 | The Unknown Madonna and Other Poems |  |
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I. POEMS IN MANY LANDS
Second Series
THE UNKNOWN MADONNA.
I know that picture's meaning,—the unknown,
Called School of Umbria; it stands alone;
Those prayerful fingers never worked to fame,—
A master's hand, though silence keeps his name.
But for the meaning, gaze awhile and plain
The thought he worked in warms to life again:
Love made those features living, such a face
Smiled once,—on whom? Say in a lofty place
He could not climb to,—in those eyes' blue deeps
The reverence of unreached ideals keeps
The human memory, not a face of dreams,
And coldly beautiful, but one that seems
Caught in the likeness that a lover's eyes
Devoutly worshipped to idealize;
And since creation is akin to prayer
He made that face God's Mother, and set her there
Among the lilies by the hill-side town.
And then the child, a flower-face to crown
The human love-dream, little hands entwined
Round one surrendered finger, to my mind
Just such close watching, tenderness expressed
As those who miss it learn to look for best.
Perugian, say we,—look, the lilies lean
Against the mountain, dips the vale between,
Yonder's Assisi on the nearer ridge,
And that's the gorge that hides the giant bridge
Joining Spoleto, and beyond, away
Hill-crests like waves in purple to midday.
That was his thought, to make his art her shrine,
And lift her human up to the divine;
So smiles Madonna, so evermore sits she
Against the Umbrian blue mountain sea.
Called School of Umbria; it stands alone;
Those prayerful fingers never worked to fame,—
A master's hand, though silence keeps his name.
But for the meaning, gaze awhile and plain
The thought he worked in warms to life again:
Love made those features living, such a face
Smiled once,—on whom? Say in a lofty place
He could not climb to,—in those eyes' blue deeps
The reverence of unreached ideals keeps
The human memory, not a face of dreams,
And coldly beautiful, but one that seems
Caught in the likeness that a lover's eyes
Devoutly worshipped to idealize;
And since creation is akin to prayer
He made that face God's Mother, and set her there
Among the lilies by the hill-side town.
2
The human love-dream, little hands entwined
Round one surrendered finger, to my mind
Just such close watching, tenderness expressed
As those who miss it learn to look for best.
Perugian, say we,—look, the lilies lean
Against the mountain, dips the vale between,
Yonder's Assisi on the nearer ridge,
And that's the gorge that hides the giant bridge
Joining Spoleto, and beyond, away
Hill-crests like waves in purple to midday.
That was his thought, to make his art her shrine,
And lift her human up to the divine;
So smiles Madonna, so evermore sits she
Against the Umbrian blue mountain sea.
Why do I think so? Why, because if I
Could paint just one such picture ere I die,
Make one thought everlasting, I would choose
His theme, the Mother and the Child, and use
A face as sweet as this was; in the Child
Reflect its beauty, only undefiled
Of pain and sorrow and knowledge, and would set
Both in a garden that is lilied yet
With beds her own hands tended, and enclose
All in a girdle of the hills she chose
Of earth's fair homes to dwell in, keeping so
The tender fragrance of dead years ago.
Could paint just one such picture ere I die,
Make one thought everlasting, I would choose
His theme, the Mother and the Child, and use
A face as sweet as this was; in the Child
Reflect its beauty, only undefiled
Of pain and sorrow and knowledge, and would set
3
With beds her own hands tended, and enclose
All in a girdle of the hills she chose
Of earth's fair homes to dwell in, keeping so
The tender fragrance of dead years ago.
I would not change these few square feet for halls
Of Ghirlandajo, for the magic walls
Of this your Cambio,—I would rather keep
My silent record of his nameless sleep,
Dream back his story through the long blank years—
Believe those lilies once were dewed with tears.
Of Ghirlandajo, for the magic walls
Of this your Cambio,—I would rather keep
My silent record of his nameless sleep,
Dream back his story through the long blank years—
Believe those lilies once were dewed with tears.
Perugia.
4
DANTE'S GRAVE.
There is an awe, I know not whence or why,
About the graves where sleep the mighty dead,
There is an instinct guides our feet to track
The path they travelled; these have led me here.
This is Ravenna, in the midnight hour
Of windless silence, the blank windows stare
Like eyes that time has blinded through the night
From ruins and half-ruins, and my step
Startles the haunted echoes. It is here!
Vast in the shadows, San Francesco looms
Against the quick Italian stars, one lamp
Confirms the cloister's gloom, a willow tree
Droops to a grill of iron, and within
Dark cypress clusters: this is Dante's grave!
About the graves where sleep the mighty dead,
There is an instinct guides our feet to track
The path they travelled; these have led me here.
This is Ravenna, in the midnight hour
Of windless silence, the blank windows stare
Like eyes that time has blinded through the night
From ruins and half-ruins, and my step
Startles the haunted echoes. It is here!
Vast in the shadows, San Francesco looms
Against the quick Italian stars, one lamp
Confirms the cloister's gloom, a willow tree
Droops to a grill of iron, and within
Dark cypress clusters: this is Dante's grave!
Far from the Tuscan mountains and the vale
Loved with a patriot's passion, here he died,
Unpardoned, unforgiving, unsubdued.
Oh great sad constant soul that stood for God
In a wild world of discord, though you climbed
Steep stairs of alien palaces, and knew
How salt the bread of exiles, failing friends
And misconceived ideals,—where are they
Who sat in the high places! Time has made
Thy scorn their only monument, and dimmed
Each lesser lustre round thy lonely star!
Not all unrecompensed on earth! For thine
The faith which ventures the ideal love,
The crown which envy cannot clutch, the faith
Which feels how vainly venomed arrows strike
The flawless armour of a pure intent;
And the ideal love leaned down from heaven
To win thee from false idols, and reveal
Tier after tier to the last murky deep
The doom that passes pardon, urged thee mount
Hard ridge by ridge the penitential hill,
Through the terrestrial Eden, to attain
The mysteries of the rose of Paradise.
Loved with a patriot's passion, here he died,
Unpardoned, unforgiving, unsubdued.
5
In a wild world of discord, though you climbed
Steep stairs of alien palaces, and knew
How salt the bread of exiles, failing friends
And misconceived ideals,—where are they
Who sat in the high places! Time has made
Thy scorn their only monument, and dimmed
Each lesser lustre round thy lonely star!
Not all unrecompensed on earth! For thine
The faith which ventures the ideal love,
The crown which envy cannot clutch, the faith
Which feels how vainly venomed arrows strike
The flawless armour of a pure intent;
And the ideal love leaned down from heaven
To win thee from false idols, and reveal
Tier after tier to the last murky deep
The doom that passes pardon, urged thee mount
Hard ridge by ridge the penitential hill,
Through the terrestrial Eden, to attain
The mysteries of the rose of Paradise.
Oh stern of tenure to thy purpose high!
Oh, hard to love, compelling to revere!
For all the wanderings of thy exile feet
Be earth's remorse our reverence and our hope!
Oh, hard to love, compelling to revere!
6
Be earth's remorse our reverence and our hope!
For hope is child of wisdom, and despair
The bastard of half-knowledge. O'er this grave
The soft quick stars have climbed and set again,
The rose he loved has flushed the morning east,
The snows along the back of Apennine
Have blanched and thawed through five long hundred years,
And man has marched not vainly the steep road
Proclaimed by priests and poets. Soon, aye now,
We almost need thy grisly hell no more!
We have outgrown the visionary doom
That waits on sin's hereafter, Love not Fear
Urges our progress up the purging hill,
Where man must answer for his fellow man:
And new ideals have set heaven so high
We miss thy clearer vision, nor complain!
Our years are dim with struggle, as were thine,
But lit with gleams of promise, where at times
The herald watchers on the heights discern
Far peaks of that first Eden which is spread
Nearest the confines of the light of God.
The bastard of half-knowledge. O'er this grave
The soft quick stars have climbed and set again,
The rose he loved has flushed the morning east,
The snows along the back of Apennine
Have blanched and thawed through five long hundred years,
And man has marched not vainly the steep road
Proclaimed by priests and poets. Soon, aye now,
We almost need thy grisly hell no more!
We have outgrown the visionary doom
That waits on sin's hereafter, Love not Fear
Urges our progress up the purging hill,
Where man must answer for his fellow man:
And new ideals have set heaven so high
We miss thy clearer vision, nor complain!
Our years are dim with struggle, as were thine,
But lit with gleams of promise, where at times
The herald watchers on the heights discern
Far peaks of that first Eden which is spread
Nearest the confines of the light of God.
7
Ah, lonely city of the marshy mead,
Left lonelier by the ever-ebbing sea,
Keep thou thy guest and guard his sacred sleep:
The poet's refuge, be the poet's grave!
Well rests he here, dead reed of deathless song,
Where silence feeds on echoes of mute names,
Shrouded in memories, famous and forlorn!
Left lonelier by the ever-ebbing sea,
Keep thou thy guest and guard his sacred sleep:
The poet's refuge, be the poet's grave!
Well rests he here, dead reed of deathless song,
Where silence feeds on echoes of mute names,
Shrouded in memories, famous and forlorn!
Ravenna.
8
MARCH.
Such blue of sky, so palely fair,Such glow of earth, such lucid air!
Such purple on the mountain lines,
Such deep new verdure in the pines!
The live light strikes the broken towers,
The crocus bulbs burst into flowers,
The sap strikes up the black vine stock,
And the lizard wakes in the splintered rock,
The wheat's young green peeps through the sod,
And the heart is touched with a thought of God;
The very silence seems to sing,
It must be spring, it must be spring!
9
OCTOBER.
A fitful wind about the eaves,
That sways the creaking door;
The shadows of the falling leaves
Flit past me on the floor.
That sways the creaking door;
The shadows of the falling leaves
Flit past me on the floor.
The autumn skies are clear above,
But silent is their song;
Oh, spirit of the changeless love,
Keep back my autumn long!
But silent is their song;
Oh, spirit of the changeless love,
Keep back my autumn long!
In vain with gold the forest weaves
Its sylvan greenness o'er;
The shadows of the falling leaves
Flit past me on the floor.
Its sylvan greenness o'er;
The shadows of the falling leaves
Flit past me on the floor.
It means the world is growing old,
It means no birds to sing;
Oh, not for all the autumn's gold
Would I forego my spring!
It means no birds to sing;
Oh, not for all the autumn's gold
Would I forego my spring!
10
THE GONDOLA.
We do not speak but hearken
To softly plashing oars,
We watch the wide way darken
Between the lighted shores,
While sable-hulled and silver-prowed
Slide past the phantom boats,
And near and far, now low, now loud
A drifting music floats:
They only have one song to sing,
The song of youth and love and spring.
To softly plashing oars,
We watch the wide way darken
Between the lighted shores,
While sable-hulled and silver-prowed
Slide past the phantom boats,
And near and far, now low, now loud
A drifting music floats:
They only have one song to sing,
The song of youth and love and spring.
And where St. George's Island
Looms o'er the dark lagoon,
Slow through the rifts in sky-land
Sails up the golden moon;
Now I can see your shadowy hair,
And read your dreaming eyes,
So sweet, almost the old despair,
The dirge of memory dies;
Oh, only teach me to forget,
And I may learn to love you yet!
Looms o'er the dark lagoon,
Slow through the rifts in sky-land
Sails up the golden moon;
Now I can see your shadowy hair,
And read your dreaming eyes,
So sweet, almost the old despair,
The dirge of memory dies;
Oh, only teach me to forget,
And I may learn to love you yet!
11
THE WANDERER'S SONG.
Day is dead, and blent in shadow
Lies the ridge that crowns his tomb,
Mists are rising from the meadow,
And the woods are massed in gloom.
Homeward bells of lowing cattle
Sound along the village street,
And the gossips' shrilling prattle,
And the children's running feet.
Lies the ridge that crowns his tomb,
Mists are rising from the meadow,
And the woods are massed in gloom.
Homeward bells of lowing cattle
Sound along the village street,
And the gossips' shrilling prattle,
And the children's running feet.
Cool the fountain water splashes,
And the lights show one by one,
While the first star faintly flashes
In the gold wake of the sun.
Silent groups return from reaping
With a reverence past the shrine—
Hold you God in His good keeping,
Give you lighter hearts than mine!
And the lights show one by one,
While the first star faintly flashes
In the gold wake of the sun.
Silent groups return from reaping
With a reverence past the shrine—
Hold you God in His good keeping,
Give you lighter hearts than mine!
12
Out beyond the hills that bound you
Deeds are done and thoughts are thought—
Such a battle rages round you,
But it vexes you in naught:
Evening air a-scent with clover,
And the peat-smoke softly curled
Up the dark hill-side and over—
This is all your little world!
Deeds are done and thoughts are thought—
Such a battle rages round you,
But it vexes you in naught:
Evening air a-scent with clover,
And the peat-smoke softly curled
Up the dark hill-side and over—
This is all your little world!
Have ye other lives to travel,
Quiet dwellers in the trees,
Deeper problems to unravel
Than the darkest drift of these?
Loftier aims in other ages,
Wider orbits, keener fears?
Rest you now! for labour's wage is
Dreamless sleep and quick-dried tears.
Quiet dwellers in the trees,
Deeper problems to unravel
Than the darkest drift of these?
Loftier aims in other ages,
Wider orbits, keener fears?
Rest you now! for labour's wage is
Dreamless sleep and quick-dried tears.
Here men change not, men desire not,
Here men wander not away;
Here they fail not who aspire not,
Here are still content to pray,
Such a rest from all the riot!
Fairest valley that thou art,
This contagion of thy quiet
Spreads its twillight on my heart.
Here men wander not away;
Here they fail not who aspire not,
Here are still content to pray,
13
Fairest valley that thou art,
This contagion of thy quiet
Spreads its twillight on my heart.
Now the mountains lie in trances,
All the forests sway in dreams,
And the moon with silver lances
Strikes the ever-waking streams:
Waking stream, we race together,
Rush and swirl and even flow,
Breasting crags or skirting heather
To a sea we neither know.
All the forests sway in dreams,
And the moon with silver lances
Strikes the ever-waking streams:
Waking stream, we race together,
Rush and swirl and even flow,
Breasting crags or skirting heather
To a sea we neither know.
Your swift eddies envy surely,
As they near the rocky leap,
Yonder lake that lies so purely
Hardly rippled in its sleep;
So, half-envious, I too linger,
Pace the village to and fro,
While yon peak gleams like a finger
Pointing skyward through the snow;
As they near the rocky leap,
Yonder lake that lies so purely
Hardly rippled in its sleep;
So, half-envious, I too linger,
Pace the village to and fro,
While yon peak gleams like a finger
Pointing skyward through the snow;
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Then away—and no returning!
Whirls the eddy down the gorge,
Where, night through, the fires are burning,
And the sparks fly from the forge.
On, till these blue stars are setting,
And the dawn unrobes the sky!
Such an Eden of forgetting
I would ask for when I die!
Whirls the eddy down the gorge,
Where, night through, the fires are burning,
And the sparks fly from the forge.
On, till these blue stars are setting,
And the dawn unrobes the sky!
Such an Eden of forgetting
I would ask for when I die!
Tyrol.
15
AVE MARIA.
Ave Maria! Day declines,
Grows the peace of the evening star,
Shadows rise on the mountain lines,—
Wide the heaven and God so far!
How should He stoop to the human sin!
Mother and human take me in!
Thou hast suffered, and thou canst see,
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
Grows the peace of the evening star,
Shadows rise on the mountain lines,—
Wide the heaven and God so far!
How should He stoop to the human sin!
Mother and human take me in!
Thou hast suffered, and thou canst see,
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
Ave Maria! At end of day
Rings thy peal on the evening air,
Calls the world to its homeward way,
Stays the heart in a pause of prayer;
Ave Maria, by storm or star,
The thought of the wanderer turns from far
To the shrine of his haven,—Light of the Sea!
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
Rings thy peal on the evening air,
Calls the world to its homeward way,
Stays the heart in a pause of prayer;
Ave Maria, by storm or star,
The thought of the wanderer turns from far
To the shrine of his haven,—Light of the Sea!
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
16
Ave Maria! Years roll by,
Thy dominion shall endure,
All who make for the hard and high,
All the chivalrous brave and pure,
Kneel in heart at an inward shrine,
Built for a woman, and therefore thine,
For we lift our love to the light of thee,
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
Thy dominion shall endure,
All who make for the hard and high,
All the chivalrous brave and pure,
Kneel in heart at an inward shrine,
Built for a woman, and therefore thine,
For we lift our love to the light of thee,
Ave Maria, Ave Marie!
17
CHRISTMAS EVE.
A GERMAN STUDY.
Little mother, why must you go!
The children play by the white bed-side,
The world is merry for Christmas-tide,
What would you do in the falling snow!
The children play by the white bed-side,
The world is merry for Christmas-tide,
What would you do in the falling snow!
They sleep by now in the ember-glow,
Hushed to dream in a child's delight,
For wonders happen on Christmas night:
Little mother, why must you go!
Hushed to dream in a child's delight,
For wonders happen on Christmas night:
Little mother, why must you go!
The still flakes fall and the night grows late,
Oh slender figure and small wet feet,
Where do you haste through the lamplit street,
And out and away by the fortress gate?
Oh slender figure and small wet feet,
Where do you haste through the lamplit street,
And out and away by the fortress gate?
It's drear and chill where the dear lie dead!
Yet light enough with the snow to see:
But what would you do with that Christmas tree,
At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?
Yet light enough with the snow to see:
But what would you do with that Christmas tree,
At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?
18
A Christmas tree, with its tinsel gold!—
Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee
When the children sleep in their dream of glee,
Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!
Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee
When the children sleep in their dream of glee,
Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!
Little mother, your heart is brave,
You kiss the cross in the drifted snow,
Kneel for a moment, rise and go,
And leave your tree by the tiny grave.
You kiss the cross in the drifted snow,
Kneel for a moment, rise and go,
And leave your tree by the tiny grave.
While the living slept by the warm fireside,
And the snows fell white on your Christmas toy,
I think that its angel wept for joy,
Because you remembered the one that died.
And the snows fell white on your Christmas toy,
I think that its angel wept for joy,
Because you remembered the one that died.
19
TOURGUÉNEFF.
Oh watcher of the night, what cheer to see?
A fruitless fret and fume of uncontent,
A world of shadows wandering aimlessly,
A weary purpose and a heart long spent;
A fruitless fret and fume of uncontent,
A world of shadows wandering aimlessly,
A weary purpose and a heart long spent;
A hand of iron reaching everywhere,
And over-clouded skies where no stars shine,
A flock without a shepherd, and despair
Gazing across the darkness for a sign;
And over-clouded skies where no stars shine,
A flock without a shepherd, and despair
Gazing across the darkness for a sign;
A crowd of preachers without faith or creed,
And here and there, to break the monotone,
The passing wonder of a golden deed—
A sacrifice, unrecompensed, unknown.
And here and there, to break the monotone,
The passing wonder of a golden deed—
A sacrifice, unrecompensed, unknown.
And is that all? Not quite; beside the bier
Where youth lies self-devoted, far and faint
Above the world's scorn crying “fool,” I hear
Another voice that seems to answer “saint.”
Where youth lies self-devoted, far and faint
Above the world's scorn crying “fool,” I hear
Another voice that seems to answer “saint.”
20
VENICE.
SAN SERVOLO.
The isles are purpled in the haze,We leave the dark canals and pass
To open water ways,
The noon sky burns like burnished brass,
The yellow waters glare:
The Euganéan mountains seem
Suspended high in air,
A mystic world of island rocks
From some enchanted dream.
The noon chime breaks from distant clocks
Faint o'er the hot lagoon,
The yellow sails hang lifelessly,
The earth lies in a swoon;
We hardly know if sky or sea
Is round us where we float,
There seems no life in all the world
But in our sable boat.
21
The seagull's wings are furled,
And on the shallows still as they
It floats beneath the spell.
In yonder ancient island pile
Each window lights a cell;
A great red wall shuts in the isle
And dips in the lagoon,
And blank and shadowless it stares
Towards the burning noon.
Great God, a sudden shriek that scares
The seagull to its wings!
A brutish shriek, but not of pain,
That rings and rings and rings,
And once again, and yet again,
And then the silence falls
Lonely and weird and sad.—
A world of life in yonder walls,
And all those men are mad!
22
TO F. M. C.
Strange is it not, old friend, that you who sit
Bowered in quiet, four garden walls your world,
With books and love and silence,—sails fast furled
And grounded keel that hardly now will quit
Its stormless haven,—you sit there and write
Of human passions, of the fateful fight,
Of all men suffer, dream and do,
Denounce the false and glorify the true!
Bowered in quiet, four garden walls your world,
With books and love and silence,—sails fast furled
And grounded keel that hardly now will quit
Its stormless haven,—you sit there and write
Of human passions, of the fateful fight,
Of all men suffer, dream and do,
Denounce the false and glorify the true!
While I the wanderer, I whose journey lies
In stormy passages of life and sound,
I with the world's throb ever beating round,
Here, in that very stress and storm of cries
Make songs of birds, weave lyric wreaths of flowers,
Recall the spring's joy and the moonlit hours,
And know that children's ways are more to me
Than all you write of and I have to see.
In stormy passages of life and sound,
I with the world's throb ever beating round,
Here, in that very stress and storm of cries
Make songs of birds, weave lyric wreaths of flowers,
Recall the spring's joy and the moonlit hours,
And know that children's ways are more to me
Than all you write of and I have to see.
23
THE SONG'S SPELL.
Where did you learn that music?—for it drew
My dreaming back down autumn paths of years,
Touched chords long silent, and forgotten tears,
Recalled dim valleys where dead violets grew,
Soothed me with twilight, as it were it knew
The very secret of my heart, and sighed
For sympathy, and when at last it died
It seemed as if my soul were singing too.
My dreaming back down autumn paths of years,
Touched chords long silent, and forgotten tears,
Recalled dim valleys where dead violets grew,
Soothed me with twilight, as it were it knew
The very secret of my heart, and sighed
For sympathy, and when at last it died
It seemed as if my soul were singing too.
Where did you learn that music, to allure
Thoughts long in silence and submission pent?
Oh such was Blondel's at the dungeon doors,
So rang the song of captive troubadour,
Echoed along the moonlit battlement
On far-off legend-haunted shores.
Thoughts long in silence and submission pent?
Oh such was Blondel's at the dungeon doors,
So rang the song of captive troubadour,
Echoed along the moonlit battlement
On far-off legend-haunted shores.
24
TO A CHILD.
Nay, child, awhile go back to play,
Be happy to be young!
The world grows wise before its day,
Leaves half the songs unsung.
Be happy to be young!
The world grows wise before its day,
Leaves half the songs unsung.
And bloomless are its garden trees,
Round all the ways are set
Forget-me-nots of memories
And pansies of regret.
Round all the ways are set
Forget-me-nots of memories
And pansies of regret.
The meadows where your daisies are
Will yield more dear delight
Than watching for the wandering star
We may but watch at night.
Will yield more dear delight
Than watching for the wandering star
We may but watch at night.
I would not clip your wilful wing,
Nor cloud your morning sky,
Nor draw across your path of spring
The shadow of a sigh.
Nor cloud your morning sky,
Nor draw across your path of spring
The shadow of a sigh.
25
For Time will bring the bloomless tree,
The roseless garden plot,
And on the bed of memory
The sad forget-me-not.
The roseless garden plot,
And on the bed of memory
The sad forget-me-not.
26
ASSISI.
AN INTRODUCTION.
Di quella costa là dov' ella frange
Più sua rattezza nacque al mondo un Sole.
—Par. XI.
Più sua rattezza nacque al mondo un Sole.
—Par. XI.
The gates are shut, for here in the mountain nest
They keep the old-world custom, and the ring
Of battled ramparts holds the little town
Safe in its stern embracing,—twilight walls
With windows staring at the April stars,
Grey fronts of hoary palaces upreared
Like ocean cliffs against the sky.—Deep down
A few lights twinkle in the shadowy vale
That broadens into darkness, and beyond
The misty hills, and still the hills beyond.
Near by a fountain splashes on and on,
Intensifying silence, now and then
Some hound bays on the mellow air, the bells
Ring the reluctant hours, but all things else
Slumber profoundly, and the ancient streets
Are dark and solemn as befits a shrine.
They keep the old-world custom, and the ring
Of battled ramparts holds the little town
Safe in its stern embracing,—twilight walls
With windows staring at the April stars,
Grey fronts of hoary palaces upreared
Like ocean cliffs against the sky.—Deep down
A few lights twinkle in the shadowy vale
That broadens into darkness, and beyond
The misty hills, and still the hills beyond.
Near by a fountain splashes on and on,
Intensifying silence, now and then
Some hound bays on the mellow air, the bells
Ring the reluctant hours, but all things else
Slumber profoundly, and the ancient streets
Are dark and solemn as befits a shrine.
27
Lovely in light of morning, touched with peace
In the gold glow of noontide, loveliest still
In the moon-radiant sleep, this mountain land
Of all earth's lands speaks nearest to the heart,
Touches a chord of memory, and relinks
Time's broken sequence.
In the gold glow of noontide, loveliest still
In the moon-radiant sleep, this mountain land
Of all earth's lands speaks nearest to the heart,
Touches a chord of memory, and relinks
Time's broken sequence.
Here once lived a man
Who took God's literal word in earnest, chose
The child's interpretation, and forsook,
While a fierce world about him warred and wailed,
The path of glory for the thorny way
Worn by the feet of one in Galilee
A thousand long forgetful years before.
Tread softly here, for here his feet were bruised,
Here he was mocked and gibed at, here he gave
His very body to redeem men's souls
In that rough age of symbol, till a light
Burned in this mountain fortress that still shines
Round his forsaken altar, and shall shine
When altars fall and litanies are dumb.
Who took God's literal word in earnest, chose
The child's interpretation, and forsook,
While a fierce world about him warred and wailed,
The path of glory for the thorny way
Worn by the feet of one in Galilee
A thousand long forgetful years before.
Tread softly here, for here his feet were bruised,
Here he was mocked and gibed at, here he gave
His very body to redeem men's souls
In that rough age of symbol, till a light
Burned in this mountain fortress that still shines
Round his forsaken altar, and shall shine
When altars fall and litanies are dumb.
This was a man like you and I who went
With song and laughter down the vale of youth,
With keen delight in living, in no wise
Secured from passion or withheld from pride,
The earthly dream had lured him:—suddenly
He heard the voice speaks once to every man,
And hearing did not stifle it; he saw
The visible contrast, the old woe of earth
That ever cries for righting, he conceived
There was another kingdom made for souls,
Where love not wisdom watches at the door,
That whoso enters, enters as a child,—
And lived out his ideal; such white lives
God takes for mouthpiece here on earth, secure
His word shall pass untainted. Therefore he
Who loved the whole life-throbbing earth so well,
With such quick sympathy the very birds
Endured his gentle presence, the wild things
Fled not his kindly greeting, flung aside
The lute of young romances and stripped off
The sword and helmet, girt about his youth
The sackcloth of repentance, and went forth
A homeless pilgrim to the heart of man.
With song and laughter down the vale of youth,
With keen delight in living, in no wise
28
The earthly dream had lured him:—suddenly
He heard the voice speaks once to every man,
And hearing did not stifle it; he saw
The visible contrast, the old woe of earth
That ever cries for righting, he conceived
There was another kingdom made for souls,
Where love not wisdom watches at the door,
That whoso enters, enters as a child,—
And lived out his ideal; such white lives
God takes for mouthpiece here on earth, secure
His word shall pass untainted. Therefore he
Who loved the whole life-throbbing earth so well,
With such quick sympathy the very birds
Endured his gentle presence, the wild things
Fled not his kindly greeting, flung aside
The lute of young romances and stripped off
The sword and helmet, girt about his youth
The sackcloth of repentance, and went forth
A homeless pilgrim to the heart of man.
And lovely now across the sundering years,
Touched with the glamour of earth's morning time,
It rings, the ancient story, how they went
His new disciples on their helpful ways
About these Umbrian valleys, and fulfilled
The literal record of the life of one
That had not anywhere to lay his head.
But ah, the cloister's dedicated cells
Are tenantless, and silent is the shrine.
The fortress towers moulder on their hills,
And pilgrims seek not his deserted fane:
The world is so much wiser! Only when,
As now, the moon is on the land, then ghosts
Flit round these shadowy portals, and the night
Rolls back long tides of centuries. So I,—
Waking an old-time echo by the walls
That Giotto decked and Simone, long since
When priest and painter first went hand in hand,
And still the memory of saints was dear,—
I, standing in the shadow and looking down
To where the lowlier tower of St. Claire
Leans woman's wise to the high rock of his,—
The last and lonely pilgrim, made my vow
Some day to tell his story and enshrine
The “saintly brother” in an English song.
Touched with the glamour of earth's morning time,
29
His new disciples on their helpful ways
About these Umbrian valleys, and fulfilled
The literal record of the life of one
That had not anywhere to lay his head.
But ah, the cloister's dedicated cells
Are tenantless, and silent is the shrine.
The fortress towers moulder on their hills,
And pilgrims seek not his deserted fane:
The world is so much wiser! Only when,
As now, the moon is on the land, then ghosts
Flit round these shadowy portals, and the night
Rolls back long tides of centuries. So I,—
Waking an old-time echo by the walls
That Giotto decked and Simone, long since
When priest and painter first went hand in hand,
And still the memory of saints was dear,—
I, standing in the shadow and looking down
To where the lowlier tower of St. Claire
Leans woman's wise to the high rock of his,—
The last and lonely pilgrim, made my vow
Some day to tell his story and enshrine
The “saintly brother” in an English song.
30
OH DEEM ME NOT FORGETFUL!
TO M.T.
Oh deem me not forgetful, though I love
The sunny pastures and the land of vine,
And golden walls where in the niche above
Some shadowy saint smiles through the broken shrine!
The sunny pastures and the land of vine,
And golden walls where in the niche above
Some shadowy saint smiles through the broken shrine!
For when the angel of the evening star
Looks down the track of sunset, and there fall
The twilight dreams, and through the hush afar
Some church-bell rings good-will at eve to all,
Looks down the track of sunset, and there fall
The twilight dreams, and through the hush afar
Some church-bell rings good-will at eve to all,
Oft in the twilight of my dream I pass
To a quiet spot in England where the trees
Seem giant shadows on the misted grass,
And silence turns the key of memories;
To a quiet spot in England where the trees
Seem giant shadows on the misted grass,
And silence turns the key of memories;
And there are times it makes me mad to see
Those red lights twinkle, hear the horse's tread
Along the old familiar road, and be
Where all the mirth and all the love are dead.
Those red lights twinkle, hear the horse's tread
Along the old familiar road, and be
Where all the mirth and all the love are dead.
31
NORTH AND SOUTH.
How I remember one day of all
That Tuscan spring-tide's carnival!
How I remember one eve when we
Leaned over the edge of Fiésole,
While all the plain lay in opal mist
Low under the ridges of amethyst,
When the gates of heaven seemed open wide
As the sun went under the mountain's side,
And over the sky in a flood-wave rolled
The tide of the glory of molten gold.
That Tuscan spring-tide's carnival!
How I remember one eve when we
Leaned over the edge of Fiésole,
While all the plain lay in opal mist
Low under the ridges of amethyst,
When the gates of heaven seemed open wide
As the sun went under the mountain's side,
And over the sky in a flood-wave rolled
The tide of the glory of molten gold.
Do you remember the chime that fell
From the tinkling roof of the cloister bell?
Do you remember the tales we told
Of the dwellers there in the days of old,
While the reapers climbed from the slopes below
With scythes that flashed in the after-glow,
With the laughing eyes and the hill-born grace,
And the tale of ages in their face?
From the tinkling roof of the cloister bell?
Do you remember the tales we told
Of the dwellers there in the days of old,
While the reapers climbed from the slopes below
With scythes that flashed in the after-glow,
With the laughing eyes and the hill-born grace,
And the tale of ages in their face?
32
Do you remember how marble-white
The towers lay in the May moonlight,
How the first few fire-flies came and went,
And just to live was a deep content?
How warm and sweet was the evening air,
As if all the garden of spring grew there!
How we seemed to have reached to a joy at last
That was not in the morrow and not in the past,
And only a word might have held it fast!
The towers lay in the May moonlight,
How the first few fire-flies came and went,
And just to live was a deep content?
How warm and sweet was the evening air,
As if all the garden of spring grew there!
How we seemed to have reached to a joy at last
That was not in the morrow and not in the past,
And only a word might have held it fast!
We were hardly lovers, yet more than friends,
If one begins where the other ends:
And was it the dream, the time, the place,
Or was it the magic of your sweet face?
For I can remember your least word said,—
When the blood is young and the lips are red,
Oh why should the dead not bury their dead!
If one begins where the other ends:
And was it the dream, the time, the place,
Or was it the magic of your sweet face?
For I can remember your least word said,—
When the blood is young and the lips are red,
Oh why should the dead not bury their dead!
Here, leagues away, are the plains that roll
To the Baltic shore and the silent Pole;
Dark belts of forest shut in the day
Low under the dome of the autumn grey,
With a gleam of red on the rifting lines
Over the edge where day declines:
The leaves decay and the chestnuts fall,
The chill Norse shadow is over all!
To the Baltic shore and the silent Pole;
Dark belts of forest shut in the day
Low under the dome of the autumn grey,
With a gleam of red on the rifting lines
Over the edge where day declines:
33
The chill Norse shadow is over all!
And yet, and yet, were you only here,
I might not fret for the waning year,
Nor hunger so for the valley wide,
For the starry blue and the steep hill-side,
And the tower of Arno dim-descried.
I might not fret for the waning year,
Nor hunger so for the valley wide,
For the starry blue and the steep hill-side,
And the tower of Arno dim-descried.
Pomerania, '87.
34
TO FLORENCE.
For the unveiling of the new façade, May, 1887.
IMPROMPTU.
The strife is dead, the ramparts' ring
Is a flowery path for feet of spring,
The old gates never close,
And well the Lily City rests
Between the hills' divided crests
Through which her Arno flows.
Is a flowery path for feet of spring,
The old gates never close,
And well the Lily City rests
Between the hills' divided crests
Through which her Arno flows.
The strife is dead, the broad-flagged street
Recoils no more from armoured feet,
The towers are all laid low,
For White and Black have long been one,
As sunset after setting sun,
And friend was laid with foe.
Recoils no more from armoured feet,
The towers are all laid low,
For White and Black have long been one,
As sunset after setting sun,
And friend was laid with foe.
A people's love returns to thee,
Who first of cities learned to be
A nation and a name,
Who never bowed the head to fate,
And bore the harvest of thy great
To gratitude and fame!
Who first of cities learned to be
A nation and a name,
35
And bore the harvest of thy great
To gratitude and fame!
For Rome is like some mighty wraith
Reincarnate by a nation's faith,
But Florence did not die!
She earned her peace in ample tears,
And rests upon the stormless years
With passion long put by.
Reincarnate by a nation's faith,
But Florence did not die!
She earned her peace in ample tears,
And rests upon the stormless years
With passion long put by.
But still the spirit is not spent
That bade the Ghibelline relent
To save her from her doom;
The love that softened Dante's eye
For Farinata's agony,
Fire-tortured in his tomb:
That bade the Ghibelline relent
To save her from her doom;
The love that softened Dante's eye
For Farinata's agony,
Fire-tortured in his tomb:
The spirit which in the day of need
Was greater than the merchant greed,
And armed her for the fray,
When stern Ferruccio hacked and hewed
And died among his hero brood
On Gavinana's day.
Was greater than the merchant greed,
And armed her for the fray,
When stern Ferruccio hacked and hewed
And died among his hero brood
On Gavinana's day.
36
The spirit which decreed the shrine,
That old Arnolfo's dim design
First planned for Florence free,
That Donatello decked and gemmed,
And Brunellescho diademmed,
And Giotto, ah, but he!
That old Arnolfo's dim design
First planned for Florence free,
That Donatello decked and gemmed,
And Brunellescho diademmed,
And Giotto, ah, but he!
He set the marble marvel high
Against the limpid Tuscan sky,
The tower of all the towers,
Her glory and her sentinel
With chime and ave warding well
Our Lady of the Flowers.
Against the limpid Tuscan sky,
The tower of all the towers,
Her glory and her sentinel
With chime and ave warding well
Our Lady of the Flowers.
And now glad bells ring out to-day,
Ring far down Arno vale away,
To the mountain citadels:
Let Prato's to Pistoia call,
And let Pistoia's battle-wall
Re-echo with the bells!
Ring far down Arno vale away,
To the mountain citadels:
Let Prato's to Pistoia call,
And let Pistoia's battle-wall
Re-echo with the bells!
For where the old ambition failed
The love of after years availed
Worked with as prayerful hands,
And Florence has her shrine at last,
The shrine she purposed, unsurpassed
In all the alien lands:
The love of after years availed
Worked with as prayerful hands,
37
The shrine she purposed, unsurpassed
In all the alien lands:
Fair delicate spiral shafts and rose
Of window tracing and repose
Of saints in solemn row,
And wealth of jewels set in gold,
And fretted carvings manifold
Of marble white as snow!
Of window tracing and repose
Of saints in solemn row,
And wealth of jewels set in gold,
And fretted carvings manifold
Of marble white as snow!
Oh, hero dead, from your happy isle
I think that you look back and smile
The exile heart returns,
For never dead were held more dear,
And pilgrim nations reverence here
Your cenotaphs and urns.
I think that you look back and smile
The exile heart returns,
For never dead were held more dear,
And pilgrim nations reverence here
Your cenotaphs and urns.
Her work of years is done to-day,
And watching in their long array
Her mighty sons rejoice:
The last upon the scroll of Fate,
De Fabris, from the silent gate
Leans back to hear her voice.
And watching in their long array
Her mighty sons rejoice:
The last upon the scroll of Fate,
De Fabris, from the silent gate
Leans back to hear her voice.
38
Dear city of the hills, well done!
Smile on beneath the fair May sun
In calm and conscious pride,
The fairest city built of hands
In recollection's loveliest lands
By silver Arno's side!
Smile on beneath the fair May sun
In calm and conscious pride,
The fairest city built of hands
In recollection's loveliest lands
By silver Arno's side!
A nation's effort is their prayer,
And thine shall rise on this spring air
Beyond the blue above,
Worthy of Florence, Florence free,
Worthy of Florence, Italy,
And worthy all men's love.
And thine shall rise on this spring air
Beyond the blue above,
Worthy of Florence, Florence free,
Worthy of Florence, Italy,
And worthy all men's love.
Florence, 1887.
39
TO G. L. G.
Less often now the rolling years
Will time our feet together,
And seldom now the old voice cheers
The march of wintry weather.
Will time our feet together,
And seldom now the old voice cheers
The march of wintry weather.
But friendship knit in other days,
When hope was first aspiring,
Will hardly quit the travelled ways
For fancy's new desiring.
When hope was first aspiring,
Will hardly quit the travelled ways
For fancy's new desiring.
Hope beckoned round the world, dear lad,
And light we followed after,
And knew the grave and loved the glad,
And shared men's tears and laughter.
And light we followed after,
And knew the grave and loved the glad,
And shared men's tears and laughter.
We set our young ideals high,
And if the aim out-soared us,
Still not to trust was not to try,
And something shall reward us:
And if the aim out-soared us,
Still not to trust was not to try,
And something shall reward us:
40
And what we found too hard to reach,
And what we failed in winning,
May wait us somewhere yet to teach
The end is the beginning.
And what we failed in winning,
May wait us somewhere yet to teach
The end is the beginning.
We made mistakes in youth, my lad,
But they will not out-live us,
The worst we did was none so bad—
The world may well forgive us!
But they will not out-live us,
The worst we did was none so bad—
The world may well forgive us!
Long be it ere we two depart!
Time make our friendship mellow!
I never loved a truer heart,
Nor wished a better fellow.
Time make our friendship mellow!
I never loved a truer heart,
Nor wished a better fellow.
41
“BRUMA RECURRIT INERS.”
The clouds roll down the forest
And almost meet the plain,
One snowy peak, the hoarest,
O'er-tops the clouds again,
The brooks are babbling louder,
The stream is swelling prouder,
For many days of rain.
And almost meet the plain,
One snowy peak, the hoarest,
O'er-tops the clouds again,
The brooks are babbling louder,
The stream is swelling prouder,
For many days of rain.
The belfry in the village
Rings with a muffled chime,
The rooks swoop o'er the tillage,
You see it's autumn time;
All things are dead or dying,
And thoughts are turned to sighing,
And will not run in rhyme.
Rings with a muffled chime,
The rooks swoop o'er the tillage,
You see it's autumn time;
All things are dead or dying,
And thoughts are turned to sighing,
And will not run in rhyme.
42
A MAZURKA OF CHOPIN.
Play on, play on, the low lights wane,
So, softly, softly play!
For your fingers draw me away, away,
And dreamland comes again.
Are you 'ware of little stars in a pale sky!
Play on,—and say no word!—
There is scarce the breath of a midnight sigh?
Or a frond of the fern-wood stirred;
Was there ever a night so magic still?
Only a low moon is peeping
Through the sway of aspens sleeping,
And a ripple frets the rushes in the rill:
Are you 'ware of little feet upon the grass,
Tripping, rushing,
Hardly brushing
Any feather of the frailest as they pass,
Of a twinkle of infinite tiny feet,
And the kissing of tiny kisses,—
Never was night so summer-sweet
Blessed of the moon as this is!
They are threading in endless mazes,
Lifting the drowsy fold
Of the lids of the sleeping daisies
For a look at the eyes of gold:
Gossamer robes of delicate weft
Cling light on the moony air,
Rosy petals, a pardoned theft,
Are bound on the streaming hair;—
Now round and round in a linking chain,
Round and round and away again!
They are dancing to the ripple they are moving,
Keeping time to the glinting of the star;
There's a glowworm for the lantern of their loving,
And wedding bells are ringing where the heather-flowers are.
So, softly, softly play!
For your fingers draw me away, away,
And dreamland comes again.
Are you 'ware of little stars in a pale sky!
Play on,—and say no word!—
There is scarce the breath of a midnight sigh?
Or a frond of the fern-wood stirred;
Was there ever a night so magic still?
Only a low moon is peeping
Through the sway of aspens sleeping,
And a ripple frets the rushes in the rill:
Are you 'ware of little feet upon the grass,
Tripping, rushing,
Hardly brushing
Any feather of the frailest as they pass,
Of a twinkle of infinite tiny feet,
And the kissing of tiny kisses,—
Never was night so summer-sweet
43
They are threading in endless mazes,
Lifting the drowsy fold
Of the lids of the sleeping daisies
For a look at the eyes of gold:
Gossamer robes of delicate weft
Cling light on the moony air,
Rosy petals, a pardoned theft,
Are bound on the streaming hair;—
Now round and round in a linking chain,
Round and round and away again!
They are dancing to the ripple they are moving,
Keeping time to the glinting of the star;
There's a glowworm for the lantern of their loving,
And wedding bells are ringing where the heather-flowers are.
Can you hear their little voices, you would hear
If it were not for the ripple on the stream:
Still, for a moment,—now you hear,
Marvellous sweetly, clear and near,
Under that silver beam,
Songs of a wonder-world, my dear,
World of a wonder-dream.
If it were not for the ripple on the stream:
Still, for a moment,—now you hear,
Marvellous sweetly, clear and near,
Under that silver beam,
Songs of a wonder-world, my dear,
World of a wonder-dream.
44
[There never were such radiant noons]
There never were such radiant noons,
Such roses, such fair weather,
Such nightingales, such mellow moons,
As while we were together!
Such roses, such fair weather,
Such nightingales, such mellow moons,
As while we were together!
But now the suns are poor and pale,
The cloudy twilight closes,
The mists have choked the nightingale,
The blight has killed the roses.
The cloudy twilight closes,
The mists have choked the nightingale,
The blight has killed the roses.
45
SONG.
You were the only, only one,
A long long while,
You were the spring, and all my sun
Was in your smile!
A long long while,
You were the spring, and all my sun
Was in your smile!
You were the cloudless crescent moon
In quiet skies,
The stars that clouded o'er so soon
Were your two eyes.
In quiet skies,
The stars that clouded o'er so soon
Were your two eyes.
Oh why so much and not the whole!
Was mine the wrong?
You were the music and the soul
Of all my song!
Was mine the wrong?
You were the music and the soul
Of all my song!
New suns may dawn for you, for me,
Stars rise again,
But you have been what none can be,
My spring refrain.
Stars rise again,
But you have been what none can be,
My spring refrain.
46
TO ARISTARCHUS.
Dear critic with the many tongues, again
I come for judgment with my book of rhymes;
And since, dear critic, you do oft complain
This youth has graceful fancies and clear chimes,
But ever in some soft and southern strain
He sets his key to soothe us, let him strive
Henceforth with sterner weapons; I would say,
Dear critic, not ten talents, no, nor five
But one poor talent fell to me who play
For whoso listeth on what keys I may.
I come for judgment with my book of rhymes;
And since, dear critic, you do oft complain
This youth has graceful fancies and clear chimes,
But ever in some soft and southern strain
He sets his key to soothe us, let him strive
Henceforth with sterner weapons; I would say,
Dear critic, not ten talents, no, nor five
But one poor talent fell to me who play
For whoso listeth on what keys I may.
And for the selfs song?—well, I would reply
That words so issuing to the world belong,
To tear in its ribald humour, and if I
At times have written all myself in song,
I'll keep my own soul's secret, none shall buy
My life-blood in the public place to test:
He knows who sings what songs are of the heart,
How the highest notes touch silence; for the rest,
I would not hawk my sorrows in the mart,
Nor sell my soul to win the crown of art.
That words so issuing to the world belong,
To tear in its ribald humour, and if I
At times have written all myself in song,
I'll keep my own soul's secret, none shall buy
My life-blood in the public place to test:
47
How the highest notes touch silence; for the rest,
I would not hawk my sorrows in the mart,
Nor sell my soul to win the crown of art.
And last, dear critic, what you most impugn,
These scanty handfuls for a season's yield,—
May I not answer, still the year's at June,
And other fruits have ripened in my field?
But now and then the lute is set atune,
And fancy beckons in the wandering time;
And so, dear critic, let us part good friends,
And as of old be patient with my rhyme.
Farewell, to other lands my journey wends,
But we may meet again before it ends.
These scanty handfuls for a season's yield,—
May I not answer, still the year's at June,
And other fruits have ripened in my field?
But now and then the lute is set atune,
And fancy beckons in the wandering time;
And so, dear critic, let us part good friends,
And as of old be patient with my rhyme.
Farewell, to other lands my journey wends,
But we may meet again before it ends.
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