanest place,
And veil the earth as 'twere a bride!
On such a night Diana kissed
Endymion's brow the while he slept,
As noiselessly to him she crept
Enshrouded in a silver mist.
Endymion's brow the while he slept,
As noiselessly to him she crept
Enshrouded in a silver mist.
310
Oh! pass not, perfect night, from us,
But stay with us and crown our love!
Sing, from the shadowy ilex grove—
Sing, nightingale, for ever thus!
But stay with us and crown our love!
Sing, from the shadowy ilex grove—
Sing, nightingale, for ever thus!
313
WOGGINS.
Singing little artless snatches,
Words and music all her own,
While her dolls she tends and dresses,
By herself, but not alone,
Round from room to room she wanders,
Through the hall, and up the stairs,
And her sunny buoyant spirit
Knows but trivial shades and cares.
Words and music all her own,
While her dolls she tends and dresses,
By herself, but not alone,
Round from room to room she wanders,
Through the hall, and up the stairs,
And her sunny buoyant spirit
Knows but trivial shades and cares.
Now upon the stair she's singing;
Now, in corners of the rooms,
Self-involved, her little household
Patronising she assumes.
What a teeming world of fiction
Out of nothing she creates!
Fancy, childhood's gentle fairy,
With her wand upon her waits.
Now, in corners of the rooms,
Self-involved, her little household
Patronising she assumes.
314
Out of nothing she creates!
Fancy, childhood's gentle fairy,
With her wand upon her waits.
Little scraps of worthless paper,
Scribbled o'er with crooked lines,
She interprets into landscapes
Where an endless sunlight shines.
Conversations wise and serious
With her painted dolls she holds;
And the good ones she caresses,
And the naughty ones she scolds.
Scribbled o'er with crooked lines,
She interprets into landscapes
Where an endless sunlight shines.
Conversations wise and serious
With her painted dolls she holds;
And the good ones she caresses,
And the naughty ones she scolds.
Now she brings her book of pictures,
And with large and wondering eyes,
On my knee she sits and listens
With a smile of young surprise,
While I tell the same old stories
I have told her o'er and o'er
Scores of times, yet when I finish,
With a shout she cries, “Tell more!”
And with large and wondering eyes,
On my knee she sits and listens
With a smile of young surprise,
While I tell the same old stories
I have told her o'er and o'er
Scores of times, yet when I finish,
With a shout she cries, “Tell more!”
315
Knowledge, that the mind encumbers,
Cares, that after-years harass,
Are to her but misty sun-showers,
Rainbow traps that come and pass.
All the world is as a plaything—
When it wearies, thrown away,
As from new to new she ranges
In the imagination's play.
Cares, that after-years harass,
Are to her but misty sun-showers,
Rainbow traps that come and pass.
All the world is as a plaything—
When it wearies, thrown away,
As from new to new she ranges
In the imagination's play.
Wisdom such as thine I covet,
Happy childhood! Work and toil,
Plans that never reach enjoyment,
But the present's beauty spoil,
Are not made for thee; contented
With the present, from each day
But its juice of joy thou pressest,
Fling'st the bitter rind away.
Happy childhood! Work and toil,
Plans that never reach enjoyment,
But the present's beauty spoil,
Are not made for thee; contented
With the present, from each day
But its juice of joy thou pressest,
Fling'st the bitter rind away.
Not till man through toil and labour
Onward pass to joyous ease,
Not till knowing rhyme with loving,
Nature will give up its keys.
All is shut to poet, artist,
Till he be a child again;
And in play shall be created
What was never born of pain.
Onward pass to joyous ease,
Not till knowing rhyme with loving,
Nature will give up its keys.
316
Till he be a child again;
And in play shall be created
What was never born of pain.
317
UNDER THE CYPRESSES.
Here I stand in the cypress lane;
I see the light in her window shine;
Ah, God! can this love be all in vain,
And shall she never be mine?
I see the light in her window shine;
Ah, God! can this love be all in vain,
And shall she never be mine?
There stays her shadow against the walls;
There moves on the ceiling to and fro:
She does not think of the heart that calls
So loud in the dark below.
There moves on the ceiling to and fro:
She does not think of the heart that calls
So loud in the dark below.
Why should she think of a fool like me,
Though I'd give my life to save her a pain?
The stars might as well look down to see
The fire-flies in the lane.
Though I'd give my life to save her a pain?
318
The fire-flies in the lane.
I am too low for her to love;
And I would not give her the pain to say
That a love like mine could only prove
A shadow upon her way.
And I would not give her the pain to say
That a love like mine could only prove
A shadow upon her way.
So I stand in the cypress shade and weep—
I weep, for my heart is sick with love;
And I pray for strength my vow to keep,
As I gaze on the sky above.
I weep, for my heart is sick with love;
And I pray for strength my vow to keep,
As I gaze on the sky above.
Is it wrong to gaze at her window-sill,
Where she sits like an angel in a shrine,
While my heart cries out, despite my will,
“Ah, heaven! were she but mine?”
Where she sits like an angel in a shrine,
While my heart cries out, despite my will,
“Ah, heaven! were she but mine?”
Heart of mine, I could tear you out!
Am I so weak and faint of will
That the fair dear serpent coiled about
My purpose I cannot kill?
Am I so weak and faint of will
That the fair dear serpent coiled about
My purpose I cannot kill?
319
Where is my vaunted manhood fled?
Come, my pride—my pride, come back!
Serve me and prompt me a while, instead
Of all I so sadly lack!
Come, my pride—my pride, come back!
Serve me and prompt me a while, instead
Of all I so sadly lack!
Vain! ah, vain! all day and night
One thought, like a ghost, I cannot lay,
Ranges my life and haunts my sight,
And never will pass away.
One thought, like a ghost, I cannot lay,
Ranges my life and haunts my sight,
And never will pass away.
It mocks me and beckons at my work,
It lures me away from joy and ease;
Where shall I flee that it does not lurk,
This shadow no hand can seize?
It lures me away from joy and ease;
Where shall I flee that it does not lurk,
This shadow no hand can seize?
Give me something to meet and grasp!
I faint with fighting this thing of air!
I die despairing in its clasp!
Its presence I cannot bear!
I faint with fighting this thing of air!
I die despairing in its clasp!
Its presence I cannot bear!
Oh, give me strength, my God, to endure!
Let me not writhe to death in the grass!
Send me, ye stars, from your chambers pure,
Some ease, as ye coldly pass!
Let me not writhe to death in the grass!
320
Some ease, as ye coldly pass!
Look at this poor mad wretch that lies
Beating his brain that is all afire!
Pity him here as he grovelling dies
In the flames of his vain desire!
Beating his brain that is all afire!
Pity him here as he grovelling dies
In the flames of his vain desire!
327
UNDER A CLOUD.
Ah me! I'm so ill and weary,
I wish I could only die!
For here all alone and dreary,
As hour after hour I lie,
I think it all over and over,
And see no issue of peace;
No way the lost joy to recover,
If death do not give me release.
I wish I could only die!
For here all alone and dreary,
As hour after hour I lie,
I think it all over and over,
And see no issue of peace;
No way the lost joy to recover,
If death do not give me release.
I know not what change may come after,
But that I take upon trust;
Perhaps no more weeping nor laughter—
Only a handful of dust.
Perhaps a glory and gladness
We never have dreamt of here,
Where love has no shadow of sadness,
And joy has no shudder of fear.
But that I take upon trust;
Perhaps no more weeping nor laughter—
Only a handful of dust.
328
We never have dreamt of here,
Where love has no shadow of sadness,
And joy has no shudder of fear.
At least I shall no more sorrow,
And suffer such helpless pain,
With no hope for the coming morrow,
No hope to behold him again.
And that terrible longing and craving
Again in his arms to be,
Will cease in my heart to be raving
And tearing me inwardly.
And suffer such helpless pain,
With no hope for the coming morrow,
No hope to behold him again.
And that terrible longing and craving
Again in his arms to be,
Will cease in my heart to be raving
And tearing me inwardly.
But then, perhaps, I shall lose him—
And here, if I strive and stay,
Since God is so good, if one sues Him,
Perhaps he will open a way—
Some way through this tangle of anguish
To a joy beyond our sight,
Nor leave as to linger and languish,
Like creatures lost in the night.
And here, if I strive and stay,
Since God is so good, if one sues Him,
Perhaps he will open a way—
Some way through this tangle of anguish
To a joy beyond our sight,
Nor leave as to linger and languish,
Like creatures lost in the night.
329
Here, as I lie, I go over
The dear departed days,
When my love I began to discover,
Till my thoughts are all in a craze;
And the vines on the sunny terrace,
Through the windows again I see;
And the room with the quaint old arras,
Where he whispered his love to me.
The dear departed days,
When my love I began to discover,
Till my thoughts are all in a craze;
And the vines on the sunny terrace,
Through the windows again I see;
And the room with the quaint old arras,
Where he whispered his love to me.
But what is the use of thinking?
'Tis all like a sleepless pain,
That keeps tramping, tramping, and clinking
In the treadmill of my brain.
'Tis like hearing the music for ever
Going on to the dancers' tread,
While I'm fainting and dying with fever,
And helpless to lift my head.
'Tis all like a sleepless pain,
That keeps tramping, tramping, and clinking
In the treadmill of my brain.
'Tis like hearing the music for ever
Going on to the dancers' tread,
While I'm fainting and dying with fever,
And helpless to lift my head.
I am getting so old with fretting,
Perhaps he will love me no more;
And I sometimes fear his forgetting
And this makes my heart so sore.
And before the stone that is lying
Across my path is removed,
Who knows but that he may be dying,
To make it vain that we loved.
Perhaps he will love me no more;
And I sometimes fear his forgetting
And this makes my heart so sore.
330
Across my path is removed,
Who knows but that he may be dying,
To make it vain that we loved.
Oh Nannie, you soon will be strewing
The flowers on the bed where I lie!
Last week I thought I was going!
But oh, 'tis so hard to die!
Life beat in my bosom so slowly,
Though a fever was in my brain—
And everything went from me wholly,
Save a numb, dull sense of pain.
The flowers on the bed where I lie!
Last week I thought I was going!
But oh, 'tis so hard to die!
Life beat in my bosom so slowly,
Though a fever was in my brain—
And everything went from me wholly,
Save a numb, dull sense of pain.
In body and mind I seemed doubled;
And one was so tired and weak,
And the other was dead and untroubled—
Too dead to feel or to speak.
And the tired body kept praying,
“Make me, too, cold and numb.”
“Let me sleep, let me sleep,” it kept saying—
But sleep would never come.
And one was so tired and weak,
And the other was dead and untroubled—
Too dead to feel or to speak.
And the tired body kept praying,
“Make me, too, cold and numb.”
“Let me sleep, let me sleep,” it kept saying—
But sleep would never come.
331
Oh God! that it all were over,
For life is not worth its cost;
And I know I can never recover
The joy and the peace that are lost.
Death only can break the fetter,
Death only can set things straight;
And death, after all, is better
Than a lifelong struggle with fate.
For life is not worth its cost;
And I know I can never recover
The joy and the peace that are lost.
Death only can break the fetter,
Death only can set things straight;
And death, after all, is better
Than a lifelong struggle with fate.
Tell George he must try and forgive me,
For my struggle, though vain, was sore;
And beg him in quiet to leave me,
And scold and reproach me no more.
I was weak—but 'tis useless to chide me,
Let him leave me alone to God;
And bury my sins beside me,
When he lays me under the sod.
For my struggle, though vain, was sore;
And beg him in quiet to leave me,
And scold and reproach me no more.
I was weak—but 'tis useless to chide me,
Let him leave me alone to God;
And bury my sins beside me,
When he lays me under the sod.
332
THE SHADY LANE.
I waited for him in the shady lane,
For I knew he would pass there late at night;
And that leaf-strewn wood I swore to stain
With his blood or mine, for I hated his sight.
There I waited and listened alone,
With a tumult of rage in my heart and brain;
And I swore to myself the deed should be done
To-night, as he passed the lane.
For I knew he would pass there late at night;
And that leaf-strewn wood I swore to stain
With his blood or mine, for I hated his sight.
There I waited and listened alone,
With a tumult of rage in my heart and brain;
And I swore to myself the deed should be done
To-night, as he passed the lane.
Was I not right? He had stolen her heart—
My heart, that more than my life was dear;
Had poisoned her mind with his treacherous art,
And his vile love breathed in her ear.
He, the contemptible trivial fool,
With never a scruple or doubt or fear
Of his exquisite self—to make her the tool
Of his flatteries insincere!
My heart, that more than my life was dear;
Had poisoned her mind with his treacherous art,
And his vile love breathed in her ear.
333
With never a scruple or doubt or fear
Of his exquisite self—to make her the tool
Of his flatteries insincere!
Why did she blush as she heard him speak,
Flushing all over as red as a rose
When he touched her hand? and tremble, as weak
As a reed when a light wind blows.
What was there, I say, in that empty face,
In that empty head, and emptier heart,
That gave him the power her name to disgrace,
And my darling from me to part?
Flushing all over as red as a rose
When he touched her hand? and tremble, as weak
As a reed when a light wind blows.
What was there, I say, in that empty face,
In that empty head, and emptier heart,
That gave him the power her name to disgrace,
And my darling from me to part?
I knew his step, as gaily he came,
Swinging his stick as he strode along—
Hate lightened along my nerves like flame,
I was mad to hear him singing that song.
Before him I leaped with a single bound,
Face to face in the pale moonlight—
“No words,” I cried; “blows, blows, you hound;
One of us two must die to-night.”
Swinging his stick as he strode along—
Hate lightened along my nerves like flame,
I was mad to hear him singing that song.
Before him I leaped with a single bound,
Face to face in the pale moonlight—
“No words,” I cried; “blows, blows, you hound;
One of us two must die to-night.”
334
Aghast he stood, but not with fear,
Most with the suddenness of the thing—
As one when the sky is bright and clear
Starts at the lightning's sudden sting.
“You!” he cried. “Back; let me pass!
Back, I say; are you drunk or mad?”
“Both,” I cried. “You have ruined the lass;
And your blood shall answer, my lad.”
Most with the suddenness of the thing—
As one when the sky is bright and clear
Starts at the lightning's sudden sting.
“You!” he cried. “Back; let me pass!
Back, I say; are you drunk or mad?”
“Both,” I cried. “You have ruined the lass;
And your blood shall answer, my lad.”
We fought together there in the shade,
As a madman and his keeper fight;
He for his life, that love had made
So sweet, and I for his death, that night.
That love!—a fire was in my brain,
The strength of a fiend was in my hand,
And at last he dropped in the shady lane,
And his blood oozed out on the sand.
As a madman and his keeper fight;
He for his life, that love had made
So sweet, and I for his death, that night.
That love!—a fire was in my brain,
The strength of a fiend was in my hand,
And at last he dropped in the shady lane,
And his blood oozed out on the sand.
“My life! don't murder me,” he said,
As I clenched him there—when suddenly
The struggling body lay heavy and dead,
And I felt above me the moon's great eye.
There, alone, where a moment before
Two were struggling, was only one!
“Thank God!” I cried, “he will love no more,
And deceive no more—'tis done!”
As I clenched him there—when suddenly
The struggling body lay heavy and dead,
And I felt above me the moon's great eye.
335
Two were struggling, was only one!
“Thank God!” I cried, “he will love no more,
And deceive no more—'tis done!”
The hate that had blazed so fierce calmed down
Slowly, until of its raging glow
Only the ashes were left. The frown
Cleared away from my knotted brow.
In the trough of my passion's swell I lay,
And a sickening calm across me crept,
As the satiate passions slank away
Drunk with revenge, and slept.
Slowly, until of its raging glow
Only the ashes were left. The frown
Cleared away from my knotted brow.
In the trough of my passion's swell I lay,
And a sickening calm across me crept,
As the satiate passions slank away
Drunk with revenge, and slept.
The deed was done! but an ugly fear
Came over me now to touch this thing.
There was nothing to struggle against me here
In this lifeless heap; I wished it would spring
And grasp me, and strike at me as it did
Only a moment or two before.
I lifted the head, but it dropped and slid
From my grasp to its bed of gore.
Came over me now to touch this thing.
There was nothing to struggle against me here
In this lifeless heap; I wished it would spring
And grasp me, and strike at me as it did
Only a moment or two before.
I lifted the head, but it dropped and slid
From my grasp to its bed of gore.
336
Coward! 'tis but a carcass that's dead!
Lift it; drag it along the wood!
No one is looking—carefully spread
Dry leaves over the stains of blood!
Hark!—ah! 'tis but the rustling leaves,
As the freshening night-wind lifts and dies;
'Tis but the wind that sighs and grieves—
No eye sees but the starry eyes!
Lift it; drag it along the wood!
No one is looking—carefully spread
Dry leaves over the stains of blood!
Hark!—ah! 'tis but the rustling leaves,
As the freshening night-wind lifts and dies;
'Tis but the wind that sighs and grieves—
No eye sees but the starry eyes!
What will you do with this horrible thing?
Down! and grub a grave in the ground!
Grub with your nails! If you choose, you may sing
That song of his. Don't start and look round!
'Tis but a corpse you are burying now—
Surely that is a Christian deed—
How she would thank you!—clear your brow—
What else do you ask or need?
Down! and grub a grave in the ground!
Grub with your nails! If you choose, you may sing
That song of his. Don't start and look round!
'Tis but a corpse you are burying now—
Surely that is a Christian deed—
How she would thank you!—clear your brow—
What else do you ask or need?
Dig!—how terribly slow you are!
The dawn in the east begins to grow;
The birds are all chirping—bury there
That body at once, and for God's sake go!
The world will be up in less than an hour,
And rattle and ring along the road—
Dig for your life!—ah, well! that's o'er!
And he lies in his last abode.
The dawn in the east begins to grow;
The birds are all chirping—bury there
That body at once, and for God's sake go!
337
And rattle and ring along the road—
Dig for your life!—ah, well! that's o'er!
And he lies in his last abode.
Speed o'er the country, slink to your room,
Happy at last that the deed is done!
Why do you look so?—surely the gloom
That clouded so long your life has gone!
Why do you shrink from the open street?
Why should you hide from the gaze of men?
Go! tell her your night's work when you meet,
And surely she'll kiss you and love you then.
Happy at last that the deed is done!
Why do you look so?—surely the gloom
That clouded so long your life has gone!
Why do you shrink from the open street?
Why should you hide from the gaze of men?
Go! tell her your night's work when you meet,
And surely she'll kiss you and love you then.
343
OPHELIA.
The rising wind o'er wold and hill
Blows dreary, leadening all the lake;
And all the whitened willows shake,
And twilight closes blear and chill.
Blows dreary, leadening all the lake;
And all the whitened willows shake,
And twilight closes blear and chill.
The mist hangs thickening o'er the sea,
A spectral light is in the sky,
And all the branches creak and sigh,
And my heart sighs with them drearily.
A spectral light is in the sky,
And all the branches creak and sigh,
And my heart sighs with them drearily.
Oh where is love that once was mine?
Speak, oh my heart, and tell me where!
Tell me, oh wind! whose wild despair
Is wrestling with the straining pine!
Speak, oh my heart, and tell me where!
Tell me, oh wind! whose wild despair
Is wrestling with the straining pine!
344
I rock its corpse so cold and pale,
I braid its hair and kiss its eyes,
And deck it with sweet memories;
Yet what can tears and moans avail?
I braid its hair and kiss its eyes,
And deck it with sweet memories;
Yet what can tears and moans avail?
Oh call it back to life again,
With all its tones of youth and spring;
Or break at once the throbbing string
That jars so wildly in my brain.
With all its tones of youth and spring;
Or break at once the throbbing string
That jars so wildly in my brain.
The past is past,—with sullen moan,
Oh dreary wind, I hear you cry!
And all the struggling trees reply,
Alone, alone, alone, alone.
Oh dreary wind, I hear you cry!
And all the struggling trees reply,
Alone, alone, alone, alone.
345
THE RIVER OF TIME.
Oh! the river that runs for ever,
The rapid river of time!
The silent river, that pauses never,
Nor ceases its solemn rhyme!
The rapid river of time!
The silent river, that pauses never,
Nor ceases its solemn rhyme!
How swift by the flowery banks it rushes,
Where love and joy are at play,
And stretch out their hands with laughter and blushes,
And beg it in vain to stay!
Where love and joy are at play,
And stretch out their hands with laughter and blushes,
And beg it in vain to stay!
How slow through the sullen marsh of sorrow
It creeps with a lingering pain;
When night comes down and we long for the morrow.
And longing is all in vain!
It creeps with a lingering pain;
When night comes down and we long for the morrow.
And longing is all in vain!
346
O'er sparkling shoals of glittering folly,
O'er deeps of dreadful crime,
O'er gladness and madness and melancholy,
Through fears and hopes sublime,
O'er deeps of dreadful crime,
O'er gladness and madness and melancholy,
Through fears and hopes sublime,
Ruthlessly on in waking or sleeping,
Unheeding our wish or will,
Through loving and laughing, and wailing and weeping,
It bears us for good or ill—
Unheeding our wish or will,
Through loving and laughing, and wailing and weeping,
It bears us for good or ill—
Bears us down with a fearful motion,
In a current no eye can see,
Down to the vast mysterious ocean
We call eternity.
In a current no eye can see,
Down to the vast mysterious ocean
We call eternity.
347
RENUNCIATION.
Oh no! you shall not catch me in the snare—
I will not love, I say!
Life might become a terror, a despair,
If you were ta'en away.
I will not love, I say!
Life might become a terror, a despair,
If you were ta'en away.
Nothing is given here, 'tis only lent,—
I will not, dare not, trust:
For joy might strike at once his heaven-built tent,
And leave me but its dust.
I will not, dare not, trust:
For joy might strike at once his heaven-built tent,
And leave me but its dust.
What horror, after all my life was given,
Adventured in one bark,
If that should go, even to the joy of heaven,
And I left in the dark!
Adventured in one bark,
If that should go, even to the joy of heaven,
And I left in the dark!
348
Left on a wreck of sorrow, with no power
My losses to repair;
With death denied, and every torturing hour
By memory made a snare.
My losses to repair;
With death denied, and every torturing hour
By memory made a snare.
Left with the dregs of life, its wine poured out;
Left to the past a prey;
From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about,
Helpless to flee away.
Left to the past a prey;
From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about,
Helpless to flee away.
No! I renounce life's bliss—love's perfect flower,
Sweet though it be!—I choose
The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power,
Without a pang, to lose.
Sweet though it be!—I choose
The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power,
Without a pang, to lose.
349
NIGHT-WATCH.
[Dedicated to F. O. S.]
Night the mysterious, silent, solemn night,
Broods over all!
Time, sweeping onward to the infinite,
No sound lets fall.
We hear alone its heavy lifting breath
Of deep repose,
As turning slowly in its dream of death
The great earth goes.
Broods over all!
Time, sweeping onward to the infinite,
No sound lets fall.
We hear alone its heavy lifting breath
Of deep repose,
As turning slowly in its dream of death
The great earth goes.
Above, below, is silence! In the deep
Of the vast sky,
In the low hollows where the white mists heap
And shroud-like lie,
On the far plains where ghostlike in the shade
Dim olives dwell,
O'er slumbering city, forest, sea, is laid
Night's secret spell.
Of the vast sky,
In the low hollows where the white mists heap
And shroud-like lie,
350
Dim olives dwell,
O'er slumbering city, forest, sea, is laid
Night's secret spell.
Tranced in the silence of this mystery,
And awe intense
Of all that is, and was, and is to be,
Weighs on the sense;
And shapeless thoughts and disembodied dreams
That end in sighs,
Sad memories, longings vague, and vanished schemes,
Before me rise.
And awe intense
Of all that is, and was, and is to be,
Weighs on the sense;
And shapeless thoughts and disembodied dreams
That end in sighs,
Sad memories, longings vague, and vanished schemes,
Before me rise.
Cease, ye wild thoughts! In duty's narrow bound
Alone is peace!
Oh infinite sea! that plummet cannot sound,
In thy abyss
Of wild conjecture we but sink and drown.
The awful breath
That blows from out the future bears us down
To fear,—to death.
Alone is peace!
Oh infinite sea! that plummet cannot sound,
In thy abyss
Of wild conjecture we but sink and drown.
The awful breath
That blows from out the future bears us down
To fear,—to death.
359
IN THE SHADOW.
And can it be that all is o'er—
That I shall never see you more?
Or is it but a dream of night,
That soon will pass with morning's light?
Oh! is the joy I used to own
So lost, beyond the power to save;
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
That I shall never see you more?
Or is it but a dream of night,
That soon will pass with morning's light?
Oh! is the joy I used to own
So lost, beyond the power to save;
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
Not young, perhaps, as others see,
Yet ever young you seemed to me;
The same sweet smile and tender art
Remained, that first beguiled my heart;
The same dear look and gentle tone
That ever its fresh welcome gave—
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
Yet ever young you seemed to me;
The same sweet smile and tender art
Remained, that first beguiled my heart;
360
That ever its fresh welcome gave—
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
Some silver lines were in your hair,
But yet I never saw them there:
The years went on to you and me
So gently and so evenly,
That scarce it seemed a week had flown
Since first to me your love you gave—
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
But yet I never saw them there:
The years went on to you and me
So gently and so evenly,
That scarce it seemed a week had flown
Since first to me your love you gave—
And can it be that you are gone,
And in the grave?
Something I miss at every turn—
Something for which I blankly yearn;
And still some question to decide
I turn as you were at my side—
I turn and think—ah! she alone
Will give the counsel that I crave!
And then I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave!
Something for which I blankly yearn;
And still some question to decide
I turn as you were at my side—
I turn and think—ah! she alone
Will give the counsel that I crave!
And then I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave!
361
Henceforth, I know, at close of day,
When I return the old, old way,
The voice that greeted me before,
Soon as my hand was on the door,
No more will greet me with the tone
Of gentle welcome once it gave—
For oh! I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave.
When I return the old, old way,
The voice that greeted me before,
Soon as my hand was on the door,
No more will greet me with the tone
Of gentle welcome once it gave—
For oh! I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave.
Others such grief as mine have borne,
And I, like them, shall live and mourn,—
It nought avails to grieve or sigh
For what has gone so utterly!
And yet, how can I help to moan
For what no love had power to save—
For oh! I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave.
And I, like them, shall live and mourn,—
It nought avails to grieve or sigh
For what has gone so utterly!
And yet, how can I help to moan
For what no love had power to save—
For oh! I feel that you are gone,
And in the grave.
Courage! the heavy hand of Fate
Has laid on me its cruel weight,
And all these coming years of care
And sorrow I alone must bear;
Yes! I must strive to bear alone,
Without the help that once you gave;
For you, my love, my joy, are gone,
And in the grave.
Has laid on me its cruel weight,
And all these coming years of care
And sorrow I alone must bear;
362
Without the help that once you gave;
For you, my love, my joy, are gone,
And in the grave.
365
ON THE SEA-SHORE.
The sky is grey, with lowering clouds of lead,
And scarce a break of blue,
Here pencilled down with rain, and overhead
With silver gleams shot through.
And scarce a break of blue,
Here pencilled down with rain, and overhead
With silver gleams shot through.
Upon the rocky shore I sit alone;
The dark-green sullen sea,
Along the shore makes a perpetual moan,
And struggles restlessly.
The dark-green sullen sea,
Along the shore makes a perpetual moan,
And struggles restlessly.
Noiseless as pictures, on their wings of white
The distant vessels glide
By purple islands veiled in dreamy light,
That silent there abide.
The distant vessels glide
366
That silent there abide.
Across the purple shoals of sunken rocks
The toppling racers break,
And suck, and roar, and beat with ceaseless shocks
The worn cliff's weedy base.
The toppling racers break,
And suck, and roar, and beat with ceaseless shocks
The worn cliff's weedy base.
Heaved by the lifting swell, the long green flag
Of sea-weed floats and falls,
And down their shelf the raking pebbles drag,
As back the surf-wave crawls.
Of sea-weed floats and falls,
And down their shelf the raking pebbles drag,
As back the surf-wave crawls.
I sit as in a dream, and hear, and see,
With senses lulled away,
And what the ocean says or sings to me
I strive in vain to say.
With senses lulled away,
And what the ocean says or sings to me
I strive in vain to say.
Something there is beneath that constant moan
That utterance seeks in vain;
Like some dim memory, some hidden tone,
That, helpless, haunts the brain.
That utterance seeks in vain;
Like some dim memory, some hidden tone,
That, helpless, haunts the brain.
367
But all my thoughts, like sea-weed, swing and sway,
The sport of fantasy;
And visions pass before me far away,
Like vessels out at sea,—
The sport of fantasy;
And visions pass before me far away,
Like vessels out at sea,—
Pass through my mind with an ideal freight,
And softly move along—
A sweet procession, without care or weight,
Like disembodied song.
And softly move along—
A sweet procession, without care or weight,
Like disembodied song.
371
BLANK QUESTIONINGS.
What is this vague, dim world before,
We vainly struggle to explore
With outstretched wishes, hopes, and thoughts,
That fail before they reach the shore?
We vainly struggle to explore
With outstretched wishes, hopes, and thoughts,
That fail before they reach the shore?
What is this startling, sudden change,
That in a moment from the range
Of every sense takes life away
To regions dim and strange?
That in a moment from the range
Of every sense takes life away
To regions dim and strange?
Dear friend! my earnest following thought
Thy track into that world hath sought
In vain; no word nor silent sign
Of what, and where thou art, is brought.
Thy track into that world hath sought
372
Of what, and where thou art, is brought.
And yet I seem to feel that thou
Beholdest me more nearly now,
And all my soul, like some clear book,
Readest, I see not how.
Beholdest me more nearly now,
And all my soul, like some clear book,
Readest, I see not how.
And knowing, now that life has fled,
Thou, silent and unseen, may'st thread
The dim, still chambers of my soul—
I feel, as with a holy dread,
Thou, silent and unseen, may'st thread
The dim, still chambers of my soul—
I feel, as with a holy dread,
How full of love it ought to be,
How pure of thought, how clean and free
From any stain and soil of sense,
Which thy dear eyes could see.
How pure of thought, how clean and free
From any stain and soil of sense,
Which thy dear eyes could see.
Come, then, when I am sad and low,
And through those chambers softly blow
The fragrance of thy love around,
And seeds of purer purpose sow.
And through those chambers softly blow
The fragrance of thy love around,
And seeds of purer purpose sow.
373
Come! find the secret memories
That are not seen of human eyes—
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, that dwell
In inmost privacies.
That are not seen of human eyes—
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, that dwell
In inmost privacies.
And if thou findest, entering there,
Some nooks that are not wholly bare
Of love, forgive them for that love,
The evil and unfair.
Some nooks that are not wholly bare
Of love, forgive them for that love,
The evil and unfair.
374
ALPINE SONG.
With alpenstock and knapsack light
I wander o'er hill and valley,
I climb the snow-peak's flashing height
And sleep in the sheltered chalet,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
I wander o'er hill and valley,
I climb the snow-peak's flashing height
And sleep in the sheltered chalet,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
The city's dust I leave behind
For the keen, sweet air of the mountain,
The grassy path by the wild rose lined,
The gush of the living fountain,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
For the keen, sweet air of the mountain,
The grassy path by the wild rose lined,
The gush of the living fountain,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
375
High above me snow-clouds rise
In the early morning gleaming;
And the patterned valley beneath me lies
Softly in sunshine dreaming,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
In the early morning gleaming;
And the patterned valley beneath me lies
Softly in sunshine dreaming,—
Free in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
The bells of wandering herds I list
Chiming in upland meadows;
How sweet they sound, as I lie at rest
Under the dark pine shadows!—
Glad in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
Chiming in upland meadows;
How sweet they sound, as I lie at rest
Under the dark pine shadows!—
Glad in heart—happy and free—
This is the summer life for me.
The thundering lawine's roar I hear,
And the torrent's foamy bounding;
And the steep crag's answer sweet and clear,
When the alpine horn is sounding,—
Glad in heart—happy and free,
This is the summer life for me.
And the torrent's foamy bounding;
And the steep crag's answer sweet and clear,
When the alpine horn is sounding,—
Glad in heart—happy and free,
This is the summer life for me.
376
A good stout alpenstock in hand,
A flask from my shoulder swinging,
And a rose in my hat, o'er the Oberland
I wander for ever singing,—
Glad in heart—happy and free,
This is the summer life for me.
A flask from my shoulder swinging,
And a rose in my hat, o'er the Oberland
I wander for ever singing,—
Glad in heart—happy and free,
This is the summer life for me.
383
BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS.
[Dedicated to E. B. H.]
Women are curious, one and all, we know,—
Eve was, and so is every woman since.
All other virtues unto you are given
Except to close your eyes and curb your tongue.
Nor should I dare, dear Fatima, to you,
Best of your sex, to trust this single key,
Forbidding you to turn it in the lock;—
You pout, say no! and shake your pretty head—
Vainly—I know 'twould never let you rest.
Since mother Eve, a thing prohibited
Tortures your sex till it is known and tried.
Just try you? 'Tis a shame to say such words.
What have you ever done? When trust is gone,
Love follows soon—and are those really tears?
Tears? and we married only two short months—
Smile, dearest, once again, and take the key!
Eve was, and so is every woman since.
All other virtues unto you are given
Except to close your eyes and curb your tongue.
Nor should I dare, dear Fatima, to you,
Best of your sex, to trust this single key,
Forbidding you to turn it in the lock;—
You pout, say no! and shake your pretty head—
Vainly—I know 'twould never let you rest.
Since mother Eve, a thing prohibited
Tortures your sex till it is known and tried.
384
What have you ever done? When trust is gone,
Love follows soon—and are those really tears?
Tears? and we married only two short months—
Smile, dearest, once again, and take the key!
Take it! there's nothing better in the world
Than curiosity. It is the spur
Of knowledge. Pray, forgive me, Fatima!
Take it—I meant to leave you all the rest,
For these two months have slipped so swift away
(Joy flies so fast, 'tis only grief that halts)
In this our Spanish castle, that in truth
I had forgotten all the curious things
In the old cabinets;—but now, constrained
To leave you for a week, Annie and you
May hunt them through to while the hours away.
Than curiosity. It is the spur
Of knowledge. Pray, forgive me, Fatima!
Take it—I meant to leave you all the rest,
For these two months have slipped so swift away
(Joy flies so fast, 'tis only grief that halts)
In this our Spanish castle, that in truth
I had forgotten all the curious things
In the old cabinets;—but now, constrained
To leave you for a week, Annie and you
May hunt them through to while the hours away.
Here are the keys—each opes a cabinet
Where all of rare my ancestors have found,
Whether in travel through the broad domain
Of fact, or fancy, or romance, are ranged.
Each has its number. Enter! open all!
Stay! just to show how false is tongue of man,
Let me prohibit one! I will not say
What it contains. Thank you for that proud smile!
Think you I fear lest you should enter there;
No, by my love! You need not promise me.
I only say, This opes the door of death
Beyond the hall of dreams. You look surprised!
Curious, of course, you're not! There is the key!
Where all of rare my ancestors have found,
Whether in travel through the broad domain
Of fact, or fancy, or romance, are ranged.
385
Stay! just to show how false is tongue of man,
Let me prohibit one! I will not say
What it contains. Thank you for that proud smile!
Think you I fear lest you should enter there;
No, by my love! You need not promise me.
I only say, This opes the door of death
Beyond the hall of dreams. You look surprised!
Curious, of course, you're not! There is the key!
These nine-and-ninety keys ope worlds enough
For one short week; and in the hall of death
Sooner or later all of us shall look.
Meanwhile, the others may suffice you. Stop!
Let me point out some curious cabinets
That will amuse you most, and mark the keys.
For one short week; and in the hall of death
Sooner or later all of us shall look.
Meanwhile, the others may suffice you. Stop!
Let me point out some curious cabinets
That will amuse you most, and mark the keys.
This, turned within its wards, will show you gems
Of wondrous beauty and strange rarity.
Red trees of branching coral, found beneath
The Elysian isles, and by the shining scales
Of mermaids polished, over-roof the hall;
And dragons, gleaming in enamelled mail,
With eyes of diamond, in the corners crouch.
In frieze of beaten gold, along the wall,
Struggle fierce centaurs clasped by Lapithæ.
And round the pavement whirls a chariot race,
With foaming steeds and naked outstretched arms
Mosaic'd on a band of marble black.
The ceiling's panels are in ivory carved,
Each with a lotus or magnolia spread,
And all the solid beams are massive gold.
Of wondrous beauty and strange rarity.
Red trees of branching coral, found beneath
The Elysian isles, and by the shining scales
Of mermaids polished, over-roof the hall;
386
With eyes of diamond, in the corners crouch.
In frieze of beaten gold, along the wall,
Struggle fierce centaurs clasped by Lapithæ.
And round the pavement whirls a chariot race,
With foaming steeds and naked outstretched arms
Mosaic'd on a band of marble black.
The ceiling's panels are in ivory carved,
Each with a lotus or magnolia spread,
And all the solid beams are massive gold.
Here, round the walls, in ebon cabinets
With ivory intarsia storied o'er,
And faced with flawless crystal, you may see
My stores of curious gems;—clear crystal balls,
Concealing in their depths a magic life,
Where steal the pale reflections of time's ghosts;
Cat eyes, whose iris circles glare and shift;
Opals, alive within with quivering fires;
Smooth globes of garnets like rich jelly-drops;
And mystic onyxes with figures strange
Carved on their facets by Egyptian priests;
Vases of jasper red and sardonyx,
Beryl and topaz, jacinth, amethyst,
And orient alabaster; and all stones
That sun-struck Africa, of dark and veined,
Blood-streaked and solemn, in her caves conceals;
The great carbuncle, sought for centuries,
Here blazes like a sun; and at its side
Note, too, a common stone, a pebble vile,
Hung near a pure and perfect chrysolite
(Smooth as a mirror, flawless as the sky);
It scarce would take your eye, it seems so vile,
Yet touched by it the filthiest dross grows gold,
And Europe for that stone would sell its soul.
Here is the pearl the Egyptian queen dissolved,
What time with Anthony in revels wild
She toyed and feasted; and beside it lies
The royal asp, her bracelet, where she kept
Her death, her freedom, in one poison-drop.
Pass not the Gracchi jewels, famed so long,
Two great cornelians, and beyond all price;
Nor the vast diamond Polyphemus wore
Fixed to his forehead, called by men his eye.
With ivory intarsia storied o'er,
And faced with flawless crystal, you may see
My stores of curious gems;—clear crystal balls,
Concealing in their depths a magic life,
Where steal the pale reflections of time's ghosts;
Cat eyes, whose iris circles glare and shift;
Opals, alive within with quivering fires;
Smooth globes of garnets like rich jelly-drops;
And mystic onyxes with figures strange
Carved on their facets by Egyptian priests;
387
Beryl and topaz, jacinth, amethyst,
And orient alabaster; and all stones
That sun-struck Africa, of dark and veined,
Blood-streaked and solemn, in her caves conceals;
The great carbuncle, sought for centuries,
Here blazes like a sun; and at its side
Note, too, a common stone, a pebble vile,
Hung near a pure and perfect chrysolite
(Smooth as a mirror, flawless as the sky);
It scarce would take your eye, it seems so vile,
Yet touched by it the filthiest dross grows gold,
And Europe for that stone would sell its soul.
Here is the pearl the Egyptian queen dissolved,
What time with Anthony in revels wild
She toyed and feasted; and beside it lies
The royal asp, her bracelet, where she kept
Her death, her freedom, in one poison-drop.
Pass not the Gracchi jewels, famed so long,
Two great cornelians, and beyond all price;
Nor the vast diamond Polyphemus wore
Fixed to his forehead, called by men his eye.
388
Here hangs a curtain; draw it back—it runs
On rings that from the field of Cannæ came—
Behind it other curious rings you'll find—
Morone's, whence a prisoned devil spoke;
Aboukir's, gifted with a lightning sword,
Which, when his hand waved, sheared his foeman's head;
Joudar's, which owned its black tremendous slave;
The Samian's lucky ring he could not lose;
And Pyrrhus's, whose figures nature carved;
And that which Gyges wore; and Solomon's,
Whose mystic stamp sealed in his sunken vase
The cloud-vast Afrite 'neath the Arabian lake;
There is the ring with which my ancestor
Married the Adriatic—one sea-green
Aqua marina, jutting forth in points
Of starry brilliants; and beside it lies
The poison-ring the gold-haired Borgia wore;
And that Elizabeth to Essex gave.
On rings that from the field of Cannæ came—
Behind it other curious rings you'll find—
Morone's, whence a prisoned devil spoke;
Aboukir's, gifted with a lightning sword,
Which, when his hand waved, sheared his foeman's head;
Joudar's, which owned its black tremendous slave;
The Samian's lucky ring he could not lose;
And Pyrrhus's, whose figures nature carved;
And that which Gyges wore; and Solomon's,
Whose mystic stamp sealed in his sunken vase
The cloud-vast Afrite 'neath the Arabian lake;
There is the ring with which my ancestor
Married the Adriatic—one sea-green
Aqua marina, jutting forth in points
Of starry brilliants; and beside it lies
The poison-ring the gold-haired Borgia wore;
And that Elizabeth to Essex gave.
This iron key, with lines of silver veined,
Opens a cabinet more curious yet.
Ultramarine the roof, one mighty block,
Besprinkled with a thousand golden stars.
Panelled in Afric marbles are the walls,
All pictured o'er with wild and mystic shapes
Of every varying hue,—from purpling lakes
And crimson carmines unto Stygian black.
Two sombre columns carved with stories strange
Of Asian magic in the centre stand—
The capital's red gold a band of skulls.
As the vast door you push, a thunderous sound
Of mournful music groans along the vault,
And lightnings, flashing, cross their jagged swords.
Be undismayed and enter! On the floor
A charm is written; in the circle stand
And say “Geheimniss!” Music then will rain
Soft as a summer shower to soothe the sense,
And hands invisible will lead you round.
Opens a cabinet more curious yet.
389
Besprinkled with a thousand golden stars.
Panelled in Afric marbles are the walls,
All pictured o'er with wild and mystic shapes
Of every varying hue,—from purpling lakes
And crimson carmines unto Stygian black.
Two sombre columns carved with stories strange
Of Asian magic in the centre stand—
The capital's red gold a band of skulls.
As the vast door you push, a thunderous sound
Of mournful music groans along the vault,
And lightnings, flashing, cross their jagged swords.
Be undismayed and enter! On the floor
A charm is written; in the circle stand
And say “Geheimniss!” Music then will rain
Soft as a summer shower to soothe the sense,
And hands invisible will lead you round.
Here you will find the wondrous planisphere
Of Abdelsamad, in whose depths were seen
All regions of the earth—that smote with fire
The nations at its owner's wrathful nod.
Here I have ranged a thousand curious things
Found in my travels into distant lands;—
Among them is a hydra's snaky head;—
And (for I'm curious in hair) you'll find,
Bound in a single braid, and closely clasped
By a dried Harpy-claw, one Gorgon lock
From the Medusa's head, entwined with one
Torn from Megæra and Tisiphone,
And from Alecto one—while in and out
A golden tress that on the Borgia's brow
Meandered once, slips gleaming here and there.
Of Abdelsamad, in whose depths were seen
All regions of the earth—that smote with fire
The nations at its owner's wrathful nod.
390
Found in my travels into distant lands;—
Among them is a hydra's snaky head;—
And (for I'm curious in hair) you'll find,
Bound in a single braid, and closely clasped
By a dried Harpy-claw, one Gorgon lock
From the Medusa's head, entwined with one
Torn from Megæra and Tisiphone,
And from Alecto one—while in and out
A golden tress that on the Borgia's brow
Meandered once, slips gleaming here and there.
Here are some relics which from over sea
The Flying Dutchman brought from classic lands.
Among them is Pandora's opened box,
The Attic cynic's lantern and his tub,
A shrieking branch from the Æneid grove,
Arion's harp and Hermes' wand; the bag
Of Eolus, Ulysses' wax, the flute
That Orpheus played; a soft half-melted plume
Dropped from the waxen wings of Icarus,
The sword suspended by a single hair. ...
And underneath this last a skull I've placed—
One that was brought to me from Golgotha.
The Flying Dutchman brought from classic lands.
Among them is Pandora's opened box,
The Attic cynic's lantern and his tub,
A shrieking branch from the Æneid grove,
Arion's harp and Hermes' wand; the bag
Of Eolus, Ulysses' wax, the flute
That Orpheus played; a soft half-melted plume
Dropped from the waxen wings of Icarus,
The sword suspended by a single hair. ...
391
One that was brought to me from Golgotha.
Here from the vaguer regions of Romance
Are various objects, and beyond all price:
Such as the cap which Fortunatus wore,
The bowl in which the men of Gotham sailed,
The bodkin that Amina used to pick
Her grains of rice before her fouler feast,—
Agrippa's glass and that of Schemseddin,
The King of Thule's goblet, with a tinge
Of the red wine that wet his noble beard,
Poor Schlemihl's shadow, and the Roc's huge egg,
Aladdin's lamp, and Circe's magic cup.
Are various objects, and beyond all price:
Such as the cap which Fortunatus wore,
The bowl in which the men of Gotham sailed,
The bodkin that Amina used to pick
Her grains of rice before her fouler feast,—
Agrippa's glass and that of Schemseddin,
The King of Thule's goblet, with a tinge
Of the red wine that wet his noble beard,
Poor Schlemihl's shadow, and the Roc's huge egg,
Aladdin's lamp, and Circe's magic cup.
Here in one corner of the room you'll find
A medley of all sorts of oddities:
There's a wise saw, that shows its teeth to fools,
An ancient augur (famous as a bore),
A modern screw, a rod in pickle kept,
A pair of ruined breaches made by Time,
And in them tares the enemy hath sown.
A medley of all sorts of oddities:
There's a wise saw, that shows its teeth to fools,
An ancient augur (famous as a bore),
A modern screw, a rod in pickle kept,
A pair of ruined breaches made by Time,
And in them tares the enemy hath sown.
392
Here is the crystal luck of Eden hall,
In which some flowers of rhetoric are placed—
The snowy plume of Henry of Navarre,
With Conachar's white feather at its side—
Here is a tune that from Munchausen's horn
Was taken ere it thawed, and fragments rare
Of frozen music sent me by De Staël,—
Being choice bits of fluting round the drum
Of Kubla Khan's majestic pleasure dome—
You'll know the spot by looking on the floor,
Where I have caused a pattern to be worked
In coloured jewels, after a design
From the Mosaic dispensation drawn—
While from the ceiling o'er it like a lamp
Hangs the lost Pleiad, which the wandering Jew
Found on the topmost peak of Ararat.
In which some flowers of rhetoric are placed—
The snowy plume of Henry of Navarre,
With Conachar's white feather at its side—
Here is a tune that from Munchausen's horn
Was taken ere it thawed, and fragments rare
Of frozen music sent me by De Staël,—
Being choice bits of fluting round the drum
Of Kubla Khan's majestic pleasure dome—
You'll know the spot by looking on the floor,
Where I have caused a pattern to be worked
In coloured jewels, after a design
From the Mosaic dispensation drawn—
While from the ceiling o'er it like a lamp
Hangs the lost Pleiad, which the wandering Jew
Found on the topmost peak of Ararat.
This my menagerie will ope, and here
Along the walls are pictured various lands:
While columns with alternate ebon bands
Winding with ivory spirals stand between—
Here Asian deserts, idly vast, outstretch,
And black Nigritia scowls, and naked girls
Dance in the shade of Abyssinian palms—
Here shakes the tinkling life of the Chinese
'Neath Altai mountains in Mongolia;
While on the other side the slim canoe
Through Polynesian waters swiftly glides;
And the great banyan darkens down the shore.
Along the walls are pictured various lands:
While columns with alternate ebon bands
Winding with ivory spirals stand between—
Here Asian deserts, idly vast, outstretch,
393
Dance in the shade of Abyssinian palms—
Here shakes the tinkling life of the Chinese
'Neath Altai mountains in Mongolia;
While on the other side the slim canoe
Through Polynesian waters swiftly glides;
And the great banyan darkens down the shore.
Along the northern wall the iceberg sails,
Toppling and crashing through white fields of ice,
Where the bear souses in his Arctic bath.
Close by, beneath the Uralian avalanche,
Siberia spreads her dark platoons of pines.
All lands are here—all quarters of the earth—
Venetian splendours of her gorgeous days—
The savage life afar in western wilds—
The babbling glitter of the Boulevards—
The lonely Kaffir's hut—the middle sea,
With roaring billows plunging all alone.
Toppling and crashing through white fields of ice,
Where the bear souses in his Arctic bath.
Close by, beneath the Uralian avalanche,
Siberia spreads her dark platoons of pines.
All lands are here—all quarters of the earth—
Venetian splendours of her gorgeous days—
The savage life afar in western wilds—
The babbling glitter of the Boulevards—
The lonely Kaffir's hut—the middle sea,
With roaring billows plunging all alone.
Here range my wondrous animals, and here
The great white elephant of Siam walks
Beside the magic steed that swam the air,
And Pegasus with both his wings tied down.
Here is Androcles' lion; at his side
Chimæra and three-headed Cerberus;
And near the dragon with a hundred heads,
That watched the Hesperian gardens day and night,
Couches the sad Sphinx with her silent face.
Strange converse hold they in a wondrous tongue,
And many a tale of ancient days they tell,
Or Orpheus, Hercules, Bellerophon,
Growling a laugh the while from ruddy maws.
Rouse them from sleep! for now with habits changed
And wearied with the sleepless hours of eld
They slumber much.
The great white elephant of Siam walks
394
And Pegasus with both his wings tied down.
Here is Androcles' lion; at his side
Chimæra and three-headed Cerberus;
And near the dragon with a hundred heads,
That watched the Hesperian gardens day and night,
Couches the sad Sphinx with her silent face.
Strange converse hold they in a wondrous tongue,
And many a tale of ancient days they tell,
Or Orpheus, Hercules, Bellerophon,
Growling a laugh the while from ruddy maws.
Rouse them from sleep! for now with habits changed
And wearied with the sleepless hours of eld
They slumber much.
But not to pause with these,
Look at my Attic hive. Hymettus' flowers
Are blooming round it. There is Rhaicus' bee,
And one that Sappho caught on Cupid's lips,
Which stung her to a luscious epigram.
Here in sheep's clothing wanders Æsop's wolf,
With Reineke the diplomatic fox,
And Monsieur Frog who burst with vanity.
Here too 's the cow that vaulted o'er the moon,
The famous clock the mouse ran up, the cat
That owned the fiddle, the small dog that laughed
When crafty dish with silly spoon eloped,
And mother Hubbard's still more famous dog.
Here is the goose that laid the golden egg,
The camel through the needle's eye that passed,
Quarles' friendly monkey, Beauty's gentle beast,
The tortoise with the hare that ran a race,
And that which crushed the skull of Æschylus.
Here in a pleasant group you may behold
The Austrian eagle with its double head,
The Scottish unicorn and Gallic cock,
Discussing politics and talking wise
Of European balances of power.
And here in pleasant conversation meet
Two long-eared friends, who hold a wise discourse
With longer-horned companions scarce so dull
As many a human party we have known.
There Balaam's social beast, and at his side
His crony, Apuleius' golden ass,
May yet be seen talking with Myron's cow,
Or the red cow that told such wondrous tales
Of her interior knowledge of Tom Thumb;
While standing near and listening, you may see
A group of bulls—among them he who pulled
Cock Robin's knell, and he whom Phaleris
Begat in brass, and one from Ireland sent,
And from the Vatican one Papal bull.
And here at last, to end my catalogue,
Which merely hints a creature here and there,
My rarest wonders from the East, you'll see
Two vampires and a red-lipped female Ghoule.
Look at my Attic hive. Hymettus' flowers
Are blooming round it. There is Rhaicus' bee,
And one that Sappho caught on Cupid's lips,
Which stung her to a luscious epigram.
Here in sheep's clothing wanders Æsop's wolf,
With Reineke the diplomatic fox,
395
Here too 's the cow that vaulted o'er the moon,
The famous clock the mouse ran up, the cat
That owned the fiddle, the small dog that laughed
When crafty dish with silly spoon eloped,
And mother Hubbard's still more famous dog.
Here is the goose that laid the golden egg,
The camel through the needle's eye that passed,
Quarles' friendly monkey, Beauty's gentle beast,
The tortoise with the hare that ran a race,
And that which crushed the skull of Æschylus.
Here in a pleasant group you may behold
The Austrian eagle with its double head,
The Scottish unicorn and Gallic cock,
Discussing politics and talking wise
Of European balances of power.
And here in pleasant conversation meet
Two long-eared friends, who hold a wise discourse
With longer-horned companions scarce so dull
As many a human party we have known.
There Balaam's social beast, and at his side
His crony, Apuleius' golden ass,
396
Or the red cow that told such wondrous tales
Of her interior knowledge of Tom Thumb;
While standing near and listening, you may see
A group of bulls—among them he who pulled
Cock Robin's knell, and he whom Phaleris
Begat in brass, and one from Ireland sent,
And from the Vatican one Papal bull.
And here at last, to end my catalogue,
Which merely hints a creature here and there,
My rarest wonders from the East, you'll see
Two vampires and a red-lipped female Ghoule.
Tired of these, if you should wish to read,
Look in my library. This curious key—
A serpent issuing from an ivory skull
And twisting round its handle—opens it.
Here are dim alcoves framed in ebony
And lit by softly-blazoned diamond panes,
Where glow and move as if endowed with life
The painted history of glorious men.
Each pane is magic; at a simple sign
The life of him whose name is writ beneath
Will glide in mute procession o'er its face.
The room is deaf to sound; a moth-like veil
Like woven twilight o'er the ceiling floats,
And from the centre hangs a crystal globe:
Touch it but once, a Marid answers it,
And at your nod brings all your wish may shape.
Noiseless he moves, and comes and goes like air,
Waving Arabian odour from his wings.
Would you behold the furthest wildest spot
Hid in the secret'st corner of the earth,
Twirl the globe thrice and in its depths it lives.
Fixed in the wall a magic mirror shines
Oblong and veined with myriad wavering lines:
That's the time-table of the centuries—
Name but the number of a year, day, hour,
And then a place—the deed there done, and then,
Will start at once to picture in the glass
And move, as you request it, on in time.
Look in my library. This curious key—
A serpent issuing from an ivory skull
And twisting round its handle—opens it.
Here are dim alcoves framed in ebony
And lit by softly-blazoned diamond panes,
Where glow and move as if endowed with life
The painted history of glorious men.
Each pane is magic; at a simple sign
397
Will glide in mute procession o'er its face.
The room is deaf to sound; a moth-like veil
Like woven twilight o'er the ceiling floats,
And from the centre hangs a crystal globe:
Touch it but once, a Marid answers it,
And at your nod brings all your wish may shape.
Noiseless he moves, and comes and goes like air,
Waving Arabian odour from his wings.
Would you behold the furthest wildest spot
Hid in the secret'st corner of the earth,
Twirl the globe thrice and in its depths it lives.
Fixed in the wall a magic mirror shines
Oblong and veined with myriad wavering lines:
That's the time-table of the centuries—
Name but the number of a year, day, hour,
And then a place—the deed there done, and then,
Will start at once to picture in the glass
And move, as you request it, on in time.
Within these cabinets are curious books,
Among a myriad which I will not name,
Which now the world supposes to be lost—
The Sibyl's books are there, the two she burnt,
There Dante's rhyme, with Angelo's designs,
There Raffaelle's hundred sonnets fairly writ,
There Sappho's songs, complete, and Shakespeare's life,
And the lost tragedies of Æschylus.
The famous distich of Callicrates
Writ on a seed of sesamum is there,
With the whole Iliad in a nutshell closed.
There is the music of the Song of songs,
Great books of drawings by Philostrates,
And all the poems Coleridge meant to write.
In the far corner towering over all
Chryselephantine sits the Phidian Zeus,
And on the walls Da Vinci's great cartoon
Beside its rival hangs intact and fresh;
And there alone upon a sombre stand,
Tempting the touch to open its great leaves,
Where no one ever read but wept, is placed
The sad black-letter Book of Destiny.
Among a myriad which I will not name,
398
The Sibyl's books are there, the two she burnt,
There Dante's rhyme, with Angelo's designs,
There Raffaelle's hundred sonnets fairly writ,
There Sappho's songs, complete, and Shakespeare's life,
And the lost tragedies of Æschylus.
The famous distich of Callicrates
Writ on a seed of sesamum is there,
With the whole Iliad in a nutshell closed.
There is the music of the Song of songs,
Great books of drawings by Philostrates,
And all the poems Coleridge meant to write.
In the far corner towering over all
Chryselephantine sits the Phidian Zeus,
And on the walls Da Vinci's great cartoon
Beside its rival hangs intact and fresh;
And there alone upon a sombre stand,
Tempting the touch to open its great leaves,
Where no one ever read but wept, is placed
The sad black-letter Book of Destiny.
This key my great conservatory opes,
Where you will find some rare and curious fruits—
There are the sour grapes—but within your reach—
Taste them if you desire! There too you'll see
The apple Paris to the fairest gave;
And that which tempted Eve, in it her teeth
You'll see imprinted; also that which grows
Upon the Dead Sea's margin, with the three
That from the Hesperian gardens Atlas stole.
There is the date-stone by the merchant thrown
Against the Afrite o'er the garden-wall;
The pear that caused the sleeper's nose to grow;
The Lotus fruit that brings oblivion;
A date-tree with the dates of everything;
And the unripening fruit of our desires.
399
There are the sour grapes—but within your reach—
Taste them if you desire! There too you'll see
The apple Paris to the fairest gave;
And that which tempted Eve, in it her teeth
You'll see imprinted; also that which grows
Upon the Dead Sea's margin, with the three
That from the Hesperian gardens Atlas stole.
There is the date-stone by the merchant thrown
Against the Afrite o'er the garden-wall;
The pear that caused the sleeper's nose to grow;
The Lotus fruit that brings oblivion;
A date-tree with the dates of everything;
And the unripening fruit of our desires.
This opes the silent cabinet of dreams—
'Tis vague and empty when you enter first!
A mystery floats around, like music dim
For which the ear keeps straining—sounds so fine
That all the soul must listen, leaning out
Upon the furthest verge of sense to hear.
Out of the dark emerge, by slow degrees,
Vague things that come and go—great ghostly shapes—
Like shadows on a curtain when it swings;
Dear smiles gleam there that made the joy of life,
And hopes burst forth to their consummate flower
That faded long ago to death and dust
In our young hearts. Ambition there holds up
Its splendid gifts, and in our hands we grasp
The prize we covet dearer than our life.
There, lips are kissed that drown the soul with love,
And voices whisper us to heavenly trance,
And wishes reach their goal. There you may find
The cabala on which is fairly writ
The squaring of the circle—the receipt
For alchemists to make the wondrous stone,
And to achieve perpetual motion. There
Are faultless pictures, statues, poems, songs,
That sternest critics strive in vain to blame.
One cabinet contains, placed side by side,
A pair of shabby, little, worn-out shoes,
A golden locket with an auburn curl,
A dry dead rose, the yellow page whereon
The drawing of a childish hand is seen,
And a love-letter stained with blots of tears—
Ah! touch them not, for they will make you weep!
There is a box crammed full of broken hopes
And childish joys we careless threw away
And never could recover, though lifelong
We prayed the truants to return again.
'Tis vague and empty when you enter first!
A mystery floats around, like music dim
For which the ear keeps straining—sounds so fine
That all the soul must listen, leaning out
Upon the furthest verge of sense to hear.
Out of the dark emerge, by slow degrees,
400
Like shadows on a curtain when it swings;
Dear smiles gleam there that made the joy of life,
And hopes burst forth to their consummate flower
That faded long ago to death and dust
In our young hearts. Ambition there holds up
Its splendid gifts, and in our hands we grasp
The prize we covet dearer than our life.
There, lips are kissed that drown the soul with love,
And voices whisper us to heavenly trance,
And wishes reach their goal. There you may find
The cabala on which is fairly writ
The squaring of the circle—the receipt
For alchemists to make the wondrous stone,
And to achieve perpetual motion. There
Are faultless pictures, statues, poems, songs,
That sternest critics strive in vain to blame.
One cabinet contains, placed side by side,
A pair of shabby, little, worn-out shoes,
A golden locket with an auburn curl,
A dry dead rose, the yellow page whereon
The drawing of a childish hand is seen,
401
Ah! touch them not, for they will make you weep!
There is a box crammed full of broken hopes
And childish joys we careless threw away
And never could recover, though lifelong
We prayed the truants to return again.
Here for a time, while sleep's dim door is shut,
What waking life denies, in dreams is given.
Here, sleeping, you may quaff the drink of gods,
And in a moment know perennial youth.
Nor this alone—but through the wilds of space,
Borne to the universe's verge, may rush
Up to the gates of heaven, and see below
In endless swarming all the fiery spheres
Flash through the solemn depths of silent night.
What waking life denies, in dreams is given.
Here, sleeping, you may quaff the drink of gods,
And in a moment know perennial youth.
Nor this alone—but through the wilds of space,
Borne to the universe's verge, may rush
Up to the gates of heaven, and see below
In endless swarming all the fiery spheres
Flash through the solemn depths of silent night.
Pass through this room—'tis but a vestibule
That opens to a vaster drearier hall—
Where horrent dreams steal noiselessly about,
And opiate shapes of sick delirium swarm,
And nightmares wander. There the Marids dwell
And Ghouls, and Ginns, and Afrites huge and black,
And forms so faint that they elude the eye.
These, as you look upon them, shift and change,
Mow, mock, and threaten, and pursue your steps
As, wild with fear, you strive with leaden feet
To flee their presence. There, in awe and dread,
Vague horrors creep that have no name on earth,
Found in the fevered dreams of wicked souls,
And sent me from the East. There upward stretch,
Leading to nowhere, monstrous galleries,
Where slipping, sliding, goes the 'wildered thought
Up endless convolutions into heights
So vast we totter in a vague dismay
Or drop to blankness. There huge caverns gape,
Dripping with terrors, into which we slip
Despite our death-like graspings for support.
There whirl a million dizzy wheels of thought,
And spin to madness. With your waking steps
You need not fear them—they're unreal all.
That opens to a vaster drearier hall—
Where horrent dreams steal noiselessly about,
And opiate shapes of sick delirium swarm,
And nightmares wander. There the Marids dwell
402
And forms so faint that they elude the eye.
These, as you look upon them, shift and change,
Mow, mock, and threaten, and pursue your steps
As, wild with fear, you strive with leaden feet
To flee their presence. There, in awe and dread,
Vague horrors creep that have no name on earth,
Found in the fevered dreams of wicked souls,
And sent me from the East. There upward stretch,
Leading to nowhere, monstrous galleries,
Where slipping, sliding, goes the 'wildered thought
Up endless convolutions into heights
So vast we totter in a vague dismay
Or drop to blankness. There huge caverns gape,
Dripping with terrors, into which we slip
Despite our death-like graspings for support.
There whirl a million dizzy wheels of thought,
And spin to madness. With your waking steps
You need not fear them—they're unreal all.
Here stay your feet; nor curious seek to pass
The massive door that opens out beyond.
What lies behind, your eyes must never see—
Never without the charm to keep you safe,
For there lies death, unless the charm you own.
“Give it to me,” you cry—so curious, then?
If you insist, of course; and you'll admit
Eve is your mother. Never say again
That women have no curiosity.
Ah! now you frown, and with a look of pride
Reject my offer. So, love, let it be.
I'll keep the charm, and say 'tis just as sure
That you are curious as that I'm unkind.
Both false—and here's the key, dear Fatima;
And pray obey my warning—never look
Into the Cabinet of Death, for there
A step were fatal if without the charm.
So fare you well.—Ah! I forgot to say
The key's a fairy that will tell me all.
Don't shake your finger at me, and curl up
That pretty lip with scorn. Better a kiss!
Perhaps I'd better leave the charm—no! no!
Not one word more—only a kiss—farewell!
The massive door that opens out beyond.
403
Never without the charm to keep you safe,
For there lies death, unless the charm you own.
“Give it to me,” you cry—so curious, then?
If you insist, of course; and you'll admit
Eve is your mother. Never say again
That women have no curiosity.
Ah! now you frown, and with a look of pride
Reject my offer. So, love, let it be.
I'll keep the charm, and say 'tis just as sure
That you are curious as that I'm unkind.
Both false—and here's the key, dear Fatima;
And pray obey my warning—never look
Into the Cabinet of Death, for there
A step were fatal if without the charm.
So fare you well.—Ah! I forgot to say
The key's a fairy that will tell me all.
Don't shake your finger at me, and curl up
That pretty lip with scorn. Better a kiss!
Perhaps I'd better leave the charm—no! no!
Not one word more—only a kiss—farewell!
| Graffiti d'Italia | |