The Poems of Mackenzie Bell

It is the silent summer noon:
And the hour of rest comes never soon,
For peasants who have stooped to toil
Ere day-dawn on the sultry soil;
Who feel the cooling breeze of morn
Desert them, surely overborne
By the fierce ardour of the sun
Even when his race is scarce begun;
Who pass the lagging, weary hours
In longing for the pleasant bowers
Of vine and olive intertwined,
Where, in the shade, at length reclined,
They quaff deep draughts of wine in peace,
While Life's fierce troubles fade and cease.

II.—Wealth.

A maiden sits within the shade
Of yonder stately, cool arcade,

By columns of rich marble made,
Which bear designs, all chaste and pure,
Of fruits and flowers whose shapes allure,
And near their base an ancient crest—
A mailed knight with his lance in rest.
The damask curtains here and there,
Of richest stuffs, shut out the glare,
Yet come faint gusts of cooler air.
With what rare gifts—what loveliness—
The happy days of Youth's caress
Had dowered the maid, my words are cold
To tell of. Tresses hued like gold
Fall now upon her snow-white neck,
Like the light clouds which oft-times fleck
The wide expanse of summer sky
At morn, before the sun is high.
Her dress is simple, yet beseems
Her rank: and but one jewel gleams
Upon her bosom. You may trace
In her an all-pervading grace
Of form, of gesture, and of face,—
Yet so diffused 'tis hard to tell
Wherein the perfect grace may dwell.

A SUMMER EVENTIDE.

I.—In the Country.

'Tis twilight's brief enchanting hour,
The sun has lost his torrid power,
Yet keeps enough of might to fling
Sweet magic over everything.

'Tis not the beauty that you see
At sunset on an English lea.
'Tis beauty all intensified,
As if the Day-King in his pride
Ordains that where his power is shown,
His gifts of beauty shall be known.

The noon-tide glow which all things steep
In dreamless lethargy—the sleep
Of busy Nature now is past,
And all things are reviving fast.
The birds arouse themselves ere long,
And sing a cheerful vesper song.
The peasant takes his evening round
To view his much-loved plot of ground,
To find by scrutinising gaze
How fare his olives, vines or maize.

II.—In the City.

[_]

Palacio is a word applied to a mansion belonging to an ancient noble family. Plaza is the name given to a large square.

Here in the city's roseal air
People are moving everywhere
With jest, or laugh, or snatch of song,
Through square, through street, a changeful throng.

And gentle ladies now appear,
Graciously bending down to hear
The honeyed nothings, soft and slow,
Spoken by lovers from below;
Each feigns bewitching bland surprise
At praises of her lips or eyes.

See yon palacio, grey and cold,
Proud of his lineage, high and old,
As he who owns it. Full and plain,
Like many another such in Spain,
From its carved windows you may see
The chiefest plaza's revelry.
And yet upon the other side
Stretches a garden beautified
By fountains clear, and still retreats,
By terraced walks, and shady seats,
And all the loveliness that Art
In generous climates can impart.
Now the moon rises, flinging far
Her silvery flood of mellow light,
And darkness can no longer mar
The peerless loveliness of Night.
That palm, which crowns yon neighbouring hill,
Stands out, majestic, tall, and still;
White gleam the city walls, and now
Fall shadows from each olive bough,
While clear against a starry sky
Coldly the distant mountains lie.

THE CITY OF THE CID.

Burgos, the city of the Cid, all hail!
Thou standest in the plain of old Castile,
Fragrant with rare romance that still I feel,
Albeit no more is heard the clang of mail

Within thy grass-grown streets. And round about
No hand of Change is working, and it seems
Thou art unaltered, throned in thronging dreams
Full of the sound of arms and warlike shout.

How grand is thy cathedral's gorgeous pile!
How quaint its frescoed front! These carven forms,
Here sculptured, had their life as many storms
Of care as ours throughout its weary while?

These images of saints within, whose life,
Judging but from their features, was all calm,
Had they than we more nearly reached that balm
Which Christians find the antidote of strife?

No! Life was then a darker, fiercer thing
Than now it is. For of a truth our lives
Are moulded by our faith. He only thrives
Whose faith is true of flight and strong of wing.

And theirs, though firm, could never have been true,
Since it forbade the purest Light to shine
Which shows the truth on earth, that Light divine,
By which God wills that Man his course should view

And haply change if need be. Thoughts like these
Come as home fruit seen under alien skies,
As now I gaze around. Rich musings rise
While looking on thee, Burgos,—some which please,

And some which sadden. When at close of day
I stand in thy cathedral's solemn shades
Among its peerless chapels, naught invades
To break the sacred rest of aisle and bay.

And more and more departs each common thought,
And more and more I feel my soul is stirred,
As if low music, sweet, though faintly heard,
To me new founts of gentle bliss had brought.

AT TOLEDO.

[_]

The Fabrica de Armas at Toledo is celebrated. Toledo, like Rome, is built on seven hills. The Puerta del Sol, a still remaining Moorish gateway, is one of its finest relics. Burgos was once the Christian, and Toledo the Moorish capital of Spain. To speak en proprio Toledano has, since the fourteenth century, the time of Cervantes, been equivalent to the best Spanish.

Toledo! what rare gems of memory
From olden story gleam along thy name;
What visions rise of victories won by thee
Fruit of thy strong, thy flawless blades of fame.

Little they reck, thy kings, who gazed around
On yon fair city, fitted to be great,—
Crowned on yon seven hills as Rome was crowned—
Little they reck of this thy last estate.

Ah, yes! most noble once must thou have seemed,
When the proud capital of lordly power,
When in full glory southern sunshine beamed
On lofty battlement and soaring tower.

In days when from the “Sun-gate” oft at morn
Issued a goodly Moorish martial train
Of turbaned knights, ere starting, sternly sworn
To conquer for the Crescent more of Spain.

With scimitars unsheathed swift rode they forth,
Their fury spreading terror all around
Among the peasants, as towards the North,
They spurred with Burgos as their furthest bound.

Then afterwards returning, Victory
Attendant on their flag, with what delight
Would comrades greet them who had come to see
And breathe the cooling freshness of the night.

And when the sixth Alonso conquered thee,
Thrusting thee back into the Christian fold,
Then was thy people's accent held to be
Of soft Castilian speech the noblest mould.

And when, in later times, the Spanish name
Had grown the most renowned in all the world,
Lepanto learnt how true could be the aim
Of keen Toledan darts adroitly hurled.

Dream-pageants dazzle me, again, again—
As musing thus I pass upon my way,
I feel no shame that it has given me pain
To see thy sad, thy dull, thy slow decay.

Farewell, far-famed Toledo! Nevermore
Shall I forget thy mien, thou seem'st indeed
Plunged in the deepest sleep. None can restore
Spain's ancient cities. Life is what they need.

PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE.

Palms by moonlight! waving palms,
How the thought of you embalms
In memory still the spot whereon I saw you last!
Softly, wonderfully clear
On that night did you appear
Whose blissful hours, swift-winged, too soon, too soon, were past.

Here the eye could range at will,
And of beauty take its fill,
Beauty so rare it soothed as soothes a heav'n-sent dream—
Or a mellow Eastern tale
Where the genii ride the gale
And glide among such trees on many a moonlight gleam.

For the strange ethereal sight
Thrilled me with a new delight,
While still the full-orbed moon o'er leaf o'er feathery bough
From a sky of purest blue
Silver glory gently threw.
Then rapturous visions came I know not whence or how—

Visions, sweet and kind, that stole
Through my hush'd and happy soul
To strive against their power had been a vain endeavour,
And, with ravished eye and heart,
Wished I never to depart,
Looking, I longed to live, and see these sights for ever.

University of Virginia Library

PICTURES OF SPAIN.

A SUMMER NOONTIDE.

I.—Poverty.