 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
v
Τον δ' ευρε προπαροιθε νεων ορθοκραιραων,
Τα φρονεοντ' ανα θυμον, α δη τετελεσμενα ηεν.
Iliad ς.
Τα φρονεοντ' ανα θυμον, α δη τετελεσμενα ηεν.
Iliad ς.
1
APPROACH TO VENICE ON A NOVEMBER DAY.
Clear shines the sun, but yet the cloud is grey,
And the fresh breeze comes scented with the spray
Of the wild billow, that with thundering fall,
Broke its huge mass 'gainst Malamocco's wall;
Then bade its rider, ever fierce and free,
To Winter bear the homage of the sea.
On Styria's peaks his gathering storms repose,
And shroud the giant on his couch of snows,
Ere yet descending through the howling air
He bends the pine, and strips the poplar bare,
Ere the tall cypress, 'mid the naked scene,
'Gainst the white tower shall rise with deeper green,
And the broad oxen, from the swelling Po,
To their warm stalls, and sheltering village go;
While houseless beggars in the biting cold
Sit numbed to sleep, and dream of feasts and gold.
By empty villas and by mouldering vines
Gleams the pale ray, that warms not though it shines;
Yet these but late their clustering grapes have shed,
To glad the living,—those are of the dead:
These still shall wake with Nature wakening,
And tint the landscape with the hues of spring.
They come no more, no more shall beauty's hand
Strike the soft harp, in halls Palladio plann'd,
No more, last refuge of despairing pride,
Luxurious pomp a people's fall shall hide.
But vaulted roofs with hollow sound reply,
When Brenta's breezes sweep careering by,
And bear the leaves in gathering heaps to rest
At gates which hailed a monarch once their guest .
Alike the eagle's wide-spread lineage bind
The hosts he sought, the realm he left behind;
And for the subjects of his sires, o'er them
The sword must hang, to guard the diadem
That crowns another—vanished race and fame,
Fit guest of Venice now, the Valois' name.
And the fresh breeze comes scented with the spray
Of the wild billow, that with thundering fall,
Broke its huge mass 'gainst Malamocco's wall;
Then bade its rider, ever fierce and free,
To Winter bear the homage of the sea.
On Styria's peaks his gathering storms repose,
And shroud the giant on his couch of snows,
Ere yet descending through the howling air
He bends the pine, and strips the poplar bare,
Ere the tall cypress, 'mid the naked scene,
'Gainst the white tower shall rise with deeper green,
And the broad oxen, from the swelling Po,
To their warm stalls, and sheltering village go;
While houseless beggars in the biting cold
Sit numbed to sleep, and dream of feasts and gold.
By empty villas and by mouldering vines
Gleams the pale ray, that warms not though it shines;
2
To glad the living,—those are of the dead:
These still shall wake with Nature wakening,
And tint the landscape with the hues of spring.
They come no more, no more shall beauty's hand
Strike the soft harp, in halls Palladio plann'd,
No more, last refuge of despairing pride,
Luxurious pomp a people's fall shall hide.
But vaulted roofs with hollow sound reply,
When Brenta's breezes sweep careering by,
And bear the leaves in gathering heaps to rest
At gates which hailed a monarch once their guest .
Alike the eagle's wide-spread lineage bind
The hosts he sought, the realm he left behind;
And for the subjects of his sires, o'er them
The sword must hang, to guard the diadem
That crowns another—vanished race and fame,
Fit guest of Venice now, the Valois' name.
I saw a pilgrim on a jutting stone
High on the Alps, which, ages long agone,
The thoughtful traveller from Lombardy
Has marked when mountain shadows gather nigh,
And they who come up on the other side
Alike its marble ridges have descried,
And spring to welcome what with fond regret
They leave, who mid-way in the path have met.
Exile he seemed, as one whom hard-eyed fate
Had shut, stern portress, from his palace gate,
And bade the spider, unmolested there
Weave the grey web, that none should turn to tear;
But an old Jew, with contemplative smile
Watch the congenial insect's cunning wile,
Smile in those stately halls that this should be,
Where once he cringed, no lowlier knave than he,
In the long pageant of departed years,
Pomp, power, ambition, all that life endears
To the bond-servants of its gilded chain,
The proud, the great, the glorious, and the vain.
High on the Alps, which, ages long agone,
The thoughtful traveller from Lombardy
Has marked when mountain shadows gather nigh,
3
Alike its marble ridges have descried,
And spring to welcome what with fond regret
They leave, who mid-way in the path have met.
Exile he seemed, as one whom hard-eyed fate
Had shut, stern portress, from his palace gate,
And bade the spider, unmolested there
Weave the grey web, that none should turn to tear;
But an old Jew, with contemplative smile
Watch the congenial insect's cunning wile,
Smile in those stately halls that this should be,
Where once he cringed, no lowlier knave than he,
In the long pageant of departed years,
Pomp, power, ambition, all that life endears
To the bond-servants of its gilded chain,
The proud, the great, the glorious, and the vain.
There had he come betimes, and waited long,
With hate untired, as rivers ever strong,
But humble guise, as if his life had been
Made but to serve the lordly Nazarene,
And there with staff and garb of sable hue,
Oft had he sat when gayer souls withdrew,
And fed on bitter thoughts that use had nursed,
Till second nature had become the first;
And there till Lido's waste, and briny wave
Shall mark him still an outcast, and his grave
In the dead grass and barren sand be made,
Where shrine is none, nor prayer was ever prayed,
Save of his worn and stern and weary race,
Above their last, and desolate dwelling place;
Still shall he sit, as seasons glide away,
O'er the proud pile, contemptuous of decay,
And his vile count of usance mutter o'er,
A serpent coiling on the untrodden floor,
Last of the living links, that men may see
'Twixt what was there, and what remains to be;
Ere from the lonely rooms and shattered wall
Rent by his hand the very frescos fall,
And sordid ruin, with a drear repose,
Broods o'er that scene of long-forgotten woes,
Whose name so glorious once, the peasant scarcely knows.
With hate untired, as rivers ever strong,
But humble guise, as if his life had been
Made but to serve the lordly Nazarene,
And there with staff and garb of sable hue,
Oft had he sat when gayer souls withdrew,
And fed on bitter thoughts that use had nursed,
Till second nature had become the first;
4
Shall mark him still an outcast, and his grave
In the dead grass and barren sand be made,
Where shrine is none, nor prayer was ever prayed,
Save of his worn and stern and weary race,
Above their last, and desolate dwelling place;
Still shall he sit, as seasons glide away,
O'er the proud pile, contemptuous of decay,
And his vile count of usance mutter o'er,
A serpent coiling on the untrodden floor,
Last of the living links, that men may see
'Twixt what was there, and what remains to be;
Ere from the lonely rooms and shattered wall
Rent by his hand the very frescos fall,
And sordid ruin, with a drear repose,
Broods o'er that scene of long-forgotten woes,
Whose name so glorious once, the peasant scarcely knows.
Yet once he knew it, or his fathers knew,
When Genoa's banner at Chiozza flew ,
In joy of triumph or extreme of ill,
Honoured and loved, and sought, and trusted still;
And deem not fancy wayward, that she wrought
Thus for that stranger with creative thought
A lofty race and heritage, and stood
Dreaming such dreams, by Brenta's falling flood.
From his yet sleeping form, and forehead pale,
Spoke the high air, that want could ne'er assail,
And through the gloomy shadows of distress
Yet broader beamed the lights of nobleness;
There dimly stretched his native plains, before
Rose misty peaks, with forests covered o'er,
And scanty terraces on mountains high,
And thin spread hamlets, and a colder sky;
And he to German cities, far away
Fared wearily, or farther still than they,
And this of his own Italy, had been his latest day.
I gazed until it seemed my wandering thought
His sleeping vision's self-illusion caught;
And then we stood together, in the pile
Which he had left, a short—a bitter while:
Nor yet the glories of his ancient race,
Torn from their old hereditary place,
Had left cold shadows on the naked walls
To chase each other through deserted halls.
Thoughts of his youth, they came there back again,
And his heart drank them, as the earth the rain.
There was that true and strange epitome
Of human life, and all that man can be,
Where to the present's ever-changing moods
Speaks the old past, with fixed similitudes;
There Titian's hand a warrior Doge portrayed,
And there some idler of the summer shade;
There bent a maiden, with a glad surprise
O'er gems, but foil to pleasure's beaming eyes;
And there her merchant sire, who trafficked far
With wary thrift, to Balkh, or Istakhar;
Her with bright tresses Giorgione drew,
As when love saw, and kindled at the view,
And bore her fame of beauty far away,
Past Este's towers, and Montefeltro's sway;
Him Tintoretto's rapid hand designed,
And fixed each passing thought that floated in his mind.
The subtle priest that watched the late accord
Of conclave's votes, and started up their lord,
And bade avaunt dissembled age and pain,
And grasped the crozier, like a charger's rein;
The smooth-tongued envoy, ready still to lie,
Sharp as his sword and cold, with piercing eye,
And they who raised, and they who threw away
Fortune and fame, with folly's vain display,
Alike in that wild trance were imaged there;
But they are past, and know no earthly care:
And all of their old splendour that remains
Surrounds their dust, in time-defying fanes.
The porphyry pillar, and the sable stone,
Sure test of gold—that 'twere of virtues known,
And marble monuments, and faint perfume
Of burning censers, and the gorgeous gloom
That broods in silence, o'er each sacred place,
As present were the angel of their race,—
These vanish not, though all beside is fled;
But their last son must know another bed
In life and death, and lay in humbler guise his head.
Oh visions bright, of unforgotten hours,
Bright, and yet wan, as grief's declining flowers,
Wherewith o'er sepulchres she wreaths her head,
And calls, how vainly! on the lost and dead!
Thus did my fancy fill that pilgrim's brain
With ye, and feign the airy past again,
And call up phantoms of ancestral fame,
And power, and love, and give them all a name,
Albeit fleeting, as Autumnal gleams.
Ye wild waves dashing 'gainst the low-mouthed streams,
That pour their floods far over the lagoons
With turbid tide, in winter's watery moons;
Ye winds that wailing through the city go,
And fill no sails, and bear no banner now,
But waft the sea's corroding salt, to fade
Some glorious fresco, in its lone arcade;
Ye tapering towers, far scattered, whence the bell
Sounds through the air, with melancholy swell;
Ye shades, companions of the breeze, that float
With a strange power, o'er isle, and quay, and boat,
Now distant, and now nearer, and suffuse
The landscape ever with chamelion hues;
So let me look on ye, and dream once more,
And summon back the tales, and songs of yore
From Arquà's poet vale, to Venice' farthest shore.
When Genoa's banner at Chiozza flew ,
5
Honoured and loved, and sought, and trusted still;
And deem not fancy wayward, that she wrought
Thus for that stranger with creative thought
A lofty race and heritage, and stood
Dreaming such dreams, by Brenta's falling flood.
From his yet sleeping form, and forehead pale,
Spoke the high air, that want could ne'er assail,
And through the gloomy shadows of distress
Yet broader beamed the lights of nobleness;
There dimly stretched his native plains, before
Rose misty peaks, with forests covered o'er,
And scanty terraces on mountains high,
And thin spread hamlets, and a colder sky;
And he to German cities, far away
Fared wearily, or farther still than they,
And this of his own Italy, had been his latest day.
I gazed until it seemed my wandering thought
His sleeping vision's self-illusion caught;
And then we stood together, in the pile
Which he had left, a short—a bitter while:
Nor yet the glories of his ancient race,
Torn from their old hereditary place,
Had left cold shadows on the naked walls
To chase each other through deserted halls.
6
And his heart drank them, as the earth the rain.
There was that true and strange epitome
Of human life, and all that man can be,
Where to the present's ever-changing moods
Speaks the old past, with fixed similitudes;
There Titian's hand a warrior Doge portrayed,
And there some idler of the summer shade;
There bent a maiden, with a glad surprise
O'er gems, but foil to pleasure's beaming eyes;
And there her merchant sire, who trafficked far
With wary thrift, to Balkh, or Istakhar;
Her with bright tresses Giorgione drew,
As when love saw, and kindled at the view,
And bore her fame of beauty far away,
Past Este's towers, and Montefeltro's sway;
Him Tintoretto's rapid hand designed,
And fixed each passing thought that floated in his mind.
The subtle priest that watched the late accord
Of conclave's votes, and started up their lord,
And bade avaunt dissembled age and pain,
And grasped the crozier, like a charger's rein;
The smooth-tongued envoy, ready still to lie,
Sharp as his sword and cold, with piercing eye,
7
Fortune and fame, with folly's vain display,
Alike in that wild trance were imaged there;
But they are past, and know no earthly care:
And all of their old splendour that remains
Surrounds their dust, in time-defying fanes.
The porphyry pillar, and the sable stone,
Sure test of gold—that 'twere of virtues known,
And marble monuments, and faint perfume
Of burning censers, and the gorgeous gloom
That broods in silence, o'er each sacred place,
As present were the angel of their race,—
These vanish not, though all beside is fled;
But their last son must know another bed
In life and death, and lay in humbler guise his head.
Oh visions bright, of unforgotten hours,
Bright, and yet wan, as grief's declining flowers,
Wherewith o'er sepulchres she wreaths her head,
And calls, how vainly! on the lost and dead!
Thus did my fancy fill that pilgrim's brain
With ye, and feign the airy past again,
And call up phantoms of ancestral fame,
And power, and love, and give them all a name,
Albeit fleeting, as Autumnal gleams.
Ye wild waves dashing 'gainst the low-mouthed streams,
8
With turbid tide, in winter's watery moons;
Ye winds that wailing through the city go,
And fill no sails, and bear no banner now,
But waft the sea's corroding salt, to fade
Some glorious fresco, in its lone arcade;
Ye tapering towers, far scattered, whence the bell
Sounds through the air, with melancholy swell;
Ye shades, companions of the breeze, that float
With a strange power, o'er isle, and quay, and boat,
Now distant, and now nearer, and suffuse
The landscape ever with chamelion hues;
So let me look on ye, and dream once more,
And summon back the tales, and songs of yore
From Arquà's poet vale, to Venice' farthest shore.
Henry of Valois, king of Poland, and afterwards of France, who spent some time at Venice, on his way to assume that crown, in 1574.
En effet tout étaità Venise dans une profonde consternation, et dans une agitation extrême. C'était au milieu de la nuit qu'on y avait appris la perte de Chiozza, par le retour de quelques braves qui avaient inutilement essayé de s'y jeter. Le tocsin de S.-Marc avait appelé soudain toute la population aux armes. Les citoyens de tous les rangs avaient confusément passé le reste de cette nuit sur les places publiques, s'attendant d'un moment à l'autre à voir l'ennemi attaquer une capitale où rien n'était organisé pour le repousser. Le jour parut, et l'on vit au haut des tours de Chiozza flotter l'étendard de Saint-Georges au-dessus du pavillon de S.-Marc renversé. —Daru, Histoire de Venise.
9
FRA CIPOLLA.
HOW FRIAR ONION SHOWED THE COALS ON WHICH ST. LAURENCE WAS BROILED, INSTEAD OF THE FEATHER OF THE ANGEL GABRIEL, AS HE PROMISED, TO THE PEOPLE OF CERTALDO.
A lui non plus qu'à son Laurent
Je ne me fierai, moi, que sur un bon garant.
Tartuffe, Acte I.
Je ne me fierai, moi, que sur un bon garant.
Tartuffe, Acte I.
To the low valley where the Elsa brawls
With tiny streamlet by Certaldo's walls,
And lulls its slumbers, and first greets the cocks
When the dim morning reddens on the rocks,—
And time flows on in quiet harmony
With its sweet voice,—and evermore go by
The hours unheeded, as the vineyard weaves
In the glad sun her garland of green leaves
Until the fruit is blushing-ripe, and they
As gently growing, to some festal day
Call forth the happy villagers' array;
Once every year, or oftener if he could,
(So sure the welcome of his merry mood,)
A little friar, called Cipolla, came;
The people loved him for his very name:
For most that herb about Certaldo grows,
And rears its savoury head in watered rows,
A household name, and redolent of cheer,
Nor he belied it with a mien severe,
Nor took his gettings churlishly for right,
If priest by day, he gossip was by night;
And all the women loved the tales he told,
And children laughed his antics to behold,
And graver things he had at seasons for the old.
With tiny streamlet by Certaldo's walls,
And lulls its slumbers, and first greets the cocks
When the dim morning reddens on the rocks,—
And time flows on in quiet harmony
With its sweet voice,—and evermore go by
The hours unheeded, as the vineyard weaves
In the glad sun her garland of green leaves
Until the fruit is blushing-ripe, and they
As gently growing, to some festal day
Call forth the happy villagers' array;
Once every year, or oftener if he could,
10
A little friar, called Cipolla, came;
The people loved him for his very name:
For most that herb about Certaldo grows,
And rears its savoury head in watered rows,
A household name, and redolent of cheer,
Nor he belied it with a mien severe,
Nor took his gettings churlishly for right,
If priest by day, he gossip was by night;
And all the women loved the tales he told,
And children laughed his antics to behold,
And graver things he had at seasons for the old.
He would that all knew how the Scriptures teach
'Tis not the poor want saving, but the rich:
And still discreetly methodized his care
And shunned the extreme, for evil dwelleth there;
Oh there walks Lucifer, by night and day,
And some have seen him, as in tales they say,
He feared his wrath if he for souls should starve,
And left untouched his palatine preserve.
But in snug streets, where none proclaim their store
By brazen beasts, and lacqueys, at the door,
Nor lions' grinning heads affront the poor.
Where gainful virtue, in the Balance sign,
Hangs o'er our being's equatorial line,
And each intends to keep what he has got,
He came, and preached how wealth abideth not;
And oft a portion to his convent drew,
And proved, at least, his saying might be true,
Shriving for profit penitents like these;
But still he sought the country for his ease.
'Tis not the poor want saving, but the rich:
And still discreetly methodized his care
And shunned the extreme, for evil dwelleth there;
Oh there walks Lucifer, by night and day,
And some have seen him, as in tales they say,
He feared his wrath if he for souls should starve,
And left untouched his palatine preserve.
But in snug streets, where none proclaim their store
By brazen beasts, and lacqueys, at the door,
Nor lions' grinning heads affront the poor.
11
Hangs o'er our being's equatorial line,
And each intends to keep what he has got,
He came, and preached how wealth abideth not;
And oft a portion to his convent drew,
And proved, at least, his saying might be true,
Shriving for profit penitents like these;
But still he sought the country for his ease.
Wandering he loved; for there was in his mind
A sort of grace, in arabesque designed,
Careless and free, that still its way would wend
In many a guise, and left to chance the end;
So both as friar and as traveller wise,
He took the full prerogative of lies;
And never a Cardinal in Lateran
Had more believers since the church began.
To good St. Anthony his vows were paid
At Padua's shrine, and in his name he prayed.
A sort of grace, in arabesque designed,
Careless and free, that still its way would wend
In many a guise, and left to chance the end;
So both as friar and as traveller wise,
He took the full prerogative of lies;
And never a Cardinal in Lateran
Had more believers since the church began.
To good St. Anthony his vows were paid
At Padua's shrine, and in his name he prayed.
'Twas the soft season when the sycamore
Bursts in full foliage, and its pensile flower
Doth all the bees with its sweet breath invite,
And fairy bells, so tremulous and light,
Till twilight ushers in the summer night:
And toil reposed, and stars were rising o'er
The inn's long gallery and its open door—
And horseman, pacing through the archway near,
Who back to Florence turned from country cheer;
Far swelled the horn along the mountain side,
And goats came bounding to their gentle guide,
The peasant girl, with distaff in her hand,
And her young sisters rolling in the sand;
And faintly rose the evening wind along
The brushwood paths, and murmured with her song;
And some stood watching for the loaded wain,
Some marked the light moon glittering on the vane,
And boys drove in, with many a stick and stone,
The long-necked turkeys running gobbling on;
When, musing o'er with philosophic mind
How like the world his mule, (for she was blind,
And what he would still unrepining bore,)
Through the old gate Cipolla came once more.
Oh! some can look upon a heap of clay,
And bid their thought the inspired hand obey,
And call great Vulcan forth, as when he stood,
Resting from toil, in deep considering mood,
And mused on heavenly strife and giant wars—
And at his feet the helm he made for Mars;
And some from resined bow and catgut string,
The deepest, sweetest sounds of music bring;
But he who wisely scans a crowd, may see
Low matter for a loftier mastery.
Bursts in full foliage, and its pensile flower
Doth all the bees with its sweet breath invite,
And fairy bells, so tremulous and light,
12
And toil reposed, and stars were rising o'er
The inn's long gallery and its open door—
And horseman, pacing through the archway near,
Who back to Florence turned from country cheer;
Far swelled the horn along the mountain side,
And goats came bounding to their gentle guide,
The peasant girl, with distaff in her hand,
And her young sisters rolling in the sand;
And faintly rose the evening wind along
The brushwood paths, and murmured with her song;
And some stood watching for the loaded wain,
Some marked the light moon glittering on the vane,
And boys drove in, with many a stick and stone,
The long-necked turkeys running gobbling on;
When, musing o'er with philosophic mind
How like the world his mule, (for she was blind,
And what he would still unrepining bore,)
Through the old gate Cipolla came once more.
Oh! some can look upon a heap of clay,
And bid their thought the inspired hand obey,
And call great Vulcan forth, as when he stood,
Resting from toil, in deep considering mood,
And mused on heavenly strife and giant wars—
13
And some from resined bow and catgut string,
The deepest, sweetest sounds of music bring;
But he who wisely scans a crowd, may see
Low matter for a loftier mastery.
He mounted upward on a porphyry stone,
Where drank the herds, a tomb in ages gone:
(Good sooth, for him that saying was, of old,
That bad men search in sepulchres for gold,)
And time-worn figures there you still might trace,
That told, twice o'er, with melancholy grace,
Broken and drilled, and dark with many a stain,
How man for memory toils, and toils in vain.
But wandering friars have a surer meed
Than fame's pale phantom, to the dead decreed;
And he from harm who sanctifies the swine,
Ne'er need to look for honours more divine.
Round come the swains, to banish blight and burn
From man and beast, and of strange lands to learn,
And relics touch which he has brought from them,
And hear of Cairo and Jerusalem,
And martyrs there who won their diadem.
So stood the friar begirt, and thus he said,
“My children dear, who ever have in dread
The saints, and, mindful of your swelling store,
Each year to blessed Anthony give more,
And still his aid against the world implore;
The injurious world, that never gives but half
What conscience asks for gruntling or for calf,
And with smooth cheats, and scrivening arts abhorred,
Your gains would pilfer, and your thrift defraud;
Lo, his poor vicar, I have come to ye,
Whom most I ever loved, and joy to see.
Where drank the herds, a tomb in ages gone:
(Good sooth, for him that saying was, of old,
That bad men search in sepulchres for gold,)
And time-worn figures there you still might trace,
That told, twice o'er, with melancholy grace,
Broken and drilled, and dark with many a stain,
How man for memory toils, and toils in vain.
But wandering friars have a surer meed
Than fame's pale phantom, to the dead decreed;
And he from harm who sanctifies the swine,
Ne'er need to look for honours more divine.
Round come the swains, to banish blight and burn
From man and beast, and of strange lands to learn,
And relics touch which he has brought from them,
And hear of Cairo and Jerusalem,
And martyrs there who won their diadem.
So stood the friar begirt, and thus he said,
14
The saints, and, mindful of your swelling store,
Each year to blessed Anthony give more,
And still his aid against the world implore;
The injurious world, that never gives but half
What conscience asks for gruntling or for calf,
And with smooth cheats, and scrivening arts abhorred,
Your gains would pilfer, and your thrift defraud;
Lo, his poor vicar, I have come to ye,
Whom most I ever loved, and joy to see.
Oh yes, let others climb the marble stair,
And gaze at purple that they gape to wear;
And the grave eyes of Popes and Princes meet,
I walk below, the rather, in the street;
For power and pride they play a changeful game,
But my dear people ever is the same,
And judges not, but takes the better part,
Obedient counsels, and a reverent heart,
Nor of unsated wishes knows the smart:—
Unsated wishes, ah! my children dear,
That thought may lead far off, and night is here.
I see your hearth-lights: Time is weary now,
And fain would rest, like birds upon the bough,
And stretches o'er the world, sweet dreams to bring,
With gliding shade his starry-spangled wing:
Then go, whate'er his whisperings prompt obey;
But I, on your behalf, must fast and pray.
And gaze at purple that they gape to wear;
And the grave eyes of Popes and Princes meet,
I walk below, the rather, in the street;
For power and pride they play a changeful game,
But my dear people ever is the same,
And judges not, but takes the better part,
Obedient counsels, and a reverent heart,
Nor of unsated wishes knows the smart:—
Unsated wishes, ah! my children dear,
That thought may lead far off, and night is here.
I see your hearth-lights: Time is weary now,
And fain would rest, like birds upon the bough,
15
With gliding shade his starry-spangled wing:
Then go, whate'er his whisperings prompt obey;
But I, on your behalf, must fast and pray.
Whoe'er with me to-morrow shall behold
The heavenly relic in this box of gold,
The plume that once through all the exulting host
The Archangel bore to earth, and then was lost,
Until, our Italy to saints endeared,
It with thy boast Loretto re-appeared:
(Far it came floating o'er the Adrian sea,
And heeded not the prayers of Rimini,
Nor Fano, with the bishop at their head,
Nor Senegaglia's hopes; but onward sped,
Until it reached our Padua divine,
And with its splendour lit the appointed shrine;)
For him, our patron who exalted made
E'en the poor swine, wont in his steps to tread,
As slow through Nature's adverse scale he rose,
And knew at last a relic by the nose;
For him, San 'Tonio shall each care assuage,
And war with all the devils straight engage;
That swine remembering, for his own shall claim,
Receive his offering, and inscribe his name.
Fat be his farm, and fair and wise his spouse,
Nor e'er a lawyer shall come near his house.”
The heavenly relic in this box of gold,
The plume that once through all the exulting host
The Archangel bore to earth, and then was lost,
Until, our Italy to saints endeared,
It with thy boast Loretto re-appeared:
(Far it came floating o'er the Adrian sea,
And heeded not the prayers of Rimini,
Nor Fano, with the bishop at their head,
Nor Senegaglia's hopes; but onward sped,
Until it reached our Padua divine,
And with its splendour lit the appointed shrine;)
For him, our patron who exalted made
E'en the poor swine, wont in his steps to tread,
As slow through Nature's adverse scale he rose,
And knew at last a relic by the nose;
For him, San 'Tonio shall each care assuage,
And war with all the devils straight engage;
That swine remembering, for his own shall claim,
16
Fat be his farm, and fair and wise his spouse,
Nor e'er a lawyer shall come near his house.”
Oh treacherous speech, oh thought evoking words,
That strike and know not half the answering chords,
Nor where their sound shall vibrate far away,
Nor what dark spirit shall the call obey;
Amazed who ply them, oft in circles stand
And wave their arms, a necromantic band,
And rack their cunning vainly, to compel
The shapes that answer to the shades of Hell;
Not then such direful risk Cipolla ran,
But he must strive at least with earthly man.
For one was near, a boorish churl and rude
With leathern looks that changed not with his mood,
Dull from his birth, no faith inspired his brain,
E'en superstition strove for him in vain,
Dark is her night, but still with stars supplied—
His darkness was a chaos or a void.
Nor signs, nor power of holy church he knew,
That changes hardest things, with heavenly dew,
E'en hearts of men, and what can harder be,
Or change more great than sin to sanctity,
At things beyond him like an ape he mowed,
And oft it passed for reverence with the crowd.
A muttering varlet from afar he came,
Nor told Certaldo's households of his name;
But turned the soft mould up, at little hire,
In the long vineyards; and for winter fire
The faggots bore, when on the arbute tree
Hang the new frosts, and from the storm-vexed sea
Come wailing clouds, and hurry round the moon,
And wise men say it will be winter soon,
And shake their heads, and reckon up the years,
For all would be at times philosophers:
E'en that false villain in whose elvish breast
The mocking devil moved, and all would test;
Led by his prompting, softly crept the knave
Through listening ranks that stood with souls to save,
Light to the box his spider hand he stole,
And took the feather out, and left a coal.
That strike and know not half the answering chords,
Nor where their sound shall vibrate far away,
Nor what dark spirit shall the call obey;
Amazed who ply them, oft in circles stand
And wave their arms, a necromantic band,
And rack their cunning vainly, to compel
The shapes that answer to the shades of Hell;
Not then such direful risk Cipolla ran,
But he must strive at least with earthly man.
For one was near, a boorish churl and rude
With leathern looks that changed not with his mood,
Dull from his birth, no faith inspired his brain,
E'en superstition strove for him in vain,
Dark is her night, but still with stars supplied—
His darkness was a chaos or a void.
Nor signs, nor power of holy church he knew,
That changes hardest things, with heavenly dew,
E'en hearts of men, and what can harder be,
Or change more great than sin to sanctity,
17
And oft it passed for reverence with the crowd.
A muttering varlet from afar he came,
Nor told Certaldo's households of his name;
But turned the soft mould up, at little hire,
In the long vineyards; and for winter fire
The faggots bore, when on the arbute tree
Hang the new frosts, and from the storm-vexed sea
Come wailing clouds, and hurry round the moon,
And wise men say it will be winter soon,
And shake their heads, and reckon up the years,
For all would be at times philosophers:
E'en that false villain in whose elvish breast
The mocking devil moved, and all would test;
Led by his prompting, softly crept the knave
Through listening ranks that stood with souls to save,
Light to the box his spider hand he stole,
And took the feather out, and left a coal.
The friar was gone: the cypress shadows fell
Calm in the moonlight over wall and well;
Few sounds along the scattered street were heard,
Some wandering steps, some lattice faintly stirred;
Tall seemed each figure lingering in the shade,
And o'er their heads the light bat flickering played:
Like dreams he wings about his devious flight,
Small herald of the people of the night;
And they who see him follow far away
To Fancy's realms, and love like him to play,
And leave the world to plot, plan, reason, as it may.
Calm in the moonlight over wall and well;
Few sounds along the scattered street were heard,
Some wandering steps, some lattice faintly stirred;
Tall seemed each figure lingering in the shade,
18
Like dreams he wings about his devious flight,
Small herald of the people of the night;
And they who see him follow far away
To Fancy's realms, and love like him to play,
And leave the world to plot, plan, reason, as it may.
Up through the clouds he soars, and down again
He plunges, faster than the falling rain;
But not so fast as Cupid, when he flew
To gain his Psyche through the æther blue;
And he the love-god's fluttering feet attended,
But lagged behind or e'er the course was ended,
And Cupid to the Thunderer's throne ascended.
Then Juno to Love's cause compassion lent,
And Ceres beautiful and provident,
And strove, divinely pleading, to appease
The angry daughter of the uncertain seas;
In vain, till for the bride, at Jove's command,
Sped Hermes graceful with his snaky wand;
That sign supreme the mournful shades obey,
The captive free, and speed her upward way;
Hope stood to meet her, portress at the door,
And, smiling, blessed the vase of beauty that she bore:
E'en Venus came relenting to the feast,
And all the kindred gods the nuptials graced .
Those heavenly powers on high Olympus lived,
And Homer sung their deeds, and Greeks believed.
Gaze on that old man's head, now they are gone,
As Phidias stamped it on enduring stone;
Their relics are the Iliad and the Odyssey,
And the expounder of their code is he.
He plunges, faster than the falling rain;
But not so fast as Cupid, when he flew
To gain his Psyche through the æther blue;
And he the love-god's fluttering feet attended,
But lagged behind or e'er the course was ended,
And Cupid to the Thunderer's throne ascended.
Then Juno to Love's cause compassion lent,
And Ceres beautiful and provident,
And strove, divinely pleading, to appease
The angry daughter of the uncertain seas;
In vain, till for the bride, at Jove's command,
Sped Hermes graceful with his snaky wand;
That sign supreme the mournful shades obey,
The captive free, and speed her upward way;
Hope stood to meet her, portress at the door,
And, smiling, blessed the vase of beauty that she bore:
19
And all the kindred gods the nuptials graced .
Those heavenly powers on high Olympus lived,
And Homer sung their deeds, and Greeks believed.
Gaze on that old man's head, now they are gone,
As Phidias stamped it on enduring stone;
Their relics are the Iliad and the Odyssey,
And the expounder of their code is he.
Now rose the sun, and shy and shamefaced night
Fled downward from the intolerable light;
'Neath the broad earth to other stars she goes
On twilight wings, and seeks her loved repose.
Slow rise the dressers of the vineyard tree,
And forth with hook in hand go silently,
And silent yet the village seems to sleep
They leave behind; nor dogs their baying keep;
And one by one old crones unheeded creep
To household tasks, that love nor thanks repay:
And mules expect the bells that warn them for the way.
'Tis sweet to wander and at eve behold
Some sunlit city, loved and famed of old,
And all its towers in purple light arrayed,
And darker now, and reddening into shade.
And sweet the rest at noontide, by the well
For pilgrims hewn, where some old citadel
Throws its long shadows o'er the road, and fills
The winding passes of the hoary hills;
Those heaped up hills, with many a deep ravine,
And half hid village and its towers between,
And white rock jutting from the shadows dun,
Of rifted marble, glittering in the sun,
Seen leagues around, the mountain Gonfalon.
But glad Certaldo holier things may hear
To-day, and therefore rests the muleteer;
And therefore maidens in their bowers are seen
With braided hair and many a flower between;
Bright looked the blooms, by joyous hands arrayed,
And like a nymph of Ceres every maid—
And graver matrons the procession joined,
And beldams old, that lagging limped behind;
A shadowy fatal sisterhood they came,
And greeted none but beggars, and the lame;
Halting, with these they ran an envious race,
And gathered round the church, and filled the place;
And alms they begged, but age hath little need,
And saints come first in charitable creed;
New risen, by his lamp Cipolla stood,
And hid his jolly visage in a hood.
A jovial man and potent did he feel,
The bells were ringing in the Campanile,
White gleamed its airy tower; there was no shade
Save what the sky of deepest azure made,
And that unacted something, half begun,
The quick gay crowd, the freshness, and the sun,
His heart-strings knit as doth a clarion,
And down he came, and girt him with a cord
For lowliness, lest men should call him lord.
Then came the mass, the people thronged before,
Pale grew Cipolla, as a poplar hoar
That sudden turns his white arms to the wind
And bows his top, and he his head inclined,
And “Ah,” he said, “all night a weary time
I past, until I heard the cock-crow chime.
Fled downward from the intolerable light;
'Neath the broad earth to other stars she goes
On twilight wings, and seeks her loved repose.
Slow rise the dressers of the vineyard tree,
And forth with hook in hand go silently,
And silent yet the village seems to sleep
They leave behind; nor dogs their baying keep;
And one by one old crones unheeded creep
To household tasks, that love nor thanks repay:
And mules expect the bells that warn them for the way.
20
Some sunlit city, loved and famed of old,
And all its towers in purple light arrayed,
And darker now, and reddening into shade.
And sweet the rest at noontide, by the well
For pilgrims hewn, where some old citadel
Throws its long shadows o'er the road, and fills
The winding passes of the hoary hills;
Those heaped up hills, with many a deep ravine,
And half hid village and its towers between,
And white rock jutting from the shadows dun,
Of rifted marble, glittering in the sun,
Seen leagues around, the mountain Gonfalon.
But glad Certaldo holier things may hear
To-day, and therefore rests the muleteer;
And therefore maidens in their bowers are seen
With braided hair and many a flower between;
Bright looked the blooms, by joyous hands arrayed,
And like a nymph of Ceres every maid—
And graver matrons the procession joined,
And beldams old, that lagging limped behind;
A shadowy fatal sisterhood they came,
And greeted none but beggars, and the lame;
Halting, with these they ran an envious race,
21
And alms they begged, but age hath little need,
And saints come first in charitable creed;
New risen, by his lamp Cipolla stood,
And hid his jolly visage in a hood.
A jovial man and potent did he feel,
The bells were ringing in the Campanile,
White gleamed its airy tower; there was no shade
Save what the sky of deepest azure made,
And that unacted something, half begun,
The quick gay crowd, the freshness, and the sun,
His heart-strings knit as doth a clarion,
And down he came, and girt him with a cord
For lowliness, lest men should call him lord.
Then came the mass, the people thronged before,
Pale grew Cipolla, as a poplar hoar
That sudden turns his white arms to the wind
And bows his top, and he his head inclined,
And “Ah,” he said, “all night a weary time
I past, until I heard the cock-crow chime.
“Ye shall see yet that relic, when the leaf
Falls on the spot where stood the gathered sheaf,
And through the yellow mulberry trees appear
The purple hills, and I again am here
Far traversing the land-slips and the streams;
Ah see, my children, how for ever beams
The Holy Catholic Faith, and keeps the round
Of Martyrs, with a mystery profound,
And now, for 'tis his vigil, bids ye kiss
A coal, whose fiery spirit into bliss
Bore great St. Lawrence, and no other share
To day your offerings.”—Conscience-stricken there
Stood the dull thief, and half believed, and kissed
The coal with fervour passing all the rest,
At which Cipolla smiled, and went his way
With heavy scrip, and blest the happy day,
And promised in the blue Autumnal weather
To come once more, with the Angel Gabriel's feather.
Falls on the spot where stood the gathered sheaf,
And through the yellow mulberry trees appear
22
Far traversing the land-slips and the streams;
Ah see, my children, how for ever beams
The Holy Catholic Faith, and keeps the round
Of Martyrs, with a mystery profound,
And now, for 'tis his vigil, bids ye kiss
A coal, whose fiery spirit into bliss
Bore great St. Lawrence, and no other share
To day your offerings.”—Conscience-stricken there
Stood the dull thief, and half believed, and kissed
The coal with fervour passing all the rest,
At which Cipolla smiled, and went his way
With heavy scrip, and blest the happy day,
And promised in the blue Autumnal weather
To come once more, with the Angel Gabriel's feather.
Few perhaps resort to Apuleius for the fable of Cupid and Psyche, but there should be fewer still on whose memories it is not stamped by the frescos of Raphael, and Giulio Romano, or the works of Canova and Gibson.
23
AMPHION.
Amphion old, that with thine harmonyAs poets sing, didst build the Theban wall;
How of that tale the deep reality
Grows on my thought—great deeds are musical;
And ever to the concert of the spheres
They soar aloft, and thence our being sway,
Heard through the night of time: lo! to whose ears
Their voices come, whose spirits listen may,
And thrill with lyric inspiration, they
Rear up like thee the landmarks of the world.
Jove was thy sire, but he whom chords obey
Cyllenian Hermes, on the dewy-pearled
Cithæron gave the lyre; by thee away
Lashed to a bull was jealous Dirce hurled.
26
THE “FRIAR AND THE ASS.”
[_]
The story is founded on an old Italian novel called “Novella di Gianni Andato al Bosco, a far legno.”
Io dirò cosa incredibile e vera.
—Dante.
Soft his low banks where sleepy Mincio laves,
Worn with the strife of Guarda's stormy waves;
And hills by poets loved, and many a town
Unfading beauty blend with old renown,
And still thine empire keep, oh Italy,
Which was, and is, and evermore shall be,
There dwelt, tradition thus preserves the tale,
A simple peasant in a quiet vale.
Worn with the strife of Guarda's stormy waves;
And hills by poets loved, and many a town
Unfading beauty blend with old renown,
And still thine empire keep, oh Italy,
Which was, and is, and evermore shall be,
There dwelt, tradition thus preserves the tale,
A simple peasant in a quiet vale.
He knew but one condition from his birth,
To toil, sole guerdon of the sons of earth;
And tilled his scanty fields with little care,
Want stood aloof, though plenty came not there;
Yet still for holytides he kept a hoard
To mark the day, and grace his frugal board,
For of the saints, and tales of saintly lore,
Great was his love, and growing still his store.
To toil, sole guerdon of the sons of earth;
And tilled his scanty fields with little care,
Want stood aloof, though plenty came not there;
34
To mark the day, and grace his frugal board,
For of the saints, and tales of saintly lore,
Great was his love, and growing still his store.
Hard by his home an ancient wood o'erspread
The vale, divided by a river's bed,
That through its depths with melancholy tone
Swept on, by curling mists at evening shewn,
Grateful its shade, when summer's noontide glare
Blent wave and mountain with the dazzling air,
When his white robes had winter stern arrayed,
Its shelter warm, and grateful still its shade,
There with his ass of much-enduring mood,
Faggots he cut, and logs for fuel hewed;
And cheered poor Sancho with a hearty thwack,
When he heaped up the billets on his back,
Yet still his path along the outskirts kept,
Or open dingles, where the sunbeams slept,
Nor ever had he wandered farther in
Through the thick brakes that looked as black as sin,
He feared each long and sombre avenue,
The haunt of goblin grim, or loup-garou,
For all around was nothing to be seen
But thick-set branches, clothed in dismal green,
Nor birds were there, but ravens dark and rooks,
And moping owls in solitary nooks,
Nor beasts, save wandering hogs, that sought for mast,
And oft he crossed himself if they came past,
For into swine he knew that devils once were cast.
The vale, divided by a river's bed,
That through its depths with melancholy tone
Swept on, by curling mists at evening shewn,
Grateful its shade, when summer's noontide glare
Blent wave and mountain with the dazzling air,
When his white robes had winter stern arrayed,
Its shelter warm, and grateful still its shade,
There with his ass of much-enduring mood,
Faggots he cut, and logs for fuel hewed;
And cheered poor Sancho with a hearty thwack,
When he heaped up the billets on his back,
Yet still his path along the outskirts kept,
Or open dingles, where the sunbeams slept,
Nor ever had he wandered farther in
Through the thick brakes that looked as black as sin,
He feared each long and sombre avenue,
The haunt of goblin grim, or loup-garou,
For all around was nothing to be seen
But thick-set branches, clothed in dismal green,
35
And moping owls in solitary nooks,
Nor beasts, save wandering hogs, that sought for mast,
And oft he crossed himself if they came past,
For into swine he knew that devils once were cast.
It chanced one morning as to work he hied,
A distant tower unseen before he spied;
For the wild winter's wind a gap had made,
And heavy snows on brittle pines that laid,
And a new vista to the sight displayed.
At first he paused, and thought of goblin tricks,
But plucked up courage at the crucifix
That glittered clearly in the frosty air,
And showed the house of holy men was there;
Then with adventurous spirit brave and bold,
He sung three aves, and his beads he told,
And set forth towards this new discovery,
But tied his trusty ass beneath a tree.
A distant tower unseen before he spied;
For the wild winter's wind a gap had made,
And heavy snows on brittle pines that laid,
And a new vista to the sight displayed.
At first he paused, and thought of goblin tricks,
But plucked up courage at the crucifix
That glittered clearly in the frosty air,
And showed the house of holy men was there;
Then with adventurous spirit brave and bold,
He sung three aves, and his beads he told,
And set forth towards this new discovery,
But tied his trusty ass beneath a tree.
Just then two friars came slowly up the road
With sturdy backs, that bowed beneath their load,
For mendicants they were, who all around,
Begged alms, with good St. Francis' girdle bound,
And fitting was it, so they preached and said,
That all the neighbourhood should give them bread,
Who for the sins of all, so sore their saint bestead;
So round they went, and took their tithe in kind,
Sure proof of godliness, and willing mind;
And still by all 'twas ready to be paid,
Whate'er they asked, by matron and by maid;
For them poor Chanticleer forsook his post,
His cheerful voice, the village clock, was lost;
But 'twas no matter, for the convent tower
Far o'er the hills, could still proclaim the hour;
For them the earliest salads of the year,
And ripest fruits the peasant strove to rear,
And maize from off the terraced mountain's brow,
And sweetest cheeses from his only cow;
And they with holy words repaid the gift,
And absolution gave, and pious shrift,
And built up many a chapel for their saint
By the road side, lest zeal and grace should faint.
Which oft they visited in long array,
As circling months brought round a solemn day.
With sturdy backs, that bowed beneath their load,
For mendicants they were, who all around,
Begged alms, with good St. Francis' girdle bound,
And fitting was it, so they preached and said,
That all the neighbourhood should give them bread,
Who for the sins of all, so sore their saint bestead;
36
Sure proof of godliness, and willing mind;
And still by all 'twas ready to be paid,
Whate'er they asked, by matron and by maid;
For them poor Chanticleer forsook his post,
His cheerful voice, the village clock, was lost;
But 'twas no matter, for the convent tower
Far o'er the hills, could still proclaim the hour;
For them the earliest salads of the year,
And ripest fruits the peasant strove to rear,
And maize from off the terraced mountain's brow,
And sweetest cheeses from his only cow;
And they with holy words repaid the gift,
And absolution gave, and pious shrift,
And built up many a chapel for their saint
By the road side, lest zeal and grace should faint.
Which oft they visited in long array,
As circling months brought round a solemn day.
Of these good brethren the quicker one
Espied the ass, his name was Friar John;
For gibes and jests, in convent walls renowned,
Abroad the readiest at invention found,
Short scraps of prayers he knew, and half the creed,
And stoutly chanted, though he ne'er could read;
But most he shone in 'suasive eloquence,
And thus appeased the Prior for light offence;
No geese or poultry could his suit resist,
Their owners gave them, or they soon were missed;
And loss and murrain, sure they justly bought,
Who gave not alms, or grudged St. Francis aught.
“Gramercy,” quoth he, “but our shoulders' load
On that pack-saddle were as well bestowed;
'Tis a plain sin to slight the saint's decree
Who sent the ass, and tied him to the tree,
Patient his servants' due approach to wait,
Then drive him burthened to the convent gate;
But first put on this halter round my head,
I'll remain here a little in his stead.”
Espied the ass, his name was Friar John;
For gibes and jests, in convent walls renowned,
Abroad the readiest at invention found,
Short scraps of prayers he knew, and half the creed,
And stoutly chanted, though he ne'er could read;
37
And thus appeased the Prior for light offence;
No geese or poultry could his suit resist,
Their owners gave them, or they soon were missed;
And loss and murrain, sure they justly bought,
Who gave not alms, or grudged St. Francis aught.
“Gramercy,” quoth he, “but our shoulders' load
On that pack-saddle were as well bestowed;
'Tis a plain sin to slight the saint's decree
Who sent the ass, and tied him to the tree,
Patient his servants' due approach to wait,
Then drive him burthened to the convent gate;
But first put on this halter round my head,
I'll remain here a little in his stead.”
His fellow stared, and wondered what came next,
So new the sermon, though so old the text,
And loitered: “Hence,” again he cried, “begone,
I too shall follow with to-morrow's sun;
But tell the Prior a fever in the plain
O'ertook me toiling for the convent's gain,
And the good peasant, in whose house I rest
Bade thee go on, and answer for his guest,
And gave, lest like again should come to pass,
And holy men o'er-laboured be, his ass,
So may he be remembered in the mass.”
So new the sermon, though so old the text,
And loitered: “Hence,” again he cried, “begone,
I too shall follow with to-morrow's sun;
But tell the Prior a fever in the plain
O'ertook me toiling for the convent's gain,
And the good peasant, in whose house I rest
Bade thee go on, and answer for his guest,
And gave, lest like again should come to pass,
And holy men o'er-laboured be, his ass,
So may he be remembered in the mass.”
38
Back came the woodman, and the monk was gone,
So was his ass, but there was Friar John,
Erect with saintly garb, and shaven brow,
In the same place, where he the beast but now
Had left, and tethered to the self same bough;
Backward he started with a chilling fear,
And thought some spirit of the wood was near!
Scarce could he stammer, Benedicite,
His tongue seemed shrivelled, and his sense to flee,
His trembling fingers strove to sign the cross,
But strove in vain, and wandered at a loss;
What still at starlit dawn, or twilight grey
He feared to meet with, on his lonely way;
What by his fire, when nights were drear and cold
He heard, long howling on the wint'ry wold;
That viewless presence, which the awful shade
Of the dim forest to his thought conveyed,
And every tree that murmured o'er his head
Its cadence, seemed to summon from the dead.
There stood the very fiend before his sight,—
Tall, dark, and silent in the fading light,
And froze his veins, and palsied e'en his flight:
Then thus the Friar:—“Cease your fear, my son,
Nor tremble holy things to look upon;
No ghost or goblin can this garb assume,
Nor restless spirit, from unsainted tomb,
Of flesh and blood am I, though just restored
To my old shape, for which be Heaven adored!
And you, who quiver there, were long my lord:
Behold the fruits of pride and gluttony,
And shun them both, or fear to follow me;
For I all this, who sinfully forgot,
To a vile ass was changed;—and 'twas my lot,
As well thou knowest,—many a blow to bear!
How hard my burdens, and what scanty fare,
As once, of all our house, the only one,
Dainties profane, my heart was set upon,
Nor vigils kept, nor fasts, but only tried,
With outward show, the rotten core to hide.
Down to a beast, I fell, but still prevailed
My guardian spirit, for so sharply hailed
Oft on my back that stick, which well I know,
So shrewd its summons, and so sharp its blow;
So coarse my thistles, and so galled my skin,
My legs so weary, and my sides so thin,
That the blest company of saints above,
Who wore this girdle, for St. Francis' love,
Joint intercession made, my sentence to remove.
So was his ass, but there was Friar John,
Erect with saintly garb, and shaven brow,
In the same place, where he the beast but now
Had left, and tethered to the self same bough;
Backward he started with a chilling fear,
And thought some spirit of the wood was near!
Scarce could he stammer, Benedicite,
His tongue seemed shrivelled, and his sense to flee,
His trembling fingers strove to sign the cross,
But strove in vain, and wandered at a loss;
What still at starlit dawn, or twilight grey
He feared to meet with, on his lonely way;
What by his fire, when nights were drear and cold
He heard, long howling on the wint'ry wold;
That viewless presence, which the awful shade
Of the dim forest to his thought conveyed,
And every tree that murmured o'er his head
Its cadence, seemed to summon from the dead.
There stood the very fiend before his sight,—
Tall, dark, and silent in the fading light,
And froze his veins, and palsied e'en his flight:
Then thus the Friar:—“Cease your fear, my son,
Nor tremble holy things to look upon;
39
Nor restless spirit, from unsainted tomb,
Of flesh and blood am I, though just restored
To my old shape, for which be Heaven adored!
And you, who quiver there, were long my lord:
Behold the fruits of pride and gluttony,
And shun them both, or fear to follow me;
For I all this, who sinfully forgot,
To a vile ass was changed;—and 'twas my lot,
As well thou knowest,—many a blow to bear!
How hard my burdens, and what scanty fare,
As once, of all our house, the only one,
Dainties profane, my heart was set upon,
Nor vigils kept, nor fasts, but only tried,
With outward show, the rotten core to hide.
Down to a beast, I fell, but still prevailed
My guardian spirit, for so sharply hailed
Oft on my back that stick, which well I know,
So shrewd its summons, and so sharp its blow;
So coarse my thistles, and so galled my skin,
My legs so weary, and my sides so thin,
That the blest company of saints above,
Who wore this girdle, for St. Francis' love,
Joint intercession made, my sentence to remove.
40
“Again I come, once more a man on earth
Absolved from sin, of grace though little worth;
And my long days of degradation seem
Like the dim shadows of a troublous dream,
That daylight strives to banish, yet remain
In memory fixed, and dog the weary brain:
And still this halter seems as 'twere a link
To drag me o'er the precipice's brink.
Untie me, then, for Christian charity,
And once, my master, set thy servant free!
Then a poor pilgrim, at our founder's shrine,
Refuge I'll seek, and bless the powers divine!
Henceforth may peaceful days, and holy thoughts be mine.”
Absolved from sin, of grace though little worth;
And my long days of degradation seem
Like the dim shadows of a troublous dream,
That daylight strives to banish, yet remain
In memory fixed, and dog the weary brain:
And still this halter seems as 'twere a link
To drag me o'er the precipice's brink.
Untie me, then, for Christian charity,
And once, my master, set thy servant free!
Then a poor pilgrim, at our founder's shrine,
Refuge I'll seek, and bless the powers divine!
Henceforth may peaceful days, and holy thoughts be mine.”
Long stood the peasant in a corner pent,
And heard the words, scarce knowing what they meant;
And then, with trembling hand, untied the rope,
And beating heart, that hardly dared to hope,
Till by degrees composed, and re-assured,
He 'gan to think of all his ass endured;
'Twere long to tell the apologies he made,—
What saints invoked, or to what martyrs prayed;
Or how besought the Friar, at least to deign
With him that night in shelter to remain;
And pass we, too, the frugal cottage feast,
How round the fire, each feared to grow a beast.
His wife and daughter, and his grandsire old,
That wond'rous story when their guest had told,
How restless memory raked up every sin,
And conscience pricked their simple souls within!
And he in turns awoke, and soothed their dread;
But to the cheer looked most, and hugely fed,
Till came the hour of rest with sudden pace,
And for repose each sought their destined place.
But oft in bed with sleepless eyes they turned,
And looked where yet the embers dimly burned,
And thrilled to hear the watch-dog's lazy howl,
And shrunk in terror from the whooping owl;
For darkness thus to wonder lent her aid,
And filled with awe the superstitious shade;
Discordant thoughts their fevered fancies bring,
The ass of Balaam, and the Assyrian king.
At last to dreams confused their terrors glide,
And kind oblivion comes, that dreary train to hide.
And heard the words, scarce knowing what they meant;
And then, with trembling hand, untied the rope,
And beating heart, that hardly dared to hope,
Till by degrees composed, and re-assured,
He 'gan to think of all his ass endured;
'Twere long to tell the apologies he made,—
What saints invoked, or to what martyrs prayed;
Or how besought the Friar, at least to deign
With him that night in shelter to remain;
41
How round the fire, each feared to grow a beast.
His wife and daughter, and his grandsire old,
That wond'rous story when their guest had told,
How restless memory raked up every sin,
And conscience pricked their simple souls within!
And he in turns awoke, and soothed their dread;
But to the cheer looked most, and hugely fed,
Till came the hour of rest with sudden pace,
And for repose each sought their destined place.
But oft in bed with sleepless eyes they turned,
And looked where yet the embers dimly burned,
And thrilled to hear the watch-dog's lazy howl,
And shrunk in terror from the whooping owl;
For darkness thus to wonder lent her aid,
And filled with awe the superstitious shade;
Discordant thoughts their fevered fancies bring,
The ass of Balaam, and the Assyrian king.
At last to dreams confused their terrors glide,
And kind oblivion comes, that dreary train to hide.
But now the night was past, the dappled dawn
Stole o'er the woods, and streaked with light the lawn.
At the pale moon, the mastiff ceased to bay;
The clamorous rooks went wheeling on their way;
Flown from their perch the cocks crew loud and shrill;
The dew shone brightly, and the wind was chill;
Already sought the Monk his convent-door,
But left his dreaming hosts an hour before.
Strange was his tale, and wild the mystery,
Long o'er their hearts its shadows dark shall be,
And the grey convent, with its portal tall,
And sombre towers, and solitary wall,
And the faint echo of its pealing choir
Heard through the gate, shall solemn fear inspire;
For there, thus busy rumour through the dale
Plies wondering peasants with her ghostly tale;
For there he daily pours his orisons
Who once was man, and beast of burden once;
There prays that saintly father in his cell,
Saint though he was, to Satan's jaws who fell!
Oh! there in sooth is Sancho hid beside,
To a low pillar, by the chapel, tied,
Hard by a quaint old alabaster pile
Throws its long shadows o'er the lonely aisle;
And he who sleeps beneath it with his sword,
Once of these towers was hailed the feudal lord;
And great the largess to the church he gave
On death-bed laid, his sinful soul to save!
Now by his tomb, long reft of all its brass,
One monk, at midnight, chants a sleepy mass;
But who the knight, for whom he prays repose,
Scant is his care, perchance the Prior knows,
Or tomes can tell, their statutes that enclose.
There Sancho waits, within the cloistered court,
And crops its weeds, of fate foredoomed the sport!
Hard fate, yet harder than the marble stones,
On which he rolls and turns his weary bones!
Stole o'er the woods, and streaked with light the lawn.
At the pale moon, the mastiff ceased to bay;
The clamorous rooks went wheeling on their way;
42
The dew shone brightly, and the wind was chill;
Already sought the Monk his convent-door,
But left his dreaming hosts an hour before.
Strange was his tale, and wild the mystery,
Long o'er their hearts its shadows dark shall be,
And the grey convent, with its portal tall,
And sombre towers, and solitary wall,
And the faint echo of its pealing choir
Heard through the gate, shall solemn fear inspire;
For there, thus busy rumour through the dale
Plies wondering peasants with her ghostly tale;
For there he daily pours his orisons
Who once was man, and beast of burden once;
There prays that saintly father in his cell,
Saint though he was, to Satan's jaws who fell!
Oh! there in sooth is Sancho hid beside,
To a low pillar, by the chapel, tied,
Hard by a quaint old alabaster pile
Throws its long shadows o'er the lonely aisle;
And he who sleeps beneath it with his sword,
Once of these towers was hailed the feudal lord;
And great the largess to the church he gave
On death-bed laid, his sinful soul to save!
43
One monk, at midnight, chants a sleepy mass;
But who the knight, for whom he prays repose,
Scant is his care, perchance the Prior knows,
Or tomes can tell, their statutes that enclose.
There Sancho waits, within the cloistered court,
And crops its weeds, of fate foredoomed the sport!
Hard fate, yet harder than the marble stones,
On which he rolls and turns his weary bones!
Fresh blow the breezes from the blue Tyrol,
Down many a grassy slope and flowery knoll,
And bright green vineyards, which the fisher sees
In Guarda's mirror twined with mulberry-trees,
When down from Riva's mountain-shadowed shore,
Or Scarca's streams he plies with sail or oar.
Fresh blow the breezes, with untiring wing,
From Alp to plain, and all their voices bring,
From the drear regions of storm-drifted snow,
And gloomy forests, murmuring far below,
From the deep valley, which the sturdy steer
Ploughs with slow step, or where the muleteer
By craggy paths descending, hails the vine
Promise of rest, and cheers his patient line,
The cloud born torrent's wild and ceaseless swell,
The wood's long whisper, and the tinkling bell
Far up among those solitudes, the note
Of roaming heifer, or of browsing goat,
The hunter's challenge, or the herdsman's horn
From crag to crag by bounding echo borne,
Or sullen accents of some castle clock
That warns the warder on embattled rock;
With mingling sounds float far the heavens through,
Where faint the old, the wild wind gathers new,
And now it eddies round a little town
Girt with green hills, and streamlets gushing down
From cleft and gully in the mountains high,
In rock strewn channels swiftly racing by,
And in the midst there stands a market-place,
No pompous building, yet Italian grace
Can simple forms for use alone refine,
And please each peasant with its pure design.
'Twas this that reared for shelter and for shade
The lengthening vista of that cool arcade,
And carved above the windows fair to see
With scroll-wreathed arch, and crowning Fleur-de-lis;
'Twas this that fount its classic air that gave
And scooped the marble for the sparkling wave,
And where the ample vase its jet receives
The margin twined with lotus-imaged leaves;
No sculptured figures deck yon modest gate,
Nor laureate lines imperial guests relate,
Nor yet that word by faction still profaned
In cities proud, though better there maintained;
Gigantic blocks its rough hewn front compose,
With quiet grandeur meeting friends or foes,
Open without a sentinel it stands
And a long line of level road commands.
Down many a grassy slope and flowery knoll,
And bright green vineyards, which the fisher sees
In Guarda's mirror twined with mulberry-trees,
When down from Riva's mountain-shadowed shore,
Or Scarca's streams he plies with sail or oar.
Fresh blow the breezes, with untiring wing,
From Alp to plain, and all their voices bring,
From the drear regions of storm-drifted snow,
And gloomy forests, murmuring far below,
From the deep valley, which the sturdy steer
Ploughs with slow step, or where the muleteer
44
Promise of rest, and cheers his patient line,
The cloud born torrent's wild and ceaseless swell,
The wood's long whisper, and the tinkling bell
Far up among those solitudes, the note
Of roaming heifer, or of browsing goat,
The hunter's challenge, or the herdsman's horn
From crag to crag by bounding echo borne,
Or sullen accents of some castle clock
That warns the warder on embattled rock;
With mingling sounds float far the heavens through,
Where faint the old, the wild wind gathers new,
And now it eddies round a little town
Girt with green hills, and streamlets gushing down
From cleft and gully in the mountains high,
In rock strewn channels swiftly racing by,
And in the midst there stands a market-place,
No pompous building, yet Italian grace
Can simple forms for use alone refine,
And please each peasant with its pure design.
'Twas this that reared for shelter and for shade
The lengthening vista of that cool arcade,
And carved above the windows fair to see
With scroll-wreathed arch, and crowning Fleur-de-lis;
45
And scooped the marble for the sparkling wave,
And where the ample vase its jet receives
The margin twined with lotus-imaged leaves;
No sculptured figures deck yon modest gate,
Nor laureate lines imperial guests relate,
Nor yet that word by faction still profaned
In cities proud, though better there maintained;
Gigantic blocks its rough hewn front compose,
With quiet grandeur meeting friends or foes,
Open without a sentinel it stands
And a long line of level road commands.
And now along that poplar shaded way
Come young and old, and rich and poor to-day,
For this the morrow of St. Julian's fair
When hither make the neighbourhood repair;
Glad time by wandering minstrel gaily sought,
For present joy, and food for future thought;
By many a maid anticipated long,
Then shall she join the revel and the song;
By thrifty burghers reckoned oft and well,
Then pence may turn, and crowns to ducats swell.
Together mixed they throng from every side,
Pour through the streets, and fill the market wide,
There gathering groups contentious struggles wage
To hear the Merry-Andrew on his stage,
There lowing cattle their green pastures mourn,
Unconscious victims, never to return;
And by that pillar stands a crop-eared ass,
And with sonorous jaws salutes the crowd who pass.
The silk-worm spinning on his mulberry tree,
Feasts on the leaves, in roses hums the bee;
The bright bird flutters in the summer fruit,
And trills glad carols, till the winds are mute,
As if they listed to a spirit nigh
Of sunshine born, some Ariel of the sky;
But the plain peasant who his profit sees
In silken produce from his wasted trees,
And reared those flowers to tempt the honey bees;
Who rests attentive in the evening air,
Nor stirs one step the wild bird's song to scare,
Well with that minstrel pleased his grapes to share
Sometimes but scantly gives, and grudges sore
The daily drone, still begging at his door,
And lest through this dissent and heresy
Should come to pass, as wont too oft to be,
And one bad sheep should poison all the plains,
Strict is the law St. Francis' rule ordains.
And fair without the convent needs must show,
And in poor guise its humble brethren go,
For men might think their tale a lazy farce
Who begging went with panniers, and an ass.
Thus Sancho came rejected to the fair,
Long his old master stood, and eyed him there,
And listened to his voice, and scanned him o'er,
And wondered, doubted, little, less, no more,
Then in a sudden passion thus he stormed,
“Oh, sordid wretch, a second time transformed,
Whom saints nor angels have from sin released,
Nor thy dark foretaste with thy fellow beasts,
Nor fasts nor vigils in yon holy fane,
Nor vows nor warning ever made in vain;
Who in thy cell so well hast used the time,
As now to bear a second load of crime,
From that vile purgatory scarcely free,
Sure 'tis thy fate that sends thee here to me,
And this same stick that served thee well of old,
Again must bring thee back to speech and human mould.
Nay, never shake thy head, nor yet deny,
The devil fails thee in so foul a lie,
Nor look with sidelong eyes, and backward ears,
For every kick thou shalt repay with tears.”
By this, around them grew the jeering crowd,
For strange their gestures, and their converse loud;
The affrighted ass, who all this lecture heard,
Still shook his head, nor understood a word;
The woodman stamped, and Sancho 'gan to bray,
He clutched his staff, but first was forced to pay;
Then having bought his own, he led him home,
And gave him earnest of the time to come;
And oft, and sore the shrinking beast must feel
How sharply fall thy blows, oh, soul-compelling zeal.
Come young and old, and rich and poor to-day,
For this the morrow of St. Julian's fair
When hither make the neighbourhood repair;
Glad time by wandering minstrel gaily sought,
For present joy, and food for future thought;
By many a maid anticipated long,
Then shall she join the revel and the song;
By thrifty burghers reckoned oft and well,
Then pence may turn, and crowns to ducats swell.
46
Pour through the streets, and fill the market wide,
There gathering groups contentious struggles wage
To hear the Merry-Andrew on his stage,
There lowing cattle their green pastures mourn,
Unconscious victims, never to return;
And by that pillar stands a crop-eared ass,
And with sonorous jaws salutes the crowd who pass.
The silk-worm spinning on his mulberry tree,
Feasts on the leaves, in roses hums the bee;
The bright bird flutters in the summer fruit,
And trills glad carols, till the winds are mute,
As if they listed to a spirit nigh
Of sunshine born, some Ariel of the sky;
But the plain peasant who his profit sees
In silken produce from his wasted trees,
And reared those flowers to tempt the honey bees;
Who rests attentive in the evening air,
Nor stirs one step the wild bird's song to scare,
Well with that minstrel pleased his grapes to share
Sometimes but scantly gives, and grudges sore
The daily drone, still begging at his door,
And lest through this dissent and heresy
Should come to pass, as wont too oft to be,
47
Strict is the law St. Francis' rule ordains.
And fair without the convent needs must show,
And in poor guise its humble brethren go,
For men might think their tale a lazy farce
Who begging went with panniers, and an ass.
Thus Sancho came rejected to the fair,
Long his old master stood, and eyed him there,
And listened to his voice, and scanned him o'er,
And wondered, doubted, little, less, no more,
Then in a sudden passion thus he stormed,
“Oh, sordid wretch, a second time transformed,
Whom saints nor angels have from sin released,
Nor thy dark foretaste with thy fellow beasts,
Nor fasts nor vigils in yon holy fane,
Nor vows nor warning ever made in vain;
Who in thy cell so well hast used the time,
As now to bear a second load of crime,
From that vile purgatory scarcely free,
Sure 'tis thy fate that sends thee here to me,
And this same stick that served thee well of old,
Again must bring thee back to speech and human mould.
Nay, never shake thy head, nor yet deny,
The devil fails thee in so foul a lie,
48
For every kick thou shalt repay with tears.”
By this, around them grew the jeering crowd,
For strange their gestures, and their converse loud;
The affrighted ass, who all this lecture heard,
Still shook his head, nor understood a word;
The woodman stamped, and Sancho 'gan to bray,
He clutched his staff, but first was forced to pay;
Then having bought his own, he led him home,
And gave him earnest of the time to come;
And oft, and sore the shrinking beast must feel
How sharply fall thy blows, oh, soul-compelling zeal.
No more the ass can into man sublime;
Vain as Medea's smoky crucible
Old Pelia's limbs to nerve, the cudgel fell,
As the fond wishes of that sister train
Who stood around, the peasant's hopes were vain,
Broken and poor, in pale October's sun,
He looked already as his race were run,
And still he knew nor respite nor repose,
His weal to work, redoubled were his blows;
49
One icy morn his master stood aghast,
For there lay Sancho 'neath his roofless shed,
Frozen, and stark, and famished, stiff and dead.
And he must mourn for ever, for the soul
Of sinful friar, past his mortal goal
In beastly form, by holy Church unshriven,
Outcast of earth, unchanged and unforgiven!
The friar in convent hidden safely bides,
And hapless Sancho's fate with subtle smile derides.
50
THE STRATEGY OF DEATH.
HOW THREE REVELLERS WENT TO FIND DEATH, AND HOW THEY FOUND HIM.
Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.
SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI.
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.
SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI.
Who tells old tales, and with the purple wine
Warms his hoar forehead, calling out, Divine
Beautiful Bacchus, and God Mercury,
And Venus, daughter of the choral sea,
That 'gainst the land deep melodies doth make
In the pale moonshine when the forests shake,
Bowed by the north wind toward the leaping waves?
Who calls great poets from their haunted graves,
Around the living still the spells to throw
That in their hearts men treasured long ago?
'Tis thou, old Winter. Come—thou comest soon
With wizard mantle, for thy crescent moon
Shines like a flame behind the chesnut bare,
Whose black boughs shiver in the whistling air.
51
And charm the angry spirit of the skies,
That o'er the seas the shipman safe may sail,
O'er all those liquid accents should prevail.
But I will tell a wild and tragic story
Again, with which the father and the glory
Of Albion's verse his famous pilgrimage
To Canterbury sped, where many an age
Down to the dust of that Archbishop bent
High mind, and lowly, with the same consent,
The Pardoner told it, onward as they went.
An antique legend of thy days of pride
'Tis now, fair Bruges, in the horizon wide
Far, by thy tower of mariners descried.
But they go gliding on their airy track
To Baltic shores and Danish Skagerack.
Or where the Dutchman from his wave-lashed piles
To Helder looks, and Texel's sandy isles,
And hails his convoy, that with canvass free
Breasts the long swell of rolling Zuyder Zee,
And memory's filmy pall hangs idly over thee.
'Tis now, fair Bruges, in the horizon wide
Far, by thy tower of mariners descried.
But they go gliding on their airy track
To Baltic shores and Danish Skagerack.
Or where the Dutchman from his wave-lashed piles
To Helder looks, and Texel's sandy isles,
And hails his convoy, that with canvass free
Breasts the long swell of rolling Zuyder Zee,
And memory's filmy pall hangs idly over thee.
But when thy streets to gathering earth displayed
The pomp of arms and lustiness of trade,
And thronged the stranger merchants in thy squares,
And spoke thy speech, and still thy gates were theirs,
And in thy port was clustered many a prow,
By pier and tower so solitary now;
Then sat three revellers, where a golden pard,
Emblem of riot , seemed its haunts to guard.
Noontide and night they sat, and when for prime
The yawning verger slowly wakes the chime,
And scared the grave old burghers with their fray,
Who slow to matins went, and chaffered by the way.
The pomp of arms and lustiness of trade,
52
And spoke thy speech, and still thy gates were theirs,
And in thy port was clustered many a prow,
By pier and tower so solitary now;
Then sat three revellers, where a golden pard,
Emblem of riot , seemed its haunts to guard.
Noontide and night they sat, and when for prime
The yawning verger slowly wakes the chime,
And scared the grave old burghers with their fray,
Who slow to matins went, and chaffered by the way.
Danced a lone girl, and twirled her tambourine,
And shook pale roses from her scattered hair
Like hopes forgot, and none replaced them there.
Oft stood the gipsy 'neath the morning star
And looked like priestess of pale Lucifer.
But happier maidens with averted eye
Sped the rude haunt of losel lingerers by,
On where the Dome its bird-loved steeple rears,
And cleaves the air as glory cleaves the years,
With hurrying steps they passed, and joyed to gain
The open space that guards the holy fane,
53
And leave the noisy narrow street behind.
Oh pure as light their orisons arose
That breathes at dawning on the earth's repose,
When flowers awake, and birds are singing shrill
At airy distance, o'er the highest hill.
But far from these, by gilded palisade
Fenced from the aisle, one day a grave was made,
For one was coming, whom his florins' grace
Had gained within a knightly resting-place,
And honour, neath oblivion's nodding plume;
There's many a changeling memory on a tomb.
And when with long procession and with dole,
And priests with burly gait, that for the soul
Of their beloved brother lustily
Sang hymns, the pomp those wassailers came by,
And through the hostel rang the tinkling bell:
“Go forth Sir Tun, and look thou answer well,”
Thus cried they, “whom they carry in the street.”
Quoth the tall host, and looked down on his feet,
And up at the black rafters, as he drew
A troubled sigh, “Too well, alas! ye knew
His name and him, a comrade old and true.
54
And doors were barred, and stars were shining bright,
And played the moonlight, like a spirit lone
Down the long street, and all its crowds were gone,
There came a felon dark that haunts these ways
And in this country all the people slays,
And none can see him with his biting spear,
But still they shout, and shudder, Death is here!—
And there is nothing—save a cold pale form—
And wailing women and the funeral worm;
And so he smote yon gallant, as he sat
Full feasted, with a feather in his hat.
There was an end of drinking song I trow,
And the grey monks may bear his body now;
And hark, the Miserere low they sing.
But yesterday he revelled as a king,
Lo now he goeth like a Lazarus ,
With bell before him to his narrow house—
Alas! my masters, ye may rail and jeer,
When conscience wakes, 'tis evil reckoning here.
Aye, and 'twere better 'gainst this pestilence
Our peace to patch, for not an hour hence,
55
In a waste place, that hath a village been;
A Charnel now.”—But up with one accord
These madmen sprung, and stamped upon the board:
“What, dost thou tell us of a murdering thief,
And think to shield him with a priest's belief,
And bid us from his coming shrink and fly!
Stand back,” they shouted. “Varlet—we defy
Him whom thou palterest of—this traitor, Death!
And we will seek him over holt and heath,
And in his ribs our thirsty daggers sheath;
And of his black blood thou shalt see the stain
On their sharp points, when here we drink again!”
Thus shalt thou go begging from house to house,
With cuppe and clapper like a Lazarous.
With cuppe and clapper like a Lazarous.
Testament of Creseide.
Men thought that he was cheated of his score,
And wondered why with shaded eyes he stood,
And watched their flight in visionary mood.
Scarce dies the echo of their mad career,
Yet ring their wild words in his startled ear;—
But they are gone! Why stand like Terminus
With a blank visage, Vintner, gazing thus?
Without the town, beside a grassy mead,
Where willows shade the cattle as they feed,
56
Through scented clover round the fallen trees,
And, all unconscious of his treachery,
The partridge cowers, as carts go creaking by,
There sat an old man, looking at the smoke
From a grey tower in lazy wreaths that broke.
Idly he seemed to look; but in his mind
Were pilgrim thoughts, that many a shrine could find
E'en in that simple scene;—the village road,
The cheerful green leaves, and the stork's abode
High on the roof, such roof as Rubens drew,
Or Teniers shadowed with aërial hue,
And girt with feathery trees, that light falls through
On coigne and turret, of Time's stealthy foot
Long worn, but thither like a funeral mute
He comes, with nodding panoply arrayed,
And bears the shield aloft, and warrior blade,
And hangs it up on some high monument.
There sat the old man, on his dreams intent;
And forward on his staff to meet the sunshine leant.
But when this brotherhood, like a band of thieves
That lurk by Moësel, with its rocks and leaves,
57
Came by the place, and saw him sitting there,
“Ha! what art thou?” with sudden start they cried;
“Stand up, and tell us what dost here abide
With that foul visage, like a corbel head
Fixed in a church, that seems to watch the dead,—
Why livest on, all stony thus and cold?”
Full in their faces look'd the beadsman old,
Full in their faces, on a winter night,
As a keen planet, with its steady light,
Far Saturn, that on shrews doth sorrow cast,
Looked the old man, and thus he spoke at last—
“What if I said, because, although I went,
Staff-borne and slow, to Ardennes or to Ghent,
By fair or forest none would change with me
His youth, and age my portion yet must be,
And lonely now along the world to roam,
And muse what Death may be when he shall come,
And call me whither wander or repose
Kin, children, friends, and all that memory knows:—
What if I said, my hovel dark and small
Beats back my heart's blood with its chilly wall,
And fain I'd see the sun; but fainer far
Rest 'neath the turf where yonder lilies are.
58
And wit that sits in mocking mouths agape;
Speed ye, fair sirs.” “And thinkest thus to fly,
Thou false old villain with a goblin eye!
Watchest for Death? Aye, thou art his espy.
There moves no life-blood in thy felon face,
That scowls like Judas at our kindly race;
Long are thine arms, and devilish they seem,
I saw thee yester-even in a dream.
But now thy guile shall have a fitting end,
And his own slave betray thy master fiend.
He sits in ambush with his venomed bow,
But thou the spot, old double traitor, show;
For we revenge our brothers he hath slain.”
“Nay, sirs,” the old man calm replied again,
“If Death ye seek, dwells he not every where,
As present and as common as the air?
But who from his all compassing abode
Would call him, as the lightning from the cloud,
And with him in his shadow battle wage?
Marry the world grows valiant in its age!
The Egyptian sorcerers than this did less,
And Endor's king-subduing prophetess,
They called the dead, that came not at their call,
59
Ye Death himself, the victor over all.
Know ye whence comes and whither goes the wind
In the black forest howling deep behind,
Say can ye see it, when the crashing trees
Fall down, and scatter from their combs the bees,
And on it goes, at evening hovering round,
Old towers and gates, with lamentable sound?
They say that ghosts walk then, sad multitude!
And he compels them where they laughed and wooed,
And built, but viewless doth he hurry past,
And frights the living with the moaning blast.
Yet seek, he shall appear. In yonder grove,
Who dare the challenge there may find his glove.
God speed the right! Messires, fare as ye may,
I go in peace, self-bidden ye to fray.”
Calm as a shadow on his lonely path
He went; but they, as who a devil hath,
Shouted and leapt; and ever as they ran,
Fenced at the thin air, that with gentle fan
Curled the long rye-grass on the banks, and made
A soft low murmur in each dusky glade,
60
That on the grey Dunes dark and heavily
Came rolling, and the solitary sands,
Where watching for a sail the pilot stands.
Close by a moor, where sullen waters stood:
There lurked the boar unheeded through the year,
Nor dwelling rose nor church-bell sounded near,
Nor woodman wandered in the paths, nor piled
His charcoal hearths, long blackening in the wild;
Grim looked the shatter'd trees with damp defiled.
E'en as that king, condemn'd seven years to crawl
And gaze with beasts at Babel's lofty wall,
Who scorned the world might fitly there converse
With baser things, pride's everlasting curse;
And with dark shadows all encompass'd sit,
And feed with dreams his melancholy wit,
Still rooted like a mandrake in the place,
Till witches might believe him of the race
Of Hecate, watching with malignant mien
Her favourite bounds, and, save by them, unseen.
61
And wavering shades that restless beasts discern,
And start and tremble, and towards the plain
Scour with swift feet, and stand and gaze again,
As if their blood, long since at altars shed,
Still feared by kind some spirit of the dead,
And shrunk before the thirsty Manes dread.
There went a murmur through the dreary wood,
As 'twere the spirit of its solitude,
All sad and sudden to their ears it flew,
And sprung to meet them as they nearer drew;
But there are now in groves no auguries,
All idly whisper on the shivering trees.
As 'twere the spirit of its solitude,
All sad and sudden to their ears it flew,
And sprung to meet them as they nearer drew;
But there are now in groves no auguries,
All idly whisper on the shivering trees.
And long they pierced the deepening gloom in vain,
And wearied Echo gave their shouts again;
Scared like a fawn, she leapt from side to side,
And mid the many stems their voices multiplied.
Why sinks the clamour, on a sudden mute?
Why glare their eyes on each arrested foot?
Is Death turned serpent, that his yellow fold,
Coil upon coil in massive order rolled,
His ruby gleaming eyes, his scales of fiery gold?
'Twas gold, 'twas ruby, many an Eastern gem,
The crows might see it shining, but to them
The sticks around were better worth, and they
Had left it there, unheeded as it lay;
High circling in the air they wheeled above,
And flapped her heavy wings the startled dove;
The owl looked out from his ancestral yew,
Clear as a topaz shone his great eyes through,
Why for that heap, thought he, so much ado?
But, gold, thou knowest o'er the human heart
Thy sway to keep, and playest well thy part;
Thou art the merchant, and the world thy mart.
And there thou buyest love and ancient ties;
Like evening shadows pale and wan they rise,
And dull oblivion's night assumes the skies.
Lo through its depths with ever-changing face
Looks Mammon down, and rules the worldly race;
All crowd his form to interpret and to see,
And pass the science of the old Chaldee.
To some all glorious as the stars he seems,
Pomp swells their hearts and pride inspires their dreams;
Some mark his sticks and dog, and clouted shoon,
And love that frugal old man of the moon;
Some with inventive mind see other signs,
And each his fortune curiously divines.
So stood, of Death forgetful, all the three,
And watched the heap in silent reverie;
Their heads were dizzy and their hearts were full,
It was so mighty and so beautiful,
Till one began:—“Wake up, and dream no more!
Play out the play; 'tis time when that is o'er,
Then may ye sit on dais or in hall,
And bid the Bishop to your festival,
Or hear sweet voices in a silken bower,
Or in the council speak against the hour,
And men shall cry out, “Well said, worthy peer—
“False knave, art mutt'ring? and his lordship here!
“Who saith this noble was a dicer base?”
Aye, but between us and such gentle grace
Stands Fortune with a veil, and points afar
To the pale east, and waits her coming star.
O sovereign lady! in the stilly night,
When malice snores, and law's unresting spite
Dreams, be it, so in sleep, of trap and gin
To snare thy votaries, doth thine hour begin.
Then may we bear the treasure safe away
And live like imps of thine each coming day.
But now the sun, broad and inquisitive,
Glows o'er the paths, and buzzing insects live
That sting into the quick. The debtors cling
To prison bars, in sunshine gathering,
And bailiffs watch like shepherds o'er the fold.
Short shrift betides us, if they see the gold.
Then here we'll wait, and to the pale moonshine
Pour the rich flood, as saith the book, of wine.
This is thy court, and revel we will keep,
Till toil's hard-handed fools are fast asleep.”
Then quick the hemlocks round a goblin ring
They cut for lots, and drew who wine should bring.
Firm seemed their fellowship, nor like to part,
But each had other counsel in his heart,
And for his brother's wheat the tare forecast.
The reeds were hid. Who drew the longest was the last.
“Ave Maria!” quoth he as he went,
“Had I those florins, how I might repent!
Now to the devil's service I am sold,
To buy his fetters I have spent my gold,
And still must pay his usury with sin:
Foul bond! but then anew I might begin,
And I for thee a stately shrine could build.
And the tall columns of the altar gild,
And hire a holy man to shrive my soul.
Why share with yonder thieves, when I can have the whole?”
“No need of discord and uncivil strife,”
(For he was downward looking at his knife,)
The fiend, who lured him, as with mantle red
Men lure the adder, softly whispering said—
“They brawl in taverns, and for fortune's son
'Twere well the manner and the place to shun,
For wine, good store, or Rhenish be't or Clary,
There is none better than the Apothecary.”
So went he, dwelling in a museful vein
On wine and sins, and shrift and sudden gain;
And then as sudden found him at the town,
And cleared his looks and drew his mantle down.
And as he passed a reliquary kissed,
And in a cloister found the sage of whom he wist.
And wearied Echo gave their shouts again;
Scared like a fawn, she leapt from side to side,
And mid the many stems their voices multiplied.
Why sinks the clamour, on a sudden mute?
Why glare their eyes on each arrested foot?
Is Death turned serpent, that his yellow fold,
Coil upon coil in massive order rolled,
His ruby gleaming eyes, his scales of fiery gold?
'Twas gold, 'twas ruby, many an Eastern gem,
62
The sticks around were better worth, and they
Had left it there, unheeded as it lay;
High circling in the air they wheeled above,
And flapped her heavy wings the startled dove;
The owl looked out from his ancestral yew,
Clear as a topaz shone his great eyes through,
Why for that heap, thought he, so much ado?
But, gold, thou knowest o'er the human heart
Thy sway to keep, and playest well thy part;
Thou art the merchant, and the world thy mart.
And there thou buyest love and ancient ties;
Like evening shadows pale and wan they rise,
And dull oblivion's night assumes the skies.
Lo through its depths with ever-changing face
Looks Mammon down, and rules the worldly race;
All crowd his form to interpret and to see,
And pass the science of the old Chaldee.
To some all glorious as the stars he seems,
Pomp swells their hearts and pride inspires their dreams;
Some mark his sticks and dog, and clouted shoon,
And love that frugal old man of the moon;
Some with inventive mind see other signs,
And each his fortune curiously divines.
63
And watched the heap in silent reverie;
Their heads were dizzy and their hearts were full,
It was so mighty and so beautiful,
Till one began:—“Wake up, and dream no more!
Play out the play; 'tis time when that is o'er,
Then may ye sit on dais or in hall,
And bid the Bishop to your festival,
Or hear sweet voices in a silken bower,
Or in the council speak against the hour,
And men shall cry out, “Well said, worthy peer—
“False knave, art mutt'ring? and his lordship here!
“Who saith this noble was a dicer base?”
Aye, but between us and such gentle grace
Stands Fortune with a veil, and points afar
To the pale east, and waits her coming star.
O sovereign lady! in the stilly night,
When malice snores, and law's unresting spite
Dreams, be it, so in sleep, of trap and gin
To snare thy votaries, doth thine hour begin.
Then may we bear the treasure safe away
And live like imps of thine each coming day.
But now the sun, broad and inquisitive,
Glows o'er the paths, and buzzing insects live
64
To prison bars, in sunshine gathering,
And bailiffs watch like shepherds o'er the fold.
Short shrift betides us, if they see the gold.
Then here we'll wait, and to the pale moonshine
Pour the rich flood, as saith the book, of wine.
This is thy court, and revel we will keep,
Till toil's hard-handed fools are fast asleep.”
Then quick the hemlocks round a goblin ring
They cut for lots, and drew who wine should bring.
Firm seemed their fellowship, nor like to part,
But each had other counsel in his heart,
And for his brother's wheat the tare forecast.
The reeds were hid. Who drew the longest was the last.
“Ave Maria!” quoth he as he went,
“Had I those florins, how I might repent!
Now to the devil's service I am sold,
To buy his fetters I have spent my gold,
And still must pay his usury with sin:
Foul bond! but then anew I might begin,
And I for thee a stately shrine could build.
And the tall columns of the altar gild,
65
Why share with yonder thieves, when I can have the whole?”
“No need of discord and uncivil strife,”
(For he was downward looking at his knife,)
The fiend, who lured him, as with mantle red
Men lure the adder, softly whispering said—
“They brawl in taverns, and for fortune's son
'Twere well the manner and the place to shun,
For wine, good store, or Rhenish be't or Clary,
There is none better than the Apothecary.”
So went he, dwelling in a museful vein
On wine and sins, and shrift and sudden gain;
And then as sudden found him at the town,
And cleared his looks and drew his mantle down.
And as he passed a reliquary kissed,
And in a cloister found the sage of whom he wist.
As if beyond his power he would divine,
And pushed insatiate his searching art
Through nature's mazes with an iron heart.
Of crystal made, a visor oft he wore,
When he upon his crucibles would pore,
66
And rose invisibly, as doth the devil,
Smooth and impenetrable as that he was,
But ready still with all who came to glose.
He could predict, they said, and fortunes tell,
But they knew best who tried it if 'twere well.
Yet sold he wine that gladdens every heart,
And drops balsamic for the dagger's smart,
And juice of herbs medicinally good,
And leaves distilled, the simples of the wood;
And rats he could for friends' and neighbours' bane,
He said not how, they never came again.
Strife waged he none, and with the notary
Kept league, that still 'twixt learned men should be.
But these between, while sped the cunning speech,
That told how red the wine should be and rich,
And coldly smiled that serviceable man
As down the flask the precious liquor ran,
There was another plot within the wood—
Invisible was Death, but near he stood;
And he smiled too, it went so lovingly,
As the red sunset glinted through the tree,
67
There sat its keepers, each with bending head,
And with a smooth assent heard what the other said.
But time tries concord, as in winter weather
Jar the crack'd bells, and chime no more together:
Wrath looks the burgomaster at the clock,
And thinks his worship it doth basely mock,
But still with harsh and hollow clang it calls,
And crones bode evil to the echoing walls.
'Twas evil then, for back the poisoner came,
And they to meet him as in friendly game
Sprung up: “Than never better late,” they cried,
And with it dealt the stroke, and straight he died.
Right out his soul that stunning fiery blow
Sent forth to realms obscure, where spirits go.
And they the bottles caught and wasted not,
A blood-red stain their wicker case had got,
And then all reckless to their revel past;
Deeply they drank and many a main they cast:
Of their last day the minutes fleeted fast.
Drear through the shades the cold brook bubbled on,
The wind swept hoarsely o'er the darkened lawn,
They strove to rise, but all their power was gone.
68
Bear off the gold; why linger 'neath the bough?
Dull falls the rain;—is this a gallant's trim?
With mouth distorted, leaden eyes and grim;
Ye sought for Death,—what! have ye met with him?
What! did he rise before your troubled sight,
Like vengeful ghost that cometh in the night,
Or Ghoul, that murder scents afar, and stands
By fresh-made hillocks in Arabian lands?
They knew not; pain and fear, that sudden sprung
Like the cold wind, and parched each shivering tongue,
And, every thought with visions dread confused,
Slow dragged their souls away, and limbs unloosed.
Pale with their heads to earth, as if to shun
Some phantom shape they lay, and all was done.
And they who came the rusty daggers found
And aconite fresh springing on the ground,
And left them there to mingle with the clay,
Death long had gone from them some other way.
69
TO THE RIVER DEE.
By the Elbe and through the Rheinland, I've wandered far and wide,
And by the Save with silver tones, proud Danube's queenly bride;
By Arno's vales, and Tiber's shore, but never did I see
A river I would match with thine, old Druid haunted Dee!
And by the Save with silver tones, proud Danube's queenly bride;
By Arno's vales, and Tiber's shore, but never did I see
A river I would match with thine, old Druid haunted Dee!
I've stood where Sorga gushes forth Valchiusa's marble cave
As bright as when to deathless verse its name Petrarca gave
In fair Verona's palaces—the towers of Avignon
But Adige was not like to thee, nor blue and sunny Rhone.
As bright as when to deathless verse its name Petrarca gave
In fair Verona's palaces—the towers of Avignon
But Adige was not like to thee, nor blue and sunny Rhone.
72
I've heard great Danube roaring far, and sailed upon his breast,
And seen beneath his sea like wave the sun sink down to rest;
And by the Po, which Virgil loved—and by his Mantuan stream,
And Iser hailed of poets now, bright with Art's favourite beam.
And seen beneath his sea like wave the sun sink down to rest;
And by the Po, which Virgil loved—and by his Mantuan stream,
And Iser hailed of poets now, bright with Art's favourite beam.
But though beside thy waters wild no Munich e'er will rise
Far sweeter is their liquid voice, and it hath dearer ties,
And liv'st thou not in song my Dee, when of Milton thou canst claim
A portion of the awful love, and the everlasting name.
Far sweeter is their liquid voice, and it hath dearer ties,
And liv'st thou not in song my Dee, when of Milton thou canst claim
A portion of the awful love, and the everlasting name.
By the Moorish towers of Andernach, beneath a walnut's shade
Thus speed my faithful thoughts to thee, though a little Rhenish maid
Has twined a wreath of water-flowers, round a flask of Wurtzberg wine
And bad me give of streams the palm to their old Fader Rhein.
Thus speed my faithful thoughts to thee, though a little Rhenish maid
Has twined a wreath of water-flowers, round a flask of Wurtzberg wine
And bad me give of streams the palm to their old Fader Rhein.
73
DEATH OF THE VENETIAN JEW.
On the sands of the Lido, when wild waves are rolling
'Gainst the lone beach, and the thunder-bell tolling ,
Deep through the midnight from yonder proud city,
That the heavens may have mercy on those who've no pity;
'Gainst the lone beach, and the thunder-bell tolling ,
Deep through the midnight from yonder proud city,
That the heavens may have mercy on those who've no pity;
Oh, bury the outcast, the proud Christian spurneth
To rest with the Jew, when to dust he returneth;
With those of my nation my weary bones cover,
But far, far from Venice, my spirit shall hover.
To rest with the Jew, when to dust he returneth;
With those of my nation my weary bones cover,
But far, far from Venice, my spirit shall hover.
76
From the land where our masters no longer can task us,
I shall watch the grey olive-tree wave o'er Damascus;
From the peaks of high Lebanon, sacred and hoary,
I shall look o'er my country, and think of its glory.
I shall watch the grey olive-tree wave o'er Damascus;
From the peaks of high Lebanon, sacred and hoary,
I shall look o'er my country, and think of its glory.
Ye hate us, proud nobles, perchance we repay ye,
When we walk in your palaces masters, how say ye?
Then in vain ye may spell o'er each Visigoth letter
In your old titles, the usurer's better.
When we walk in your palaces masters, how say ye?
Then in vain ye may spell o'er each Visigoth letter
In your old titles, the usurer's better.
And when o'er your islands again grows the willow,
And the mud of their ruins shall stain the white billow,
The race ye have trampled, once more like the cedar,
Shall flourish in glory, with heaven to lead her.
And the mud of their ruins shall stain the white billow,
The race ye have trampled, once more like the cedar,
Shall flourish in glory, with heaven to lead her.
The bells of Catholic churches on the continent are always tolled during a thunder storm:—
“And storm-bell tolling to beguile
The cloud-born thunder passing near.”
The cloud-born thunder passing near.”
Campbell.
77
TO A COCK OF THE WOODS,
IN A POULTERER'S SHOP, LONDON.
While thou didst speed, oh bird, over Norwegian walds,
And thy shrill crow was heard, where the Runemen, and the Skalds,
Their mystic signs have hidden in the shade of birch and pine;
Hence was thy far fate bidden, that an Alderman might dine.
And thy shrill crow was heard, where the Runemen, and the Skalds,
Their mystic signs have hidden in the shade of birch and pine;
Hence was thy far fate bidden, that an Alderman might dine.
Oh luxury! thy hunger o'erleaps the northern waves;
Not famine's prayer is stronger for the crust that misery craves;
As the mist flits o'er the forest, and down the deepest dell,
Wild bird, where'er thou soarest, thou art followed by her spell.
Not famine's prayer is stronger for the crust that misery craves;
As the mist flits o'er the forest, and down the deepest dell,
Wild bird, where'er thou soarest, thou art followed by her spell.
78
PROMETHEUS.
Dark in the moonlight by his shape of clayStill watched Iapetus' high-reaching son,
But when the light winds flew before the day
He seized Aurora, with exulting tone
Crying, “Up bear me thou who with Tithōn
Makest thy yellow couch;” and suddenly
On came the whirling chariot of the Sun,
And he his torch hath lighted craftily;
“Ha!” shouted the great Titan, “I have won
Equality with the Usurper, hence shall be
Many a strong spirit, nor on earth alone,
Hell shall they pierce, and Hades, and the sea,
And with the gods wage war and love divine,
Making sweet songs to me from many a famous shrine.”
79
CHIMES OF ANTWERP.
One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go,
For Ghentish Charles 'twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so,
And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone
They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.
For Ghentish Charles 'twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so,
And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone
They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.
They float above the Place de Mer, and o'er thy roofs and towers,
Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers;
And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too,
As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you.
Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers;
And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too,
As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you.
One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go:
'Twas thus on Rubens' ear at eve their sounds were wont to flow;
And still o'er his best monument , with monumental tone,
They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.
'Twas thus on Rubens' ear at eve their sounds were wont to flow;
And still o'er his best monument , with monumental tone,
They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.
80
DIANA.
“Why then you may leave a casement of the great chamber window open,
and the moon may shine in at the casement.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Where thy fane, time-riven,
Crowns the marble hill,
And sailing up the heaven,
Thy crescent decks it still;
Though the Asian timbrel,
And the bounding foot,
And song, and Lesbian cymbal,
That hailed thee once, be mute;
A stranger of old days dreaming,
Alone at midnight hour,
When mystic stars are gleaming,
Diana hails thy power.
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Of all the gods denied
To thee the gift another
Had, and in virgin pride
Bade thee spurn the myrtle,
Chaste, and cold, and true,
(Oh, in his nest the turtle
Wreaths cypress branches too)
Yet the shining river,
And the waving tree,
Fresh and fair for ever,
Oh, gave she not to thee?
Still amid the wild wood
Let thy horn rebound,
As in dreaming childhood
I've heard its silver sound,
Stealing far and faintly,
O'er wakened wold and wave,
While echo answered quaintly,
From out her star-lit cave.
82
THRASIMENE.
How bright the peaceful sun upon the lake,
How rich the plain, with corn, and wine, and oil,
That with scared echoes heard the war-cry wake,
When fell Rome's lion in the Moorish toil;
Scarce knows the peasant of that battle day,
Save that it fell in ages far away.
How rich the plain, with corn, and wine, and oil,
That with scared echoes heard the war-cry wake,
When fell Rome's lion in the Moorish toil;
Scarce knows the peasant of that battle day,
Save that it fell in ages far away.
Yet though no Carthaginian now await,
With legions swift, and terrible, and strong,
And elephants, whose force might break the gate
Of high Cortona; boast not, lest ere long
Your visions of security be fled,
And captive you by Doganieri led.
With legions swift, and terrible, and strong,
And elephants, whose force might break the gate
Of high Cortona; boast not, lest ere long
Your visions of security be fled,
And captive you by Doganieri led.
83
Vile caitiffs, who in wait for travellers lie,
And make them have recourse to magic spell
That lurks in dollars, from their searching eye
To hide at Rome, what might not do to tell
Had passed the frontier of that sacred land;
That feels St. Peter's keys, like burning brand.
And make them have recourse to magic spell
That lurks in dollars, from their searching eye
To hide at Rome, what might not do to tell
Had passed the frontier of that sacred land;
That feels St. Peter's keys, like burning brand.
84
[The leaf that scarce had burst its bud]
The leaf that scarce had burst its budWhere Hartz' wild mountains rise,
Nor waved in beauty till the flood
Of ancient Elbe had met my eyes,
Now hangs all withered on the spray,
By Vallombrosa's cloister grey;
And mellow autumn once again
Hath tinted hill, and wood, and plain,
From old Ravenna's gloomy pine,
To the chestnut covered Apennine.
Oct. 27th.
85
THE CARDINAL.
Onward thou sweepest, haughty cardinal,
Pomp in thy train, dominion in thine eye,
As if thou dreamedst Rome imperial
Still ruled the world, as in the days gone by;
Onward thou sweepest, and the crowd adore
Thy footsteps, and thy blessings still implore.
Pomp in thy train, dominion in thine eye,
As if thou dreamedst Rome imperial
Still ruled the world, as in the days gone by;
Onward thou sweepest, and the crowd adore
Thy footsteps, and thy blessings still implore.
Doth, as a prisoned eagle's, chafe thy spirit
In secret 'neath that bearing calm and high,
When he sees the wide heaven he should inherit,
And his clipt wings, to soar that vain would try?
Or art thou soothed with purple majesty,
The shadow, though the substance may not be?
In secret 'neath that bearing calm and high,
When he sees the wide heaven he should inherit,
And his clipt wings, to soar that vain would try?
Or art thou soothed with purple majesty,
The shadow, though the substance may not be?
86
E'en as upon the great first Cæsar's throne,
With orb and diadem Augustulus
Sat, trembling when from northern Elbe or Rhone
Came sounds of Gothic warriors, to us
Dost thou seem successor of those who trod
On nations, who now teach thee how they're shod.
With orb and diadem Augustulus
Sat, trembling when from northern Elbe or Rhone
Came sounds of Gothic warriors, to us
Dost thou seem successor of those who trod
On nations, who now teach thee how they're shod.
Yet, oh! think not so scornfully, but rather
Say, Rome is likest Julius, in her fall,
When dying in the capitol, the father
Of empire caught his mantle for a pall,
Shrouding himself with robes of royal state,
That fitly the world's lord might sink to fate.
Say, Rome is likest Julius, in her fall,
When dying in the capitol, the father
Of empire caught his mantle for a pall,
Shrouding himself with robes of royal state,
That fitly the world's lord might sink to fate.
Rome, Nov. 1. Giorno d'ogni Santi.
87
LINES.
The owl he loves the ivy tod, the dove the myrtle tree,—Which bird hath the better taste? come tell, my muse, to me.
With ivy Bacchus wreathes his brows, and merrily shouts he,
But Venus blessed the myrtle boughs, as she rose from out the sea;
'Tis gladsome in the festive hall when goblets flow with wine,
When hearts are brimming o'er with love, the joy is more divine;
Ha, ha!—for me the maddening wreath shall wild Bacchante twine,
But let her mix some myrtle buds, and then it shall be mine.
91
PESCARA.
Haste! mother, haste! smoke blackens the blue sky,
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Fear not, my daughter, 'tis our land to save
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you loved a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you loved a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
92
Yes, but that lance ne'er rode in Spanish ranks,
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, for he watches there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, for he watches there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
93
PINE OF HERTZGOVITZ.
Lofty pine of Hertzgovitz, rooted in the riven stone,
'Neath thy shade a maiden sits, on the wild rock all alone;
Softly to herself she singeth, and her accents blend with thine,
What the burden that she bringeth, to thy songs oh dreamy pine?
'Neath thy shade a maiden sits, on the wild rock all alone;
Softly to herself she singeth, and her accents blend with thine,
What the burden that she bringeth, to thy songs oh dreamy pine?
Mourns she that her youth is over, soon its bloom the sunbeam draws;
Mourns she for an absent lover, captive in the Turkish wars;
Of thy rout, oh red Kossova, sings she, and the olden day,
Or the dreary swamps that cover Lewis and his lost array?
Mourns she for an absent lover, captive in the Turkish wars;
Of thy rout, oh red Kossova, sings she, and the olden day,
Or the dreary swamps that cover Lewis and his lost array?
94
Sombre are the forest shadows streaked with light that round her move,
Floating o'er the narrow meadows far beneath, where white herds rove,
As the wind, the shade, the sunset, wild and sombre thus should be
Songs of love or battle's onset, 'neath thy boughs, oh whispering tree.
Floating o'er the narrow meadows far beneath, where white herds rove,
As the wind, the shade, the sunset, wild and sombre thus should be
Songs of love or battle's onset, 'neath thy boughs, oh whispering tree.
Lewis the Second, who, being defeated by the Turks at Mohacs A. D. 1526, met the fate in the marshes round that place, which befell Prince Poniatowski in the Elster, after the battle of Leipsic—
“Rex ipse ubi aciem suam inclinare vidit, verso in fugam equo ad paludes delatus, cum in ripam eluctari conatur ab equo resupino in cœnum depressus suffocatur.”
Rosenich. Hist. Hungariæ.95
TO AN EAGLE.
Wild bird, they say that who like thee
Would soar, must single-minded be,
Nor love life's light variety;
Over seas and mountains blue
Ever with the sun in view,
If it shine not in the sky,
Seeing still with inner eye;
And so in famous story
Shall they have after glory.
Would soar, must single-minded be,
Nor love life's light variety;
Over seas and mountains blue
Ever with the sun in view,
If it shine not in the sky,
Seeing still with inner eye;
And so in famous story
Shall they have after glory.
But the supple snake below,
With his winding courses slow,
Uttereth in his heart, “Ho, Ho!
For one spirit of the air
There are thousands of the earth;
Cautiously with me they fare,
Through the depths I lead them forth:
And so in famous story
Have they the surer glory.”
With his winding courses slow,
Uttereth in his heart, “Ho, Ho!
97
There are thousands of the earth;
Cautiously with me they fare,
Through the depths I lead them forth:
And so in famous story
Have they the surer glory.”
The while comes Winter with his frosts behind
And stayeth either course, and killeth all the kind.
And stayeth either course, and killeth all the kind.
98
WRITTEN UNDER THE PINE IN THE COLONNA GARDEN, ROME.
un pino
Fra l'herba verde, e'l bel monte vicino
Onde si scende poetando.
Petrarca.
Fra l'herba verde, e'l bel monte vicino
Onde si scende poetando.
Petrarca.
Glorious Colonna, whom Petrarca served
With poet-love, and saw in thee the name
Of Italy upheld, and his own fame
Blended with that so long by thee deserved,
Until whate'er men knew of worth and honour
Was measured by the standard of Colonna:
Here spreads a loftier pine, than by the curved
Valchiusa sprung to greet him: shadowing
Thine empty halls, thy temple ivy-curled.
Alas! it is the old age of the world,
But to thy memories I make offering:
For ever in my heart, where'er I go,
I bear those brave words of old Stephano—
Him to my thought did Rome's first aspect bring.
99
FRAGMENTS.
A RUINED VENETIAN SPEAKING OF HIS PICTURES.
------ they were
The gods of my idolatry;—'twas heaven,
When silence reigned in the noon-heated air
That sparkled o'er the quiet city, even
As a lone statue in a Theban cave
Shut from the world without, and the dull throng
Of fools, or those hard spoilers who have riven
Them all away, to hear the rippling wave
Beneath the lattice, with its summer song,
And gaze upon the forms that Titian drew,
And the deep dells that wild Salvator knew;
And bid again the inspiration wake
That woke their being, for the gazer's sake:
There Venus her Adonis did pursue,
And I pursued intent, with glittering eyes,
The fancies that sweet vision bade arise;
But there he lay upon the blood-stained dew
Of the unharboured boar, sad sacrifice—
Oh, soul delighting tales of Grecian story
There were ye all;—and by whom torn away!
The concentrated light of all your glory
Ne'er pierced their dull hearts with one single ray—[OMITTED]
The gods of my idolatry;—'twas heaven,
When silence reigned in the noon-heated air
That sparkled o'er the quiet city, even
As a lone statue in a Theban cave
Shut from the world without, and the dull throng
Of fools, or those hard spoilers who have riven
Them all away, to hear the rippling wave
Beneath the lattice, with its summer song,
And gaze upon the forms that Titian drew,
And the deep dells that wild Salvator knew;
100
That woke their being, for the gazer's sake:
There Venus her Adonis did pursue,
And I pursued intent, with glittering eyes,
The fancies that sweet vision bade arise;
But there he lay upon the blood-stained dew
Of the unharboured boar, sad sacrifice—
Oh, soul delighting tales of Grecian story
There were ye all;—and by whom torn away!
The concentrated light of all your glory
Ne'er pierced their dull hearts with one single ray—[OMITTED]
The beech let faithful Hobbima portray
With branching arms, and bark of silver grey,
And the tall spire at airy distance seen
O'er Flemish meads, their tapering stems between,
But Cuyp shall paint the waters' oozy bride,
The willow pale, by marshy meadow's side,
And dappled herds beneath the shade reclined,
And wild geese high above, far streaming down the wind;
The tawny oakwoods in their summer glow,
See Rubens gird with heaven's unfailing bow,
Light o'er their shaggy foreheads seems to sail
The shade, companion of the showery gale,
And peasants hurry round the loaded wain,
To house the haycocks ere the coming rain.[OMITTED]
With branching arms, and bark of silver grey,
And the tall spire at airy distance seen
O'er Flemish meads, their tapering stems between,
But Cuyp shall paint the waters' oozy bride,
The willow pale, by marshy meadow's side,
And dappled herds beneath the shade reclined,
And wild geese high above, far streaming down the wind;
101
See Rubens gird with heaven's unfailing bow,
Light o'er their shaggy foreheads seems to sail
The shade, companion of the showery gale,
And peasants hurry round the loaded wain,
To house the haycocks ere the coming rain.[OMITTED]
102
FROM A FRAGMENT OF GALLUS.
Thou com'st to me by morn my love, and thou art brighter far,Than the new light, and if by night than Hesper's rising star.
104
FROM OVID'S EPISTLE OF SAPPHO TO PHAON.
Take the lyre and quiver,
And like Apollo be,
He, Daphne loves for ever,
Oh could she sing like me,
The cold nymph scorned his love, but she is still his tree.
And like Apollo be,
He, Daphne loves for ever,
Oh could she sing like me,
The cold nymph scorned his love, but she is still his tree.
Bid thy spirit's glory
Beam through thy golden hair,
'Tis said in poets' story
Such horns doth Bacchus wear,
He loved a museless maid, but Sappho must despair.
Beam through thy golden hair,
'Tis said in poets' story
Such horns doth Bacchus wear,
He loved a museless maid, but Sappho must despair.
105
PROTEUS.
“You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
From clime to clime hath made the world obey,
That cunning ruler, in whose teeming shrine
Each human passion found a power divine,
A heavenly patron, from the immortal sphere
To shield and guard its lowlier follower here;
Though passed their rites, and dwindled to a tale
The names that awed each old Ionian vale;
Yet still shall one, of all mankind pursued,
Their changeful passions as of old delude;
Aye still shall Proteus his old shapes assume,
And cheat that world, which Reason's rays illume:
106
Now start Napoleon to their humbled eyes,
Then change again, and as they dash away
That brazen idol with the feet of clay,
Another still they find, and still shall he,
Whate'er his mask, their cunning mocker be.
So like the changes of their various will,
Some thought that Reason was but Proteus still.
As erst the god, so sings the Mantuan sire,
Now seemed a faggot—now a flame of fire;
So now he filled that intellectual blaze
That flashes glory on these later days;
And bids us, nobly daring, to despise
Whate'er our fathers counted to be wise.
They err; from far, mysterious Reason shines,
With meaning fraught, which many a seer divines,
And cries Eureka—till a cloud between
With envious shade reverses all the scene;
'Tis he, 'tis Proteus, from her presence dread
To vex the dreams of gazing nations sped;
And every neck with adoration bowed,
Still hails that changing semblance of a cloud.
107
Though fair and false, inconstant still as he;
No more he drives across the mountain's brow
His ancient herds, far others serve him now;
But still strange portents on his coming wait,
When Reason bids him blind her slaves elate:
Thus when (pale arbitress of wits and tides,)
O'er heaven the moon in fullest radiance rides,
Then elves and fays, her airy tribes arrayed
In shapes fantastic, flutter o'er the glade,
And cheat the wandering clown, and 'lated village maid.
Thus she commands, and well obeys the sprite
The hests imperious of her mystic might:
From Gaul's green vineyards, from the Belgic plains,
Now calls the many to cast off their chains:
Now helps some prophet, whom they think the true,
By force or fraud to forge them all anew.
Once for religion blood obscured the sun,
But now the wise are liberal, or for none;
108
As Proteus changes rush the world to wars.
What, though the peasant, doomed afar to roam,
Weep his burnt field, and desecrated home;
The ruined merchant mourn his useless store,
Locked up by strife, with famine at the door;
The silent palace, with its nobles fled,
The herbless earth, the black and smouldering shed,
The extinguished hearth, by rapine lonely made,
Despair, suspicion of itself afraid,
That sits a cloud in childhood's thoughtful eye,
And watches ever, lest a foot be nigh,
And every form of death, and every woe
That fate can bring, or frenzy can bestow;
Oh what are these to philosophic mind,
To rule the world, and reconstruct designed?
Light in that lofty reasoner's scale are they,
“To-morrow's sun will smile them all away,”
But with that morrow, still another storm,
To some of ruin tells, and some, reform.
Hard, then, their fate whom evil fame pursues,
As tyrants branded by the partial Muse,
That as her scribes indite the reader sways;
Hard Borgia's lot in Machiavelli's praise.
109
That he had won, and lull his foes to sleep,
From which, perchance, they woke not; death might wait,
Disguised as welcome, smiling at his gate,
And gathering hosts for him might trample o'er
The prostrate city—drench the earth with gore;
Yet let the eagle bear the palm away
From baser vultures, and the prating jay;
To strife if empire's Roman game allure,
Vain-glorious sophist, are thy hands more pure?
The world would gaze on Reason face to face,
Then burns like Semele in Jove's embrace:
And still as years emerge from their abyss
Shows many a Paris 'gainst Persepolis:
Patriot, or tyrant come, for judgment stand;
This loves persuasion, loftier this command,
The sword's their last appeal, and ever near at hand.
And well may one in Tuscan vales reclined,
To thoughts like these direct a willing mind.
Here from each land where late my steps have trod,
Which slept as yet, nor dreamt it felt the rod,
New tidings, still the same, while rumour brings,
And shakes o'er thrones her venom-dropping wings;
While the gay city of the Seine displays
Her last new trophies of the “Immortal days;”
And guarded well with citizens' bright blades,
Her fresh reared banner greets the barricades;
While some remodel, some support the state,
And this would act, and that deliberate;
And by the stern dark column of the Man ,
His scars of Wagram shows the veteran,
And gazes upward, with a kindling eye,
As if Napoleon's spirit from the sky,
A moment hovered o'er the pedestal
Whence once his image, not his memory, fell:
While booms the cannon through thy squares, Bruxelles,
And Diebitsch leaves unreached the Dardanelles,
To front by Warsaw's serried wall afar,
Storms that may veil his fame's ascending star;
Light of the world, whose love to thee is more
Than all Olympus ever knew before,
(Thy kindred gods, who left their power to thee,
Oblivion quaffing of their deity
In Æthiop's cavern, deep beneath the sea;)
Light of the world and leader! still appear
As there thy strife, its dinted footsteps here,
As there the war, the agony, the grief,
Here the same traces, but with time's relief.
To thoughts like these direct a willing mind.
Here from each land where late my steps have trod,
Which slept as yet, nor dreamt it felt the rod,
New tidings, still the same, while rumour brings,
And shakes o'er thrones her venom-dropping wings;
110
Her last new trophies of the “Immortal days;”
And guarded well with citizens' bright blades,
Her fresh reared banner greets the barricades;
While some remodel, some support the state,
And this would act, and that deliberate;
And by the stern dark column of the Man ,
His scars of Wagram shows the veteran,
And gazes upward, with a kindling eye,
As if Napoleon's spirit from the sky,
A moment hovered o'er the pedestal
Whence once his image, not his memory, fell:
While booms the cannon through thy squares, Bruxelles,
And Diebitsch leaves unreached the Dardanelles,
To front by Warsaw's serried wall afar,
Storms that may veil his fame's ascending star;
Light of the world, whose love to thee is more
Than all Olympus ever knew before,
(Thy kindred gods, who left their power to thee,
Oblivion quaffing of their deity
In Æthiop's cavern, deep beneath the sea;)
Light of the world and leader! still appear
As there thy strife, its dinted footsteps here,
111
Here the same traces, but with time's relief.
But ye who shrink repugnant from the strife,
The restless winds that plough the seas of life,
And seek but peace, wherein to shape your way
To future mansions of eternal day,
Lo, Vallombrosa rears her grey retreat,
Her solemn walls for contemplation meet;
Her smooth-mown lawns, where studious feet may roam,
And pore at ease o'er many an antique tome;
Above, around, in long fantastic line,
Sweeps with his woods the circling Apennine.
And glad the sights the musing friar sees,
The far smoke rising mid the chestnut trees,
The sparkling ether o'er the distant plain,
Blue as the bosom of the summer main,
The milk-white ox, slow winding up the steep,
The laughing peasant, and his vintage heap;
Till lengthening shadows of the westward sun,
Spread their veil round him as the day glides on.
Then may his steps, untired with the scene,
Seek the trim garden's cypress-covered screen,
And trace at leisure on the virgin page,
The virtuous precept, or example sage:
Or fates of kingdoms, which of yore befell.
'Twas thus grew many a famous chronicle,
With silver clasps, and gilded letters quaint;
The pictured lives of martyr, or of saint,
Or gests of valorous knight, his arms who bore
To smite the Turk, on Jordan's sacred shore.
Perchance with terror riding on his spear,
Flew as the eagle's his unchecked career;
Perchance left singly, scorning yet to yield,
He sunk to rest beneath his broken shield:
Then turned his comrades, maddening at the thought,
And dear the trophy from the field they brought.
High in some old cathedral's gothic aisle
In storied pomp his monument they pile;
Around his tomb the priest may masses sing,
Where banners wave, and odorous censers swing,
And the stained oriel sheds its colours bright,
In uncouth tracery telling of the fight:
But ages roll, and soon before their blast
Must all we see be mingled with the past;
No more that roof its pinnacles shall raise,
A few grey stones, a tale of other days,
That tells of splendour, ere the foemen came,
And smote its shrines, and gave its towers to flame,
And bade destruction in one ruin whelm
The shepherd's rude-carved crook, the warrior's helm;
A few green walls shall rise its site along;
Where now the tomb that should his fame prolong?
Yet shall he live, and still each high emprize
Shall fire the wanderer 'neath those eastern skies;
Though gone their sculptured record, and defaced
The marble pillars of that blackened waste;
Still as the monk's recital opes to view,
Dressed in old phrase, his memory wakes anew;
Each wreath of victory won on field or flood,
By lonely mountain, or enchanted wood,
The oppressor slain, the damsel's fetters rent,
And pagan caitiffs down to Hades sent.
Nor scorn the themes which Ariosto sung,
And ancient Chaucer Woodstock's oaks among,
And hence reflected to our later day,
In Scott's wild page, and Dryden's classic lay.
Yet may he love through evening's silent hours
To woo the Muses from Athenian bowers,
Or problems deep beneath the stars to trace,
Mysterious lore of Afric's swarthy race.
By sacred signs sent down from sire to son,
Where Thebes' wide gates saw ancient Nilus run
Past mirror'd temples, through that mighty clime,
The nurse of realms long yielded since to time;
The awful fount, whence young Achaia drew
Her lore, and fledged her eagle ere it flew;
And shook, while hovered o'er her callow wings
The ancestral grandeur of a thousand kings.
Long time sequestered in the cloistered cell,
War's maddening demons bade such science dwell;
Slow crept the pilot yet, nor dared to brave
The hidden terrors of the pathless wave;
Enough for him his timid course to shape,
From creek to creek, and jutting cape to cape,
And wait with sails in sheltering haven furled,
When the breeze freshened or the billows curled.
But earth has shaken off her widow weeds;
And led by peace, a bolder age succeeds.
Lo, El Dorado opes her countless store—
Can fancy image, avarice pant for more?
Hark to the beach, how varied nations throng,
Waked by the clang of fame's resounding gong;
Wild with desire, their hearts responsive leap;
Hence, cavaliers, your home is o'er the deep!
Each thirsty lance that longs for battle's din,
Each squire that burns his knightly spurs to win,
Each moon-struck bard, of golden realms, that feigns,
Here is the clime where Artemisia reigns.
Each sage with schemes of true perfection warm,
Here last was seen Utopia's fleeting form:
Haste, for the gates of darkness are unbarred,
And show beyond a dusky vision, starred
With wealth and peace, too soon to fade before
Assembled legions on her plundered shore.
Swift as the winds they spurn the Atlantic main,
And fast before night's gloomy shadows wane,
And bright in morning radiance to the old
Spreads the new world her dower of thrones and gold.
No more shall victor shun the billow's roar,
And halt his legions on the curtailed shore,
To shed, or gather, as his bosom swells,
Tears with young Ammon, with the Roman shells.
That clime which his and Bacchus' rule confest,
Must bend before her sister of the west;
And waves and whirlwinds, now a vanished fear,
But serve to waft him to that glorious sphere.
The restless winds that plough the seas of life,
And seek but peace, wherein to shape your way
To future mansions of eternal day,
Lo, Vallombrosa rears her grey retreat,
Her solemn walls for contemplation meet;
Her smooth-mown lawns, where studious feet may roam,
And pore at ease o'er many an antique tome;
Above, around, in long fantastic line,
Sweeps with his woods the circling Apennine.
And glad the sights the musing friar sees,
The far smoke rising mid the chestnut trees,
The sparkling ether o'er the distant plain,
Blue as the bosom of the summer main,
The milk-white ox, slow winding up the steep,
The laughing peasant, and his vintage heap;
Till lengthening shadows of the westward sun,
Spread their veil round him as the day glides on.
Then may his steps, untired with the scene,
Seek the trim garden's cypress-covered screen,
And trace at leisure on the virgin page,
The virtuous precept, or example sage:
112
'Twas thus grew many a famous chronicle,
With silver clasps, and gilded letters quaint;
The pictured lives of martyr, or of saint,
Or gests of valorous knight, his arms who bore
To smite the Turk, on Jordan's sacred shore.
Perchance with terror riding on his spear,
Flew as the eagle's his unchecked career;
Perchance left singly, scorning yet to yield,
He sunk to rest beneath his broken shield:
Then turned his comrades, maddening at the thought,
And dear the trophy from the field they brought.
High in some old cathedral's gothic aisle
In storied pomp his monument they pile;
Around his tomb the priest may masses sing,
Where banners wave, and odorous censers swing,
And the stained oriel sheds its colours bright,
In uncouth tracery telling of the fight:
But ages roll, and soon before their blast
Must all we see be mingled with the past;
No more that roof its pinnacles shall raise,
A few grey stones, a tale of other days,
That tells of splendour, ere the foemen came,
And smote its shrines, and gave its towers to flame,
113
The shepherd's rude-carved crook, the warrior's helm;
A few green walls shall rise its site along;
Where now the tomb that should his fame prolong?
Yet shall he live, and still each high emprize
Shall fire the wanderer 'neath those eastern skies;
Though gone their sculptured record, and defaced
The marble pillars of that blackened waste;
Still as the monk's recital opes to view,
Dressed in old phrase, his memory wakes anew;
Each wreath of victory won on field or flood,
By lonely mountain, or enchanted wood,
The oppressor slain, the damsel's fetters rent,
And pagan caitiffs down to Hades sent.
Nor scorn the themes which Ariosto sung,
And ancient Chaucer Woodstock's oaks among,
And hence reflected to our later day,
In Scott's wild page, and Dryden's classic lay.
Yet may he love through evening's silent hours
To woo the Muses from Athenian bowers,
Or problems deep beneath the stars to trace,
Mysterious lore of Afric's swarthy race.
By sacred signs sent down from sire to son,
Where Thebes' wide gates saw ancient Nilus run
114
The nurse of realms long yielded since to time;
The awful fount, whence young Achaia drew
Her lore, and fledged her eagle ere it flew;
And shook, while hovered o'er her callow wings
The ancestral grandeur of a thousand kings.
Long time sequestered in the cloistered cell,
War's maddening demons bade such science dwell;
Slow crept the pilot yet, nor dared to brave
The hidden terrors of the pathless wave;
Enough for him his timid course to shape,
From creek to creek, and jutting cape to cape,
And wait with sails in sheltering haven furled,
When the breeze freshened or the billows curled.
But earth has shaken off her widow weeds;
And led by peace, a bolder age succeeds.
Lo, El Dorado opes her countless store—
Can fancy image, avarice pant for more?
Hark to the beach, how varied nations throng,
Waked by the clang of fame's resounding gong;
Wild with desire, their hearts responsive leap;
Hence, cavaliers, your home is o'er the deep!
Each thirsty lance that longs for battle's din,
Each squire that burns his knightly spurs to win,
115
Here is the clime where Artemisia reigns.
Each sage with schemes of true perfection warm,
Here last was seen Utopia's fleeting form:
Haste, for the gates of darkness are unbarred,
And show beyond a dusky vision, starred
With wealth and peace, too soon to fade before
Assembled legions on her plundered shore.
Swift as the winds they spurn the Atlantic main,
And fast before night's gloomy shadows wane,
And bright in morning radiance to the old
Spreads the new world her dower of thrones and gold.
No more shall victor shun the billow's roar,
And halt his legions on the curtailed shore,
To shed, or gather, as his bosom swells,
Tears with young Ammon, with the Roman shells.
That clime which his and Bacchus' rule confest,
Must bend before her sister of the west;
And waves and whirlwinds, now a vanished fear,
But serve to waft him to that glorious sphere.
Ye cloisters worn by dedicated feet,
116
To penance vowed, to solitude, to God,
Here may the world's tired children rest at length,
And mourn no longer for their wasted strength;
Youth's fading dreams, ambition's weary game,
And 'vantage lost, and visionary fame!
But say, on every brother doth descend
That sainted peace, that owns but heaven its end?
Hope for the future in the realms above,
Good will on earth, and unaspiring love!
Far other thoughts, to yonder lonely boy,
Each sunrise brings, night's wakeful hours employ;
The last, and meanest of the convent train,
By birth a peasant, none in heart or brain,
His soaring fancy grasps the days to come,
Thy chair, St. Peter, and the might of Rome!
The savage swine his ruder brothers tend
In the deep woods, when autumn's dews descend;
Of daily hire they think, or winter wild,
Nor heed the visions of the book-learned child.
Oh, still unquiet spirits love to range
The world with thee, thou subtle lord of change,
Alike they strive for princedom, and for power,
Pent in a cell, or throned in palace tower;
117
When the priest plotted, and the warrior fought;
What need of sword and slaughter, when the bell,
And torch, and curse, and book, will serve as well,
And easy souls persuade they're sent to hell?[OMITTED]
118
[Good friend, the world hath many sorts of men]
Good friend, the world hath many sorts of men,As many sorts of trees, and herbs, and flowers,
Which from the gifts that common are to all
Do each draw up their several differences;
And in the garden close beside the rose
Springs aconite, and in the wild wood too
The hemlock and the violet: some with love,
And some with juice medicinal, and some
With laughter, creeping poison, or quick death,
Where life flies gasping out as from a blow,
Speak to the heart of man, and yet they spring
From the same earth, aye, even in the same day:
Sunshine and winter, moonlight and the dew,
Are natural to all.
119
ON THE PAINTING OF THE FATES, BY MICHAEL ANGELO.
In the dark pile that Luca Pitti built,
And now his foe's descendant o'er the plain
Of Arno looks from out, and sees sun-gilt
The city Time beleaguers but in vain;
Abide the Fates: call up thy soul and see
With Buonarotti's eyes those sisters three.
And now his foe's descendant o'er the plain
Of Arno looks from out, and sees sun-gilt
The city Time beleaguers but in vain;
Abide the Fates: call up thy soul and see
With Buonarotti's eyes those sisters three.
He saw them thus; within his secret heart
Hath many a man a vision of his own,
Shapeless and dread, that with a sudden start
He flies, a shadow 'twixt him and the moon,
The pale light of his wandering phantasy;
But these are heirs of Grecian memory.
Hath many a man a vision of his own,
Shapeless and dread, that with a sudden start
He flies, a shadow 'twixt him and the moon,
The pale light of his wandering phantasy;
But these are heirs of Grecian memory.
120
A WINTER SCENE.
Chacun pourtant conservera son culte.
De Beranger.
De Beranger.
It is the Winter, sharp and suddenly
His angel frost hath breathed upon the land:
Tartuffe now at the Chancel door doth stand,
Dispensing loaves from others charity,
And round about him come a hungry band
With piteous voice and asking eyes, but he
A little backward sheltered from the wind,
A book turns over, for the Church must be
Maintained, and therein all who are behind
With Easter dues are writ; 'tis poverty
Moves them, but duty stern his reverence,
The loaves were given The Church, with pious mind,
And justly they by wanting, must be fined,
Although it grieves him, till they pay their pence.
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