 | Camera obscura |  |
Those who are acquainted with the works of the late George Wilson, of Edinburgh, will recognise in the title of this book an idea taken from one of his poems.
It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to intimate that the “darkened chamber” referred to in both cases is that of the human intellect and spirit under its present conditions of bondage and limitation, or to add that it also bears upon those other, as yet but partially illuminated regions within man and beyond him, which, dim in themselves, are found to be “a cloudy porch oft opening to the sun.”
Dedication. TO MY FRIEND MARY ELIZABETH McCHESNEY
(In 1865).
Is sought, to few that pathway known,
So deep a thicket round it sown,
With grass and moss and weeds o'ergrown
The path itself, half hid from sight.
And hadst thou come with knocking light
Or loud, then from my windows pain
Had looked, a dreary chatelaine
And bid thee from the house, unmeet
So bright a guest to entertain.
Upon the threshold for awhile
Didst pause, and then with footstep fleet,
And ready, gay, victorious smile,
As one unused to plead or sue,
By love, and like the Greek of old
Sat down beside my hearth, and there
I found thee seated, kind and fair,
To all around thee giving grace,
As one that takes a wonted place,
Nor causeth toil, nor bringeth care.
Of all my hospitality!
And doubt not I for thee shall find
Some leaf, some blossom, left behind,
Some bloom evanishing, some tone
That love and joy will not disown,
Some amber rosary of fair
Warm-scented beads, whereon a prayer
Yet lingers, or some amulet
Enshrouded in a golden fret;
And from my lute a strain shall flow;
And in my heart a flower will blow
From out life's very ashes kissed!
To life by thee, sweet alchemist!
I. [PART I.]
THE SONG OF ISLÂM.
The Poet Ferdusī had this name given him by his countrymen on account of the sweetness of his verses. The meaning of Ferdusī is “the Poet who came from Paradise.” When but a poor boy he sat down at the foot of the mountain Elbarg, and begun to write. “Boy,” said one who passed, “what are you writing?” He replied, “I am writing Shah Nameh,”—the story of a King. This was his answer, to all comers.
Of the day and the night and the world,
On the passing exquisite
Of a moment heaped and hurled,
Of the soft detaining kiss,
Of the step that hastens to bliss,
Of the clasp that lingereth;
He sang not the moment brief
That crowneth the cup of life
With flower and with fruit and with leaf.
He sang not the song of grief
With Antar, for Abla white
Of mourners and singers chief.
He sang not the song of strife
With Amr El Kais, vowed
To the cymbal clash, and the loud
Fierce clangour of battle proud;
Of the javelin's steely flight,
Of the flashing of spear and sword,
Of the wine that moveth aright
In the wine-cup freely poured.
He sang not of what men praise,
Of how men suffer, or grieve,
Of the little dust that we raise,
Of the little dust we leave;
Of the moving caravan,
Or the camel's patient march,
He sang not the song of man!
When the thunder-cloud is riven,
He sang of the life that wakes
To a call that cometh from Heaven;
Of a Voice in the desert heard,
Of a cry at the midnight hour,
Of a strength that waiteth a word
Of the hiding of ancient power.
He sang of the life that takes
Its sleep in the arms of death,
Of the dawn through the dusk that breaks
That the darkness conquereth.
He sang of the light that sleeps
And burns in the hidden gem,
He sang of the light that leaps
And flames in the diadem.
He sang of the flowering rod,
Of the almonds blossoming,
He sang of the seed in the clod,
He sang of the blade through the sod,
That cleaves at the breath of spring,
He sang to the ear of God,
He sang the song of a King!
The word Islâm (salvation) is founded upon the verb salm salama, which signifies to be tranquil, at rest, to have paid up, to be at perfect peace, and finally to hand over one's self to him with whom peace is made. The noun so derived means “peace, greeting, safety, salvation.” —Syed Ameer Ali Moulvi.
THE WREN.
“Why is the wren, even in our present day, sung and celebrated as such in Ireland? Why was it the augurs' favourite bird, and why did the Druids also represent it as the king of all birds? I find the best answer to these inquiries in Kelly's ‘Indo-European Tradition and Folk-lore,’ where it is stated that, though the exalted pretensions of this smallest of European birds are not unknown to German tradition, it is in the Celtic memory they have been best preserved. In the legends of Bretagne and Normandy, he is spoken of expressly as a fire-bringer. A messenger was wanted to bring fire from heaven, and the wren undertook the perilous task, which nearly cost the bold bird its life, for its plumage was burnt off even to the down, whereupon the other birds gave each of them one of their feathers to clothe the naked and shivering little king.”
The Breton version of this legend is thus given by St. Beuve:—“It pleased God at a certain time to withdraw fire, the element of life itself, from the air. All nature seemed about to perish. As to the birds, consternation reigned among them. The vultures, becoming more evil-hearted through fear, fought and battled with each other. The nightingale, having sung his last song, drooped, and hid his head within his nest. Even the eagle, accustomed to carry heaven's lightnings, allowed them to escape in the general extinction. In this universal agony there was but one bird, the wren, the least, the most humble of all, which, without losing heart and courage, soared up high and steadfastly, and even from the highest heaven caught a spark to rekindle the fires of earth, but was consumed in the flame it brought down.”
Of the birds, that with flame and with gold
Have lit up my tiny crest;
I mount on the eagle's wing,
On the tallest trees I am bold
To build up my little nest.
I have lit up my flaming crest
In the sea incarnadine
With the summer's sunken suns,
When the light from the East to the West
Moves swiftly as strength that runs,
Or love that would seek its rest.
I mounted, at your behest,
To the hearth of Heaven aglow!
Since then on my tiny crest,
Since then on my little breast,
Is the touch of fire imprest.
Hath dropt, when the light from the rose
With the scent that her heart o'erflows
Hath fled! when the songs spring woke
Are hushed! at the evenings' close
You may hear me sing through the snows.
When the hedge is still, and the brook
My song ye may ofttimes hear;
It is bold, it is loud, it is clear,
Though but slender change it knows.
When the swallows fly I stay;
I flit o'er the hidden root,
I flit 'neath the blacken'd spray.
When the year is dead, and the day
Is dying fast, I sit
On your roofs awhile, then I flit
Like a shade among shadows grey
From a cloud none seeth pass,
Though it darkens the sunny grass
Ere yet it hath moved away.
That bearest the scent of the sod
Unto heaven and the morning's dew;
To thyself thou art true, and to God.
With God I am bold; I am true
I mounted, I brought down fire;
Yet my breast is scorched, and behold
My breast is bare! I am cold,
I shiver, yet I bring fire!
“This most pleasing fairy bird delights in the largest trees, such as oaks, elms, tall pines, and firs, particularly the first, in which it finds both food and shelter; in these it builds its nest. It stays with us the whole year, and braves our severest winters, which it helps to enliven by its sprightly note. During that season it approaches near the dwellings of man, and takes shelter in the roofs of houses, barns, and in haystacks; it sings till late in the evening, and not unfrequently during a fall of snow. In the spring it betakes itself to the woods, where it builds in a low bush, or sometimes on the turf itself, near a tree's bole.“ —Bewicke's British Birds.
DEMETER AND CORA.
“Speak, daughter, speak; art speaking now?”“Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou
Thy dear-loved Cora?” “Daughter sweet,
I bend unto the earth my ear
To catch the sound of coming feet;
I listen long, but only hear
The deep, dark waters running clear.”
“Oh! my great mother, now the heat
Of thy strong heart in thickened beat
Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom,
Is't well with thee, my mother—tell?”
“Is't well with thee, my daughter?” “Well
Or ill I know not; I through fate
Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb
Know not if it be love or hate
That holds me fast, but I am bound
For ever! What if I am found
Are round me, and the girdling night
Hath passed within my soul! the stars
Have risen on me, but the light
Hath gone for ever.” “Daughter, tell,
Doth thy dark lord, the King of Hell,
Still love thee?” “Oh, too well, too well
He loves! he binds with unwrought chain.
I was not born to be thy mate,
Aïdes! nor the Queen of pain:
I was thy daughter Cora, vowed
To gladness in thy world above,
I loved the daffodil, I love
All lovely, free and gentle things
Beloved of thee! a sound of wings
Is with me in captivity
Of birds, and bees, with her that sings
The shrill Cicula, ever gay
In noon's white heat.” “But, daughter, say
Dost love Aïdes?” “Now, too bold
Thy question, mother; this be told,
I leave him not for love, for gold,
The Lord is he of wealth and rest,
As well as king of death and pain;
He folds me to a kingly breast,
He yields to me a rich domain.
I leave him not for aught above,
For any God's unsteadfast love
Or fairest mortal-form below;
Thou hast left heaven for earth; and thou
For thy poor Cora's sake, self-driven,
Hast fled its sunny heights in scorn
And hate, of Zeus unforgiven!
Do mortals love thee?” “Daughter, yea.
They call me their great mother. Corn
And wine I give them when they pray;
Their love for me their little day
Of life lasts out; perchance they knew
It was not love for them that drew
Me down to wander where the vine
Is sweet to me, and breath of kine.
Art listening now, my Cora dear?
Art listening now, my child,—art near?
Oh that thy kiss upon my cheek
Were warm! thy little hand in mine
And tell me of that garden rare,
And of thy flowers, dark, fiery, sweet,
That never breathe the upper air.”
“Oh, mother, they are fair, are fair;
Large-leaved are they, large-blossomed, frail,
And beautiful. No vexing gale
Comes ever nigh them; fed with fire
They kindle in a torch-like flame
Half ecstasy, half tender shame
Of bloom that must so soon expire.
But, mother, tell me of the wet
Cool primrose! of the lilac-bough
And its warm gust of rapture, met
In summer days!—art listening yet?”
“Art near me, O my Cora, now?”
“When night has once passed into a human soul it never leaves it, though the stars may rise.” —Victor Hugo.
POET AND PAINTER.
Lucretius and Leonardo da Vinci.
If there be none, 'tis sorrowful to live.”
Words spoken in dying by a French Princess.
A stern, sad face, that question or reply
Flung back upon the gazer with rebuke;
And, near it, one that smiled half absently,
Content with what the moment gave or took:
But upon each, e'en like a cyphered book
Left open wide as if to court the eye
It cheats, methought was written “Mystery.”
On either brow I read a high disdain
Of all that is or may be, joy or pain;
And in each aspect scorn that doth not chide
The thing it looketh on, nor yet deride.
I found to heart's content and soul's desire
Each one of them in his bright youth had been
Beloved and favoured by a mighty queen;
Had felt upon his brow, cheek, lip, her kiss;
Had known the moments linger now, now fly
Winged with delight, and weighted down with bliss.
Then had each felt a chill, and seen the sky
Grow dark at noon, and sadden o'er the grass,
Had seen a trembling shadow flit and pass,
Had marked a flash of white escaping feet,
Had heard a low, light, distant laughter sweet,
And known her fled! Yet oft would she return
And o'er the hearts that she had broken yearn.
Each knew a momentary, soft caress,
A touch that wounded yet had power to bless,
And each of these, when summer suns burned low,
Would mark from out the pine-wood's heart a glow
As of a dark love-lighted face, and know
That she was near! Each won a mastery
And empire, nurtured at that queenly knee.
To Earth's chief people: “While I yet was young
Within her dark, deep caverns! What I hived
Of gall or honey lingers on my tongue;
I speak it ever in that song I sung,
So bitter sweet it lives eternally
In human hearts. I knew thee, Life, and flung
Thy chain aside in seeking out the fair,
Calm garden for my solace. I would ask,
What lurks beneath this smooth and tranquil mask
The days and nights weave round us? Far behind,
A prisoned giant, lies our life's true Lord,
Who ofttimes strives to break the mesh abhorred
That fate, chance, circumstance, still bind and wrap
About his mighty limbs, till in their lap
He lies ensnared; and when he wakens, blind
Is he, and fettered! now the slave, now sport
Of these five senses that within his court
Have served obsequious, swift to run, speed, fly,
And work his bidding, till at length in scorn
They turn and rend him—him, their king forlorn.
What is it then, this day, this little hour?
(The gloomy Poet questioned,) What fierce power
Of chemic force thrusts up this lovely flower
Of life from earth's dark bosom; fondly nursed
Cast forth to wither? Was it at the first
In very deed a flower, or but a weed?
Did he that framed it, love it, or take heed
Of its fair blossom? Was it blest, or cursed?
Oh! Mother Nature! in thy lullabies
So softly sung, erewhile didst thou inweave
Some after-charm to madden or to grieve!
Who knoweth thy deep secrets, or can guess
Thy subtle spell? What hidest thou within
Thy deep, dark eyes unfathomable? Sin
To snare to death, or beauty to allure
To heights of love serene? Thou insecure
Unfaithful guide through paths perplexed, thou friend
Untender, leaving us before the end.
Yet were there moments when thy heart was kind,
Or seemed! What meant the mighty scroll unsigned,
Thou didst unroll? As in a heavy dream
I walk at eve across a battle-plain,
Where at each step the dead and wounded seem
To wake unto a life of separate pain,
And on me turn a look of anguish, vain
And fixed, appealing.”
Italian answered, “Who can understand
The soft enchantress? She from me withdrew
Not in the day so early, but I knew
The woman by her smile; and in the dull,
Hard-outlined picture of the Master, drew
The angel's in the corner, whose fair face
Looks forth, and makes for loveliness a space.
Was she or I the subtler? Oft she threw
Some
We may observe in the whole character of Leonardo da Vinci's genius a love for the bizarre and exceptional, which showed itself at a very early period of life in his love for quaint devices and curious toys. Vasari tells us that when he was quite young he betrayed an attraction towards that which in nature is repellant, the fascination belonging to death and corruption, which culminated in the famous Medusa, by painting a shield on which he drew together, from studies made from life, bats, serpents, lizards, and even grasshoppers and crickets, so arranged upon it as to form a fearful fire-breathing monster issuing from the cleft of a dark and jagged rock. At a later time he is represented as playing before Ludovico Sforza (Il Moro) on a silver harp fashioned by himself in the form of a horse's skull (see his Life by Arsène Houssaye). Vasari seems to add to the moral indifference with which Leonardo is justly chargeable a strange hint of cruelty. One day, he tells us, the vine-dresser of the Belvedere found a very curious lizard, and for this creature Leonardo constructed wings made from the skins of other lizards flayed for the purpose; into these wings he put quicksilver, so that when the animal walked the wings moved with a tremulous motion. He then made horns, eyes, and a beard for the creature, which he tamed and kept in a case; he would then show it to the friends who came to visit him, and all who saw it ran away terrified. He would sometimes, we are told, attend the execution of criminals, in order that he might watch their dying agonies, and study the muscular contractions of their limbs. These facts, when added to his known attraction to the study of whatever in the human countenance was remarkable for ugliness and even deformity—witness his numerous sketches of grotesque heads—and the pleasure he is said to have had in watching the buffoonery of clowns, seem to involve a deep contradiction with his love for ideal beauty, and with the tenderness of nature implied in what Vasari tells us, “that he could not pass the places where caged birds were sold without buying some for the purpose of setting them at liberty.”
But still I gained upon her, till she knew
Her Master! When I bound her to me fast,
And through her mountains clave my path, and cast
Across her rapid streams a bridge, and fair
Aërial gardens hung in sunny air.
But first I drew from out a thousand hours
The sunshine,—drew from out a thousand flowers
Their white souls innocent! So early free
Of all thy secrets, it was one to me
And bind thee to me,—as I bent the thin
Firm iron to my bidding! Beautiful
Yet deadly-hearted Mother! Even then
I felt thy terrors on me when I chose
Some flower elect! preferred!—the Cyclamen,
The Iris, opal-radiant like a tear;
The star-sweet Jessamine, the summer Rose!
I knew thee other than thou dost appear;
I saw beneath thy loveliness the skull,
And met the wild eyes, ever looking through
The tangles of thy free and flowing hair
In anguish of self-pity, that I drew
In Florence later. Yet, great Mother Eve,
Fair wert thou! Kind, although thou couldst deceive—
And wiser than we think of! Not in vain
Thou spakest with the serpent: of thy plain
Calm counsel I took heed; thy smile was sweet,
And I obeyed thee gladly; let the snake
Curl up the tree, I could contented take
Its goodly fruitage, though beneath its thin
Smooth rind gleamed crimson seeds of death and sin.
Fair too the snake as well as full of wit,
(Or Raphael erred, methinks, who painted it,)
And were it false, for once it did not lie
In saying “Eat, ye shall not surely die.”
Oh Snake! oh woman! what a subtle pair
Were ye, and simple he who stood between,
The while ye gave him of that fruitage rare,
Of scent, taste, touch desired, to eyesight fair,
And making wise the heart.”
Grew dark the while he added, “What if now,
Man, piercing to its core should find it dry?
If, climbing boldly to the topmost bough
Its fruit dropped off, and that fair tree twice dead—
A leafy hall of ruin! Oh! thou fond,
Vague, haunting sweetness of the Far Beyond,
Which ever near me, still eluding, yet
I could not grasp, nor banish, nor forget.
Which was thy real aspect, Life! the face
Blank of all charm, in street and market-place,
That filled the day's long vacancy of grace,
Or hers I dreamed of long before I found
And fixed for ever to the spell, and sound
Of waters lapsing, falling, circling, bound
Entranced, and still entrancing!”
Brief speech the Roman, “This couldst thou discern,
Far wiser thou than I; such thick-wove screens
Come 'twixt us and the grandeur that o'erleans
Our life, what know we? Is man but the fool
Of his own sense bemocking, or the tool
Of Gods, who dwell secure where never snow
May fall, nor rain, nor wind have leave to blow
Too loud, and see him in the toils betrayed
Yet use no strength to succour him, nor aid,
Nor care for chances or for change below?
Who is the great Artificer? Doth hate
Or love impel his hand? Is he by fate
Yet mightier bound? I see a gentle child
Left in a house deserted, desolate,
Half-ruined, sunk within a forest wild,
Who strays from room to room, nor knoweth well,
Though all seem dight for pleasure or for state,
What step or stair may lead to prison cell
Or torture-chamber,—lead to sight of woe
Or sound appalling:—Not for me to know
The house's owner?”
To war,” the Italian answered, “or make straight
Life's crooked paths. In all, duality
I found like his, the Prince to whom in fee
I gave my life's best service. He loved well
His fair wise Beatrix, and lemans gay
Loved too, yet by her tomb would weep and pray;
Who oft to me, his Leonard, would say,
“Thy lyre is silver, gold thy speech” and knew
The worth of what he praised: then swift withdrew
To that dark citadel, his heart, to plan
Death, treason, murder! Not for me to scan
What gavest thou to live for, what to die
Defending? Country found I, king, or creed
To meet the soul's deep claim, the spirit's need?
Right pleasant things thou gavest; much to paint
Thou gavest still—dark sinner and fair saint.
So took I what I found, nor made complaint.
Deemed him the Roman worthier, who would fling
His life aside in a sublime despair
Of living well and wisely, than for fair
Take foul; or let a kind warm breath of spring,
Or flitting of an insect's purpled wing
Or bird's keen ravishment of song amerce
For blight and blot that stain a universe.
Less noble deemed I him who took for bread
And yet I judged not either—not for me
To judge another's servant. Yet being free
To choose, I seek a sphere more calm and vast
Than time's worn realm of present, future, past,
And cast my lot in with Eternity!
I take my spirit's portion in the things
Unseen! immortal! They that, having wings,
Flee not away nor, flowering, fade; whose fruits
Fall not from off the cluster, fed at roots
Nourished for ever at unfailing springs.
In allusion to the various grand architectural and engineering works undertaken by Leonardo for Cesar Borgia and other princes.
There is preserved at Venice a stray leaf from his portfolio, dotted with studies of violets and the wild rose; his favourite flowers are said to have been the cyclamen and the jessamine.
Wallace (see his “Indian Archipelago”) describes a fruit, poisonous to man (one of the Apocynocæ), as rivalling the golden apples of the Hesperides in beauty; its rind smooth, shiny, and of a golden-orange colour. When ripe it bursts, and shows seeds of a deep crimson, upon which the birds feed freely.
See also Wallace for a description of the great palm-tree (a species of Corypha) growing by thousands in the plains of the islands of the Archipelago, which appears in three different states—in leaf, in flower and fruit, and dead. It has a lofty, cylindrical stem, about a hundred feet high, and two or three feet in diameter; the leaves are large and fan-shaped, and fall off when the tree flowers, which it does only once in its life, in a huge spike, on which is produced a smooth round fruit. When these ripen and fall, the tree dies, and remains standing a year or two before it falls.
The Monna Lisa, La Gioconda of the Louvre, whose subtle and expressive charm seems to be the embodiment of what had at all times been Leonardo's ideal of beauty.
Ludovico Sforza, Grand Duke of Milan (surnamed “Il Moro,” whom Arsène Houssaye characterizes as “homme de bronze, tête Machiavélique, cœur d'amoureux, prince familier au poignard et au poison, fourbe et brave, barbare et raffiné, tyran de son peuple, esclave des femmes.”
A compliment on record from the Duke to Leonardo, who was also used to say to him, “When you speak I seem to listen to some one singing.” So Chaucer—
Far above singing.”
“Flee from storms.” These significant words are found written on the covering of one of Leonardo's note-books. From other expressions, however, scattered here and there among his manuscripts, it may be gathered that his mind was consciously wounded by the want of nobleness in his age and country.
THE SECRET.
Singest so sweet when the sunlight sped
Lies low on the hill, and the darkening way
Is drifted o'er with the light leaves shed,
Wert thou wounded, for now I see
That little breast of thine is red?
Hath any loved thee? and wert thou fed
On the wine of the berry wild and free?
Hast thou been mated, and wooed, and wed?”
Then sang the Bird: “I sing to thee;
I sing when the Spring's light leaves are shed,
I sing when the Summer day for dead
Lies lapped! of its passing sweet and brief
I sing,” sang the Bird. “I sing to thee,
But I tell to none my historie.”
For thy perfume rare of leaf and stem
I have sought for east, I have sought for west;
Now that I find thee among the rest,
With flowers that grow near the beaten way,
Thou bloomest, and even, like one of them,
Thou art not sweet, methinks, nor gay.”
Then the Flower said: “Other-where
Seek thou for flowers that are sweet and fair.
I lived through the bitter frost that slew
The sheltered bloom of the orchard's pride;
I lived on the burning wind, I grew
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep.”
Through the summer drought when the roses died;
I lived,” said the Flower, “I was sweet, not gay,
And my life in its giving passed away;
Dost thou find me shrunken, and sere, and dry?
If I please thee not, thou canst pass me by.
But as thou wert mounting the hill-side steep,
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep?
I have lived,” said the Flower, “and my soul was there,
It is not mine both to give and keep.”
At the close of the twilight dank and chill,
Dost meet me, and then flit away;
Art thou a shade among shadows grey,
Or the voice of one who is living still?
Doth power go with thee, and strength, and will;
What art thou?” Then the Voice said, “A voice
That crieth of things that are yet to be.
If thou hearest me, then abide; for thee
I have a message from God: Rejoice,
I say, or else lament with me:
If thou hearest not, pass on, forbear
And leave me, as I leave thee, free.
To meet thy question is not my care;
I have an errand, but not with thee.”
THE WOODBINE.
From East to West the woodbine runs
From East to West,
And that she loveth best she shuns
Within her breast
She beareth fire; upon her crest
She weareth flame; her soul is sweet,
What carest she though her hues be dim?
She woos the thorn, she clasps the briar,
The sooner him she loves to meet;
She weaves, she winds, she follows him,
She hides, but as she doth desire
From East to West the woodbine runs.
What while in gardens sunny fair
The golden sun-flower layeth bare
Her golden heart to meet the sun's;
Her soul is turned to his, her eye
Is fixed on his, she breathes no sigh,
Nor kindles in her odorous breast
A flame wherein to live, to die
With her who serveth uncaressed;
But she who is beloved is blest,
She moveth not from East to West.
The woodbine winds and weaves and runs,
And which of these two loveth best
I know not, neither have I guessed.
THE BROKEN CITHER.
In-doors and out we had hidden from each other so often, that now it seemed little more than the name of hiding, so familiar had each secret haunt grown.
At the back of our father's high arm-chair, behind the Indian screen in the parlour, and the old clock in the corner of the wide warm kitchen—these places we knew would be looked in the first of all.
And so would also the cool dairy, the dark hedge of laurel, that glittered to the glitter of the broad gravel garden-walk; the stacks in the farm-yard, and the barn, dusk at noon-day with its piles of fragrant hay.
All these seemed now to lie open to the blinking
When we crept behind the darkest Arbor Vitæ in the shrubbery, its arrows were still pointed at us, silently, like the lifted finger of some merry, betraying playmate, and yet I had bethought me of one yet undiscovered retreat.
A room at the top of the house, seldom visited, unceiled, raftered, and lighted by a small window, placed so high that it was only by standing on tip-toe I had been able to reach it and look from it down upon the laburnum, that spread beneath it, in the still sunshine, a golden enchanted bough.
I loved this room, and yet in some degree feared to go there; everything in it seemed to belong to times that had long passed away, and to people, the very remembrance of whom was forgotten.
Yet I had here my chosen companions. I had found friends among the dim old, black-framed pictures, left standing here and there so carelessly, with their faces turned to the wall.
The little girl that still caressed her dog with one hand, and with the other held up a basket of peaches; the dark smiling lady in her pearl necklace,
She, I thought, could tell me some pleasant history of the days to which the fashion of their garb bore witness, and hers perhaps had been the old cracked harpsichord on which I sometimes ventured half-tremblingly to play a tune.
It was the first one I had ever learned, and the notes were quick and merry, yet they told (though this I did not then guess) of exile, longing, and regret.
In this room there was nothing that was not outworn, decayed, or broken; its look was old-world and forlorn, and my brothers never came there to play; so here I felt sure they would not think of seeking for me.
And as I entered it suddenly I saw in the broad slanting ray of light that streamed from the little window—did I indeed see this? it was in the days of earliest childhood, and childhood is itself a dream—but I seemed to see an angel standing; so glorious was he in aspect, so calm and
Yet my gaze passed quickly beyond him to one seated beneath the little window, on whom also the yellow sunlight fell.
He was not winged like the angel, his dress was that of an ordinary workmen, and his countenance was like that of other men, except that it was more kind and more sad.
Yet the angel stood beside him reverently, and I knew that he was his Master and mine.
They spoke together in low tones, each bending over a musical instrument of strange, and as it seemed foreign, make. I had often looked at it, as it hung there on the wall, with curiosity, for I had seen no other of the same shape.
“Dost thou see,” said the Master to his companion, “how deftly it is wrought and fashioned? A wild, sad, gentle spirit still lives within it; bend down, and thou wilt hear a sweet imprisoned murmur from the tree whereof the Cither was made.
“It grew within a garden that thou knowest of;
“The song of the bird is within it, and the sigh of the summer wind; the quick rustle of the light leaves, and the rushing of the four-fold mighty stream.
“Thou seest it defaced and broken, yet hath it tones unknown, even to thee who art used to span the chords of the harp of heaven; lay now thine hand across the strings, and it will be even as if thou wert to lay it upon a human soul, full of the bitterness of death and of life. That hath shut within it a soul of anguish, as if a babe yet unborn would cry.
“Yet is the Cither gay and friendly: it hath echoes for the flying foot of the dancer, for the quick throb of youth's eager heart.”
Then the angel spake musingly: “How comes it to hang here so long neglected, and the dust to have gathered so thickly on its strings?”
“None here,” replied the master, “were skilled to play upon the Cither; perchance they might have loved its music had they known how to call its sweetness forth, but its strings snapped beneath
“And besides this, there was a warp in the wood it was made of, and perchance it might have broken even in gentler hands than theirs.”
“Were it not well, O my master,” said the angel, “that we should now mend and tune the Cither? It might yet soothe some spirit too harshly wounded, or give delight to the children dancing on the lawn.”
But the Master answered: “Seest thou not how deep a rift hath struck across it, and how every string is frayed? even thy touch so light would bring them even to breaking. None can repair it but he that at first made it; soon will the Cither sound beneath his mighty hand.”
THE LITTLE COMPANIONS.
In the afternoon of winter we played together, in the warm hearth-light, long silent games that did not disturb those who sat around.
And as the evening darkened we grew still more quiet: we hoped that they might perhaps forget to tell us it was time for bed.
Intent and breathless, we built up mighty cities, or marshalled the tread of endless caravans; we knew not whether we played or dreamed while we sailed together over boundless seas, or traversed the desert's interminable sands—yet felt around us, like the grasp of a strong, protecting arm, the steadfast light of the warm parlour, the
Then, in a low and earnest voice, I would tell my companion the stories I used to read. Of Moorish Princesses in their enchanted sleep; of treasure hid by pirates, locked and guarded by spells of terror in islands of the Spanish main.
While he would talk to me about his tasks and sports; of school and his friends and comrades there.
My companion was a bold and merry boy; he played at games which I only knew by name. He had been to places I had only heard of; he had seen the minster at the distant town.
He knew every bend of the little river, the dark pools where the trout lay quiet, and the minnows flashed and gleamed.
He could tell me all about the dwellers at each lonely farm upon the hill-side, and had been upon the dark moors beyond.
Yet through the summer we played still together, under the old sycamore that grew upon the little sunny hill.
We played in the garden, and in the farm-yard;
“Gee hup!” “Gee Whoa! Dobbin!”—we clapped our hands at the welcome sound.
We knew they would not refuse us anything: they held us on the horses' broad slippery backs, as we rode them without saddle home.
When they built up the stacks they let us stand beside them, lifting us, as they mounted higher, in their strong, steady arms.
There came a day in Autumn when the nuts hung thick and ripe in the little woody glens that ran between the hills, and the hazels that overhung the stream;
And all the children went out to gather them; the day had been talked of long.
They sought out their oldest clothes to scramble through bush and brier.
And one little girl, the prettiest and merriest of all, had patched herself a pocket of many colours.
The children were long in starting; like bees that are about to swarm.
They hung and murmured in a cluster; there was always something either remembered or forgot.
At last they set forth in triumph; I went with them as far as the gate.
I looked after them till they were hid by the bending of the lane: they turned to shout me a loud good-bye.
The little girl waved her handkerchief, but my companion did not look round.
I climbed on the gate to watch them; they were speedily across the brook.
I saw them spread and scatter over the hill-side; every now and then they were lost to view.
When they dipped within the coppices of birch and alder, that were purpled in spring with the hyacinths' tender and misty bloom.
At last they reached the great oak-wood. I saw them pass one by one within it; their voices died one by one away.
On my way home I went into the garden. All within it was still and dream-like.
The sun-flowers held up their broad, flashing shields; the hollyhocks stood erect like guards and warders. The bright asters, the red verbenas, the dark tawny marigold, blazed in the heat of noon: the garden looked gay yet desolate, as if the heart within it, even while it slumbered, ached.
A ripe peach had dropped from the wall, and rolled into the bed of mignonette beneath. I did not stoop to pick it up.
And as I passed the little border I called my own, I saw that the clove-carnation had burst its sheath.
I thought it would be less solitary in the farmyard; there would be the cooing and fluttering of the pigeons, and I should hear the whirl of the thresher's flail.
It too was broad and sunny in the noonday, full of yellow, floating light, and the warm pleasant scent of the straw.
Yet I thought it looked more lonely, even than the garden; when suddenly from behind the biggest stack, my little companion jumped out
“Aha! I have given you a fine surprise! and did you think I had really gone?”
We played together till the rest came back; the summer day was not long.
THE HOMEWARD LANE.
Seyst getrost! du bist zu Haus.”
Heine.
For home; not yet appeared
The father's house in sight:
I saw no kindled light
In gleaming window-pane,
No forms arrayed in white
Came forth, yet was I cheered
At heart: I knew I neared
My home, and kept aright
The way.
Adown a well-known lane,
A grassy margin wide,
And hedgerows freshened to the deepened stain
Left by warm summer rain.
O'er all a sparkle wet;
An odour dank and cool
From Balsam poplars set
Within the hedge, and yet
A sunset flash from many a tiny pool.
Two men in garments plain
That leant, as in the summer evenings late
Men lean; of common things
And themes, to dwellers in the country dear,
If husbandman or kings,
They spake, nor ceased their talk as I drew near;
But with a quiet smile
One open held the gate;
The other spake, “For thee, I said, long while
Here would I stand and wait.”
A sandy heath forlorn
That stretched, whereon an aged woman, bent
With care and toil outworn,
Stooped down to pluck a small white rose, that grew
As if it lived but with its leaves to strew
The thin light soil, nor seemed, sun-fed, the dew
To need, beset with many a grieving thorn;
But when she, turning, lifted up her head
I looked upon the face
Of one long loved by me and with the dead
Long numbered, there no trace
Of age or pain I read,
But in her deep-set eye
Dwelt untold extasy,
And in her smile was bliss,
And rapture in her kiss,
And heaven in her embrace.
In allusion to Psalm lxxxiv. 10—a favourite one with an aged relation, expressive of contentment in the prospect of being a mere “doorkeeper in the house of God.”
THE PLAYMATES.
We were born together, I and he,
And well did I love him, as youth and as child
Oft would we chide and yet still agree.
Then was I told by a stern decree,
Never could we together dwell,
One must perish, I or he;
Yet was our night together dear,
He was ever the first my step to greet,
I loved him absent, I loved him near.
His doom was from Heaven and not from me,
Never had I had the heart to slay
My brother that was so dear to me;
He sank at my side while our youth was glad,
And the light from the valley died away,
And the hills
Who danced and pleased the people.”
Inscription found at Antibes—
D. M. Pueri Septentri, annos 12, qui Antipoli in Theatro saltavit et placuit.
“To the manes of the boy Septentrion, aged 12, who appeared twice on the stage at Antibes, danced and pleased.”
“I know nothing,” says Michelet, “more tragic than the brevity of this inscription, or which makes one more sensible of the hardness of the Roman world.”
I find not any I love so well,
And I deem he will run again by my side
Through some sweet abiding miracle.
And in Heaven is a rose-tree blooming free,
But the wild sweet briar and the red-berry wine
Had been joy enough for him and for me.
THE ALMOND BOUGH.
Written late in October.
The wild wind gathers and growsOn the moor and the darkening hill,
On the river comes and goes
And creeps a breath that is chill,
The moments weary and wound
No longer, all is still.
From the valley comes no sound,
No footstep along the lane,
No hand on the clinking gate,
No shadow falls on the pane;
I listen not, neither wait,
I wish not, neither have will.
Written early in March, 1874.
But now through a lofty archThe light clouds drifting flee,
The wind is lifting the larch,
There is one that asketh for me:
He is winged with the wind, his feet
In the fire have ofttimes trod,
He is onwards borne by the sweet
Fulfilled desire of God;
When he moveth he moveth aright,
No shadow after him moves,
His eyes are with flame alight,
His smile is the smile that loves,
He is lithe, he is fleet, his hair
On his shoulders falleth free,
Than the sons of man more fair,
He bringeth a gift for me.
It is soft, it is fair, it is frail,
And oft hath it met ere now
The scorn of the driving gale;
It weareth no shading leaf,
It beareth no grieving thorn,
Its blossom is swift and brief,
Its glory is in its morn;
It knoweth not how to wait,
It lifts to the bitter sky
Its rose-flush delicate,
It knows how to bloom and die;
Its fruit is not prized nor rare,
Yet it yieldeth a costly seed,
It is borne by a herald fair,
And it sayeth unto me “speed.”
“They went every one straight forward; whither the spirit was to go they went, and they turned not when they went.” —Ezekiel i. 12.
The almond owes its value as fruit entirely to its seed, the kernel, contained, like that of the cherry or peach, in its hard stone.
THE BLADE OF GRASS.
A little sword thou art,
That in thy haste to pass
Hast pierced thy mother's heart!
A little tongue thou art
Of cleaving flame,—alas!
Thou hast cleft thy mother's heart.
Leaf, sword, or fiery dart,
To win thy Father's world
Thou must break thy mother's heart!
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.
With fire, and cloven with a path for thunder,
Whose upper unsunned Deep the Firmament
Parts from this Deep of ours that lieth under,
I stood, and saw 'twixt Earth and Heaven a wonder.
Borne onwards darken all the wintry day,
So swept innumerable spirits past,
And met my gaze with aspects unaghast,
Yet awful in a steadfast surmise, grey,
Forward; as when a courser with wet flank
And straining eyeballs nears upon the goal,
As its blue flash, of loves, griefs, hatreds, pains;
Swept thick as leaves that in the wood-walks dank
While round their place no grieving memory clings,
Lost 'mid Earth's indistinguishable stains;
And Captains, bondsmen, freemen,—sometime fair
Proud women, shook to dust with other things
Still blights the desert; these were the obscure
And silent dead, that lived and took their share
Of men rejected, chosen, old and young,
They passed, and with them silence rode secure
Sate flickering on the murky gloom unstirred,
And, like the snapping of a chord o'erstrung,
And knew that other spirits passed, elect
Of God, the few to whom He gives the Word
Can stifle: whether it be stranded, tossed
Of winds, or all its golden freightage wrecked
That gift, although our Earth be deaf and old,
Nor fully come the Spirit's Pentecost.
Like birds among the leafless branches clung,
Calling the Summer with their voices bold,
And hid them in green silence? Some in pride
And joy shook out their music; these died young,
And some had stored in one beloved breast
Their quiet tune! because this world is wide
While others like the Sun-god stood, and drave
Their golden arrows on a high behest,
The stony rock, and o'er the desert sand
Glad streams brake forth to freshen and to save.
Vowed to a life-long music, it was given—
Listen to me if thou wouldst understand—
Ere yet their lips through blessedness were mute,
Or locked in long despair, 'twixt Earth and Heaven
I heard them thus Life's loss and gain compute:
Or blessing given to me, thine eager wooer?
To thee for better was it, or for worse,
That drew me ever downwards, as the bee
Sinks on the rose's golden breast, secure
What wert thou? bloom, song, sunshine, fragrance fleet
Mingled unto a wine of extasy!
Are chained to the quick music from the string
That drops like seeded pearl in measured beat.
Content I played, nor watched Time's shaken glass,
Then slept as one at noonday slumbering
And wakes to hear adown the darkening lane
The reapers, gleaners, glad and weary, pass.
Garnered and stored, what good beneath the sun
Through me achieved, accomplished? question vain!
Who danced and pleased the people,’ on my tomb?’
Awhile he paused,—“Is all that life begun
Hath shut the after-world from known delights?
Hath the wide sapphire of Heaven's arch no room
Can hearts that ache with splendour miss the old
Soft interchange of blissful days and nights?
Each other as the little children held
My hand?” While thus half querulous, half bold,
To track another voice more sweet than sighs
Of youth, or smiles in aged eyes beheld.
Life's root and crown, Life's wine desired, discerned
In the dim grape-flower by mine eager eyes
While life was young to gladden, warm to woo,
From all that was not Love my spirit turned.
Not Beauty's thrall was I, but Love's true slave,
That took the wayside flower that nearest grew,
Was I through love that lifteth up the low,
Through love that lives to serve, that dies to save.”
Life's gorgeous rose, and triumph o'er the thorn.”
But even while I spake these words, a slow
And at my spirit gnawed a weariness
Of men and things, a chill recoil and scorn
What meant the ancient Eastern multitude?
Was wisdom hid within their bitterness?
Hath life no heart to answer back to mine?
No hint of beating pulse, of breathing blood?
Is life a shadow, love a mocking show?
And while I sought it as a boon divine,
Left by His steps upon our Earth, who came
To kindle fire, and left it long ago?
Nor hoard my spirit's fragrance; I grew old,
Life's day wore on, and of my birth and name
The rest had ventured little, yet had won
Rich usury of love and praise, and gold.
While I, who strove to lift life's curse, and wrest
Its secret, ending made where I begun.
Through me—I died alone,—yet not alone,
Was not the Father with me?”—
Made end with all fond searching first and last,
All ventured, dared, imperilled,—nothing known.”
Flung forth, methought another spirit passed;
I knew him by the mighty shade he cast.
I gave the promise of my golden years,
And tracked her flying footsteps as the youth
And lures him on through paths that weave and wind,
Till in the forest thick with spells and fears
Rich was the life I lost, the soul I gave!
And strong the charm wherewith I sought to bind
Yea, oft the dead I questioned! but no word
I found, nor any that could guide or save.
Sang from the blasted bough, a crash—a cry—
Of giant tree that fell, afar I heard,
And all was silent; then afar I spied
A few, who on a mountain pathway high
Seduced, enticed by knowledge nor dismayed
By fear,—the followers of the Crucified.
To mark what hues the glittering insect glossed,
That dipt across their path from sun to shade.
Who flung my soul within the crucible,
And saw it shrink, nor counted up the cost,
In sparkling drops? Of all I ventured there
Is nothing found? Have I loved Truth so well
—Speak now, my soul! if all to win and lose
Once more were thine, if choice were given again,
Though o'er my grave no word of hope was said,
Above it raised no cross, behold the dews
Fell from me, shunned me, banned me, held my lore
For spells accurst, unhallowed, backward read,
Hast thou no other blessing, Father, say?”
And with that cry of olden anguish sore
A wildered, wearied child, that in a wood
'Mid gathering darkness darkly seemed to pray,
For charm or blessing, ere he grieving slept.
While from a kingly heart, upon the road
And pleaded, “Father, do not Thou forsake!”
And earth was still and heaven its silence kept.
“BRING ME WORD HOW TALL SHE IS.”
Woman in 1873.
“Just as high as my heart.”
As You Like It.
A garden sweet and dim,
Two happy children played
Together; he was made
For God, and she for him.
In deserts drear and dim
Two outcast children strayed
Together, he betrayed
By her, and she by him.
They wandered, ne'er apart;
Each wrought to each annoy,
Yet each knew never joy
Save in the other's heart.
By him so sore opprest;
They each the other grieved,
Yet each of each was best
Beloved, and still caressed.
Found fairest, still his prize,
His constant chief delight;
She raised to him her eyes
That led her not aright,
A patient huntress ran
Through forests dark and wide,
And still the woman's pride
And glory was the Man.
She kept him captive bound;
Forbidding her to rise,
By many cords and ties
She held him to the ground.
He stands erect and free;
Yet stands he not alone,
For his beloved would be
Like him she loveth wise, like him she loveth free.
Yet stand they not apart;
For as she doth aspire
He grows, nor stands she higher
Than her Beloved's heart.
LILIES.
—E. B. Browning.
By woody walks, near pathways dank
With the drip of the thick-wove boughs they grew,
By the side of the garlic, wild and rank,
The Valley-lilies, pure as dew.
Shrouded and swathed in a tender gleam,
Gold in the sun, and dim in the shade,
Lilies globe like, and orbed, and rayed,
Flashed, afloat on the glittering stream;
Each on its cool, thick leaf apart,
Flung eager-wide to day's
Thoreau writes, “I have passed down Concord River before sunrise on a summer morning, between fields of lilies still shut in sleep; and when at length the flakes of sunlight from over the bank fell on the surface of the water, whole fields of white blossoms seemed to flash open before me as I floated along, like the unfolding of a banner. So sensible is this flower to the influence of the sun's rays.”
To a touch beloved, each warm, trembling heart
For the light of the morning to flood and fill.
At mid-day the lilies stood up tall,
Stood up straight, 'neath the garden wall,
White and regal like queens that bear
Beneath their crowns disconsolate
A weight of woe and a world of care,
Who are glad when the night bears all away,
Yet are ever queens through their long white day,
Robed and fair and desolate.
Golden were some, and some had curled
Their leaves back in pride, or in scorn of the world,
And some were tawny, and streaked, and pied,
And freck'd, as if in them something ill
Had passed, but had left them lilies still.
And after them came a sworded strife
Of lilies that warred with death or with life,
Flushed or pallid with love or hate
They changed from their rose-bloom delicate,
And strove, so that neither overcame;
For as I marvelled thereat, day grew
More dim, and the flowers' sweet miracle
Went by, and a sudden twilight fell,
And with it brought to my soul the scent
Of mossy wood-walks drenched in dew,
And of Valley-lilies crushed and bent.
The lines,
It ringeth at last unto even-song,”
“I die,” said a Dutch botanist, who had encountered some deadly exhalations in a Javanese forest, “but I have seen the miracle of flowers.”
II. PART II. POEMS ON LEGENDARY SUBJECTS.
L'ENVOI.
A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,
And singing soars and claps his wings;
Sing, little bird: when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.
I hear a voice expected long,
That bids an after-silence fill
The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast
Upon my heart, and give it rest.
THE MAN WITH THREE FRIENDS.
(A Story told in the “Gesta Romanorum.”)
That slept, there came a heavy cry,
“Awake! arise! for thou hast slain
A man.” “Yea, have I to mine own pain,”
And malice am I that naught forecast
As is the babe innocent.
I hated not, in times past,
Him whom unwittingly I slew.”
Is hard,” they said; “for thou must die,
Unless with the Judge thou can'st find grace.
Friends soothfast for thee to plead?”
One whom in word, and will, and deed
From my youth I have served, and loved before
Mine own soul, and for him striven;
To him was all I got given;
And the longer I lived, I have loved him more.
I love as I love my own heart well,
And the third, I cannot now call
To mind that ever loved at all
He hath been of me, or in aught served;
And yet, maybe, he hath well deserved
That I should love him with the rest.
Said the first, “And art thou so sore bestead?
See, I have gained of cloth good store,
So will I give thee three ells and more
(If more thou needest) when thou art dead,
“I have friends many, and little room.”
“We will go with thee to the place of doom:
There must we leave thee evermore.”
But the third only answered, “Yea;”
And while the man spake, all to start soon,
Knelt down and buckled on his shoon,
And said, “By thee in the Judgment Hall
I will stand, and hear what the Judge decree;
And if it be death, I will die with thee,
Or for thee, as it may befall.”
DARIA.
In Calderon's drama, Los Dos Amantes del Cielo, Daria, a beautiful Roman girl, eventually a Christian convert and martyr, declares, while yet Pagan, that she will never love until she finds some one who has died to prove his love for her.
Yet only proud perchance in being fair,
And in her speech, and in her smiling free,
As Rose to summer air;
Another damsel sat who sweetly sung;
And one who Love's fond ancient chronicle
Read; and these three were young,
But she I speak of, read not, neither sung,
But deemed she ministered enough delight
In being fair and young.
“Now am I weary of the vows and sighs
Of lovers that to die for me are fain,
Yet find I none who dies.”
Or sadness—which, I knew not then, nor she:
Deep words are spoken, deepest thoughts confessed,
By hearts in careless glee.
Find one who for my love indeed had died,
Then let him come to ask for love again,
And I will be his bride!”
But then most fair, methought, in being meek;
And yet the same was she whom otherwhere
I heard so proudly speak.
As is the dove's, and dove-like still caressed
One tender note, as if returning oft
To what it loveth best.
By that sweet olden promise, One who died
For me and for my love now have I found,
I quit no more His side.”
BASILIDES.
Ye urge me, O my fellow-soldiers; lo!
I swear not by the gods nor Cæsar! So
These lips of mine are sealed unto a troth
Their steadfast pledge. “Thou art a Christian?” “Yea.
No more Basilides! Such name I bore
But yesterday—a man with other men
Who bowed the knee to all that men adore;
Who lied, who sued, sung, flattered, jested, swore
By Cæsar and the Gods; a soldier proud
To track the crimson tunic through the fray,
And raise the loud a-la-la! in the crowd
Of slaves the foremost slave! These things away
Are past for ever. Yea! a Christian? Yea!
Of night she came, with solemn stillness round.
White robed I saw her stand with roses crowned,
And in her hand were roses white and red.
‘Look up, Basilides! Dost mind thee now
Of her, by thee and by thy soldiers led
From prison unto death? Dost mind thee how
Thou spakest to her then? Of words she said
Dost mind thee? I am come to quit that vow.
Or shame, I knew not. If the burning mesh,
Death by the lion's hated paw, abhorred
Embrace,—then shrank my spirit, shrank my flesh;
I heard of many wheels the grind and roll,
Of many beasts I felt the sudden spring,
From countless eyes athirst to drink my soul
I, turning, met the unrelenting glare
Of the blue sword-gleam round me, met the stare
Of the blue distant heaven unpitying;
Then in thine eye one moment seeking mine
I pity read, and gentlest tenderness;
What words thou spakest then in my distress
I heard not, but my hands I felt in thine
One moment caught and held amid the press—
‘Look up,’ she said, ‘Basilides, behold
These hands of mine! their grasp is laid on thee
For evermore! I quit thee not, be bold,’
She spake again, ‘for soon shalt thou be free.
With many spells? a slave art thou within
The dark Ergastulum each night shut in?
By day the thrall of legion-masters, sunk
Care not for these thy fetters, nor thy stains
Regard; a Mighty One for thee hath striven:
Strong is he, pitiful, to him thy chains
Are reeds; the past is past, effaced, forgiven,
Thine is the God by fire that answereth.
His feet within the furnace glow and move,
His eyes are flame that kindle flame, his breath
Lights up the stream of fire unquenchable
That unconsumed, consumeth; who can dwell
With everlasting burnings? They who love.’
Lie in my heart. Basilides no more
Am I, and yet Basilides the same
But yesterday who flattered, jested, swore
By Cæsar and the Gods. Gods! now I name
One God whom I adore, and Him obey,
One God in heaven who lives, on earth who died,
And lo! He liveth! Him the crucified
Who lives for evermore! A Christian, yea!”
THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.
The flag of Sigurd, the northern warrior, carried victory with it, but brought death to its bearer.
Though from my youth I have loved the sheep,
And the lambs, as they strayed in the valleys low,
Or clomb the upland pastures steep,
But none were given to me to keep!
I stood on the hill when the dawn brake red,
Through the darkling glen the foe drew nigh,
They came on swift, with a stealthy tread;
I gave the earliest warning cry!
Then flashed the falchion, the arrow flew;
I did not fight, nor yield, nor fly,
I held up the flag the whole day through—
Wrap it round me when I die!
Though oft with my shining sickle bared
I have wrought with the reapers, row by row,
And joined the shout as they homeward fared:
I was not by when the land was shared!
I stood at noon when the maidens dread
Came forth ere the battle, to choose the slain,
And at nightfall the raven's foot was red,
And the wolves were met on the darkening plain.
Then hewed the hanger, the sword smote sore,
I held up the flag till the day went by;
It was glued to my straining clasp with gore—
Wrap it round me when I die!
No torque of the beaten gold, no red
Rich broidered mantle, wrung from the foe,
Or flung down by chief as the banquet sped;
I have only watched, and toiled, and bled!
I stand at eve on the vessel's prow,
My heart is wounded, and I have striven
So long that my arm is weary now,
And the flag I bear is stained and riven;
'Twixt a sullen sea and a stormy sky
I hold up the flag in the sight of all—
Wrap it round me when I die!
THE SONG OF ROLAND.
Before the battle of Hastings, Taillefer, a famous Norman minstrel and champion, advanced on horseback in front of the invading host, and tossing his sword in the air, caught it again as he galloped forward to the charge, and gave the signal for onset by singing “The Song of Roland,” that renowned nephew of Charlemagne's of whom (Sir Walter Scott says) romance tells us so much and history so little.
The following poem is a literal translation from the Basque. It was found by La Tour d'Auvergne, in 1794, in a convent of Font Arabia, and is still preserved among the mountaineers of the Pyrenees, under many variations. It commemorates the combat at the defile of Roncesvalles (here called Altibicar), spoken of by Dante as “la dolorosa rotta,” where, through the treachery of Ganelon, thirty thousand brave Gauls, under the command of Charlemagne, were slaughtered, and where Roland fell. There is a savage grandeur in the simplicity, not without art, with which the numbers of the foe, so carelessly reckoned at the opening of the poem, are counted downwards at its close. It gives the gloomy and ominous effect of a muffled drum, or the measured, backward tread of a great multitude.
This song was imitated in 1803 by Alexandre Duval, with a reference to events then passing.
C'est le cri du soldat sans gloire.
Le héros cherche les périls;
Sans le péril qu'est la victoire?
Ayons tous, O braves amis,
De Roland l'âme noble et fière;
Il ne comptait ses ennemis
Qu'étendus morts sur la poussière.”
And the dog, who is asleep at his master's feet, is roused, and barks till all the mountains of Altibicar resound.
The noise draws nearer; it comes from the hills of Ibaneta, cleaving the rocks from right to left; it is the dull roar of an advancing army. Our people have already given it answer from the heights; they have blown their horns of buffalo, and the Basque is sharpening his arrows.
“They are coming! they are coming, oh; what a forest of lances! What waving of many-coloured
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and thousands more.”
“It is but losing time to count them; let us join our strong arms; let us tear out our rocks and hurl them down upon their heads; let us crush them; let us kill.”
What business have these men from the north among our mountains? Why should they come to trouble our peace? When God made the mountains, He did not mean them to be overpassed by men.
Then the rocks, loosened, rush down of their own accord; they fall upon the troops beneath; blood flows, limbs quiver. Oh, what a heap of broken bones! What a sea of blood is there!
Roland lifts the Olifant to his mouth, and blows it with all his might. The mountains around him
Charles hears it, and his companions hear it too. “Ah,” says the king, “our people are now fighting.” But Ganelon (the traitor) makes answer—“Had any other said so, he would have been set down at once as a liar.”
Alas for Roland! with great force, with great effort, with great pain, he blows the horn again! Blood flows from his mouth; his head is cloven; still the sound of the horn is carried to a great distance.
Charles hears it just at the moment of his landing; the Duke Naismo hears it, as well as all the French.
“Ah,” says the king, “I hear the horn of Roland; I know he would not blow it if he were not overtaken by the enemy.” But Ganelon again makes answer, “The sound has nothing to do with fighting. We know the pride of the Count. He is only jousting with his peers; let us mount and ride onwards; why should we delay to set forth? we have yet a long road before us.”
But now blood flows faster from the lips of
Charles bids the trumpets sound. The French come down upon us, clad in mail of steel. The hills are lofty, the darkness thick, the valleys deep, the descents rugged! Before the army and behind it the trumpets bray. King Charles is troubled, as he spurs onwards; his white beard shakes upon his breast. Too late! Run, run for it, ye who have yet strength or a horse left. Run, King Charles, with thy plume of black feathers and thy scarlet cloak, run! Thy nephew, thy pride, thy beloved, has bitted the dust below thee; he was brave, but it has brought him little profit.
And now, Escualdunachi, let us leave the cliffs,
let us go down quickly and let fly our arrows at the
flying. See how they run! they run! Where is
now the forest of lances? Where the many-coloured
banners waving in the midst of them? No more
flashing of their armour, it is too deeply stained
with blood! How many of them are there? Count
them well, my boy—count them. “Twenty, nineteen,
eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen,
thirteen twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six,
five, four, three, two, one,—One! no, there is not
In the night the vultures will come down to feast upon their mangled flesh, and their bones will lie there, and be white for ever.
The famous horn (so named) of Roland, of which Turpin reports, that its sound was heard by Charlemagne at the distance of eight miles.
We must remember that this is the composition of one hostile both to Charlemagne and Roland, the elect heroic pair, the sight of whose companionship in Paradise made Dante glad.
Vide moverse un altro roteando
E' letizia era dal paleo
Cosi per Carlo-magno ed Orlando.”
The name of the great Paladin is honoured, however, not only among the Pyrenees, but in many fragments of Spanish songs, one of which is thus concluded: “Oh, Orlando! hast thou commended, hast thou commended thy soul to God? We have beheld thee, and whoever saw thee in battle, felt himself sweat with fear! Well we know that thou didst slay thy thousands, both among the Moors and our own people. Bernardo, however, thou didst not slay. Shall those be vanguished, Roland, thunderbolt of war? Honour to the brave, of whatever country! No, Roland, thou shalt be slain, but never vanquished!”
THE DEATH OF “THE PANDAVAS, OR FIVE PIOUS HEROES.”
Conclusion of the Mahabharata. (Translated from the French.)
Then turning to his god-like brethren spakeThe wise Yudhishthira—“The world grows old:
Enough our eyes have seen, our hands have striven,
Our hearts endured enough, the time has come.”
The brave Arjuna said—“The time has come;”
Then the five brethren and the faithful wife
Set forth upon their journey to the shore
Of life eternal; to this world they said
Farewell, and gave their wealth among their friends.
With oil anointed, rudely clad with bark,
And followed by their dog, so fared they on:
And still Arjuna held his jewelled bow
Brake forth, and stayed their passage; they must part
With all; Arjuna flung his mighty bow,
God-loved, God-given, aside; and northward now
They moved, now southward, till their footsteps reached
The mighty Himalaya; climbing it
Draupadi sunk, the first to pass away,
Found weakest as a woman, weak through love
Of her Arjuna; then those brethren fell,
Fleet-footed, fair, and lithe Sahadeva,
Too proud of wisdom, and of beauty vain
Nakula; then at last Arjuna sank,
Too dear to him the strife, the loud acclaim
Of victory; then rude Bhimasena
Sunk, turning to his brother—“See, I fall,
Thy favoured, tell me wherefore?” “Feasts by thee
Were too much loved, too boastful thou of strength,
Disdaining others.” So at length the wise
Yudhishthira ascends the mount alone,
None following save
This dog, it seems, was his own father Dharma in disguise; but on this point Mr. Monier Williams (see his “Indian Epic Poetry”) says the original is somewhat obscure. On entering heaven, Yudhishthira, to his surprise, sees nothing of his brothers or Draupadi, whom he imagined had gone there before him. As he refuses to remain in heaven without them, an angel is sent to conduct him across the Indian Styx (Vaitarini) to the hell where they are supposed to be. This is found to be a dense wood, whose leaves are sharp swords. The way to it is strewed with mutilated corpses, hideous shapes flit round, there is a horror of thick darkness; the wicked are burning in blazing fire. Suddenly he hears the voices of his brothers and companions imploring him to assuage their torments and not to desert them. His resolution is taken. Deeply affected, he bids the angel leave him to share their miseries. This is his last trial. The whole scene vanishes, it having been a mere chimera planned to test his constancy to the uttermost. He is now directed to bathe in the heavenly Ganges, and, having plunged into the sacred stream, he enters the real heaven, where, in company with Draupadi and his brothers, he finds that rest and happiness which were unattainable on earth.
Indra comes forth to lift him on his car.
I enter not without them into heaven.”
So spake the steadfast prince; but Indra said,
“Grieve not for them, they too shall follow when
Their earthly vesture, falling to decay,
Hath left their spirits naked, left them pure;
Unchanged thou only unto Heaven mayst pass,
As mortal harvesting immortal joys.”
“And must my dog be left to perish here?”
The hero asked, and Indra answered—“Heaven
Thou mayst not enter, entering not alone.
And wilt thou then resign it for a dog,
Thou who hast left thy brethren, left thy wife
Already?” “Nay,” Yudhishthira replied,
“They left me, parted from my side by death
I left not, leave not any one behind.”
Then sudden, 'twixt them while they spake appeared
Dharma, of Justice bright unwavering lord:
“Come to my heart, my son, indeed my son,
Proved worthy of thy sire in speaking thus
Of this thy poor companion; for a dog
A place in Heaven where none shall equal thee;
Where hast thou not been loving not been true?
By thee were none oppressed, forsaken none;
And when the moment met thee, testing all,
It found thee, left thee upright, left thee strong;
Above the weakness of a mortal lot,
Upborne by greatness of a human heart.
Now are the worlds imperishable thine,
The way is thine, the path supreme, unknown,
Untrodden save by steps of Deity.
The gift of Vishnu, before coming into whose possession, it had belonged successively to every Divinity in heaven.
THE GOLDEN THREAD.
An Incident so narrated in a very early French Fabliau.— (See Sir Walter Scott's “Essay on Romantic Literature.”)
(Listen, gentles, for delight)
Dwelt a fair lady bright,
That unto knight, page, and thrall,
Aged nurse and seneschal,
Gave upon a certain day
Gifts kind, and unto each
Somewhat spake of gentle speech
That suiteth gift kind and free.
But when she came to one who long
As page, upon his bended knee
Served her both with sword and song,
And as knight did yet aspire
To serve and guard her, not for hire,
But all for love and loyalty;
Were it all her gifts were spent,
Or were it but in merry sport,
Or love, that love to hide thought,
I know not, guess not what she meant,
That do but tell the tale I heard;
She paused, and spake never word
Nor gave look, but slowly drew
From out her scarf a golden thread,
And lightly to the squire threw.
And he for answer quickly took
His dagger forth, and lightly strook
Across his breast a wound red
And in it laid the golden thread,
Nor spake word nor gave look,
But in the days when the green leaf
Springeth, and singeth each that can
Sing, be it bird or man,
For gladness either, or for grief;
Full softly for his heart's relief,
A little song that he had made.
THE SQUIRE'S SONG.
That gave to me the golden thread;
Store hath she of wordes sweet
That with it nevêr word said.
How may be, then, this riddle read?
She did not speak her meaning plain,
But if she meant her gift for pain
It suiteth well,” he said, “with me.
What man that liveth but pain knoweth?
And if for love, I ween it groweth
In gentle hearts full speedily.
I would that she had smiled,” he said,
“As oft she speaketh, smileth oft,
That gave to me the golden thread.
And yet her gift with my degree
Suits, that am a lowly squire;
The cloth of frieze is not for me,
In that so highly I aspire.
I prize the gift I did not choose!
Contented well with my estate
I stand, I serve, I run, I wait.
Content am I to win, to lose,
To bear through all a heart elate,
To bear through all a wounded breast;
And foeman's hand that seeks,” he said,
“My heart to strike or sweet friend's head
That fain thereon would lean to rest,
Must strike it through the golden thread,
Must lean upon a wound red!
Pass,” he said, “and heat and cold,
And ever with my hearte's life
Is wrought the little thread of gold.
It is not with me as of old;
My careless dayes of youth and glee
Are gone for ever, such a bold
Sweet surmise to felicitie
Hath neighboured me, and unto pain
And neared it to a purpose high;
And still runneth, till life flit by,
Through all my dayes a wound red,
Runneth still a golden thread!”
A LEGEND OF TOULOUSE.
I read, remembered well—
A legend that in deepest ruth
And awe I read, and held for truth,
Is this that now I tell;
A legend was it of a youth,
Who, as it then befell,
From out his evil soul the trace
Had blotted out of guiding grace,
Abjured both heaven and hell;
That once unto a meadow fair,
(Heaven shield the desperate!)
Impelled by some dark secret snare,
Repaired, and to the burning sky
Of summer noon flung up on high,
A dagger meant for God's own heart,
Words that make desolate.
A hand, the dagger's hilt
That caught, and then fell presently
Five drops, for mortal guilt
From Christ's dear wounds once freely spilt;
And then a little leaf there fell
To that youth's foot through miracle—
A leaf whereon was plain
These words, these only words enwrit,
Enwritten not in vain,
Oh! miserere mei; then
A mourner, among mourning men,
A sinner, sinner slain
Through love and grace abounding, he
Sank down on lowly bended knee,
Looked up to heaven and cried,
“Have mercy, mercy, Lord, on me
For His dear sake, who on the tree
Shed forth those drops and died!
THAIS.
So narrated in “The Fathers of the Desert.”
One of our Brethren saw in vision fair
Four mighty Angels stand, and duteous spread
In the high heavens, with nice, exactest care
Of love that lightened its own task, a bed;
Then thought he now, “Great Antony is dead,
The desert's Father; and they thus prepare
To welcome him: or it may be the blest
Hilarion hath entered into rest
With many years and vigils overspent;
Hath any of our company away
Passed in the night?” Then one made answer, “Yea,
Thais the penitent.”
| Camera obscura | |