Fra Dolcino, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

That great black cloud the stretched Imperial hand
Drew o'er our sky, to burst in storms of war,
Had rolled at length its shadow from the land;
We hailed the Pontiff, scorned the Emperor.
The Cæsar died—the lord of half the globe—
More outcast than the beggar; bare to heaven,
A felon quailed beneath the Imperial robe,
A Godstruck sinner withered, unforgiven.
The Ghibeline chiefs, like dragons to their den,
Shrank each to his wild castle in the glen;
The Guelphs o'erbrimmed bright streets from busy hives of men.

2.

Ay, and once more the sky was darkened o'er
By the huge brazen throne men's hands had reared;

The cumbrous purple that proud monster wore
Stifled the air; the daylight disappeared.
He made 'twixt him and Rome the bond divine
A wedding-ring of shame: with lawless spells
Defiled that sepulchre of saints, that shrine
Built up of martyrs and of miracles.
The Christ was bought and sold before the sun,
Treasons as lightly as men jest were done,
Men's lives obeyed no God—men's hearts said, “There is none.”

3.

But, like the star that looks into the sky,
And shines for ages, then for ages dies,
Yet glitters back to life immortally,
Our Italy has spirits that arise,
From age to age, and set and shine anew,
As if in different forms 't was still the same;
Such, keen to burn the false and search the true,
Arnold of Brescia rose—a fierce, pure flame,
Who to stern manhood no self-love beguiled,
No weakness warped, a heart yet reconciled
Lovely as of a woman or a child.

4.

Him, nobly trusting, friend betrayed to foe,
While kindling hearts of Rome with Roman fire;
So from the castle-towers of Angelo,
The Pope smiled down upon his funeral pyre.—

And there were souls that could not wholly die,
Could struggle, agonize, and pine forlorn,
Then send along the centuries their cry
Of splendid passion,—love and hate and scorn
Condensed into a thunderbolt of song;
Of such was he who, e'en in downfall strong,
Avenged on his false Florence the immortal wrong.

5.

The Song went up from under worlds of woe,
That Song of many years,
When one whose steps we follow, shuddering, slow,
Into the starless spheres,
Was from the ancient wood, with fear opprest,
Led by that Shade, the neither doomed nor blest,
Down to the tearful clime, its first strange living guest.

6.

He saw the red-hot city of the accurst,
Swarming with impious hosts
Of spirits rained from heaven, heard wail, immersed
In night, the punished ghosts;
With eyes on which again sweet light should rise,
Saw those to whom, in answer to their cries,
'T is said, “Hope never to behold the skies;”

7.

Saw faces, known in life, yearn wistfully;
From burning sepulchres

Heard, “Has my wife, my child, forgotten me?”
In many a voice all tears.
There still for us he walks his ghastly road,
Still holding up the lamp that grimly showed
Each knot of Forms forlorn that by the side abode.

8.

Spirit of Worship! Love of Truth! ye two
Strong Angels, fathoming all depths and heights,
Where ruins of old creeds, strange growths of new,
Mingle dissolving forms and warring rites,—
The fond adorer once of antique faiths,
Cold marble forms that world-abandoned stand,
With Christian breath would feed those fair pale wraiths,
And keep their half-life lingering in the land.
Now to the grave of one dead long ago,
And in far regions, Princes barefoot go,
And stony hearts bleed tears, o'er that divinest Woe.

9.

Then, from that fostering East, the vision-land,
Came flying dreams sublime like winged seeds,
The mystic war of Light and Dark, the grand
Harmonious close—efflux of many creeds.—
And some whose souls, like clarions, to the strife
Have called them, Freedom's martyr-volunteers,
Sought Truth, and found it in a noble life
And death, and took their prize to unseen spheres.

Such souls must breathe an air more pure and fine,
As the King Eagle doth, who makes his shrine
On sunsmit snow-crests of the Apennine.

10.

And some, still sheltered in the Church's fold,
Would win her with the voice that warns and saves,
And make her Cloisters, what they were of old,
The home of saints, now turned to robbers' caves.
A silver voice from the world's clattering roads
To mossy paths sought straying feet to win,
And lead them through still shades to bright abodes.
“Be humble, pure, and poor,” amidst the din
Saint Francis pleaded, and some hearts replied;
One gentle dreamer, barred by priestly pride
From shelter in their walls, knelt meek and sad outside.

11.

Before a holy picture, lost in dreams,
Gazing by day and night, with brain o'erwrought,
His mystic fancies grew to shadowy schemes;
Then his foes crushed him, and his schemes were nought;
He died “the mad Franciscan,” and his name
Lived but as a street-scoff; yet there was now
One to snatch proudly up that robe of shame
By Sagarelli dropped, and on his brow
Bind the thorn chaplet that had pricked him dead;
But yet of him was little known or said,—
Unnamed his birth and race, a stripling convent-bred.

12.

Still rang that cry of song, but sweeter now,
From worlds that see the skies;
Soft Oriental sapphire! how didst thou
Bedew the hell-scorched eyes.
How glanced Love's soothing star o'er tremulous seas,
On whose sad quiet shore, by twos and threes,
Souls waited to be blest, when He they trust should please.

13.

Then up the Island Mount of pardon, where
Sweet strains Contrition finds,
To draw down white-winged angels; stair by stair,
'Twixt sculptured rocks he winds,
Where live a thousand tales in marble fair;
Whilst trembling mount and burst of song declare
When some forgiven spirit springs upward through the air.

14.

Now, while soft Avignon with rich dreams fed
The sleep of Popes, and through Italia swelled
The clang of conflict—like the live and dead—
A little town, a lowly convent, held
A fire they knew not of,—a brain that burned
To ashes the Franciscan cowl it wore;
Yet first through long still hours Dolcino learned
The lesson, once imprest, forgot no more—

In a dark chapel's darkest corner laid,
Where the shrine's single pallid taper played
Upon the pictures barbarous faith had made—

15.

Strange forms that through their iron gratings showed,
Embodied there, what phantoms haunt forlorn
The dreams of those in darkness seeking God,
And only finding Devils—phantoms born
Of that thick lurid atmosphere made by
Sins of the flesh, remorses of the soul;
Where Hell and Paradise,—pale Saints that sigh
Pure breath, through long chill vigils towards their goal,
The longed-for heaven,—Fiends who, half-threat, half-snare,
Now ape, now siren, through hell-gratings glare,—
All mix and melt, and one bewildered worship share.

16.

And still the Song! now thrilling from above,
Whilst he to Paradise
Went up, and on the threshold saw his love,
His radiant Beatrice.
Earth-stained and bowed with shame, he met at first
The glorious smile that quenched the ten years' thirst,
But sweet love soothed the tears that vision made to burst.

17.

From heaven to heaven, the starred, the crystalline,
The Empyrean, still
That lovely smile grew lovelier, more divine
The eyes that held his will;
So that e'en heaven was seen thro' her alone,
Her face imparadised his soul, till, flown
To the very heart of bliss, all sense was overthrown.

18.

Then back to his own Florence—thence, all time
With his strange doom to stir,
To love her, fight for her, abhor her crime,
Die banished—loving her.
He went, thenceforth a stranger—but his heart,
Clinging with bitter roots, could not depart;
Thro' those fierce lays of scorn, throbbed still th'immortal smart.

19.

But he, the Fra Dolcino—where was he?
Still dreaming a monk's dream of sanctity?
Or wakening to the world? Pass further on, and see.

II. SEVEN YEARS.

1.

Seven years—and here am I, whose youth was all
One dream of skyward hope, soul-fostering care,
I for whom once the Cloister's tomblike wall
Shut in a silent paradise of prayer;
The votary first, rapt from that twilight oft
To splendours of th'apocalyptic world;
Then, the Apostle vowed to bear aloft
God's banner thro' a hell of foes unfurled;
Weaponed, but still for earthly warfare not,
Still living in the loving eyes of men,
A Priest obedient to the Church: now, what?
A sworded Outlaw in the wild wolf's den!

2.

From this cold crest I see a sunlit land,
And my heart sees a little town therein,
Counts every spire and roof—half weeps to stand
Outside its gates, as one cast forth for sin.
There once lived he they called the “gentle Friar;”
Unknown his midnight-flights 'twixt Earth and Heaven,
Kind words had won him souls that looked no higher,
Peasants that meekly knelt and rose forgiven.
Safe narrow sphere! how long did my calm soul
Resist all promptings to a further goal!

E'en when the Voice that said to worlds, “Arise!”
Drove me forth blindly to the public road,
And I stood circled by a blaze of eyes
That seemed to sue me for the way to God;
When words rushed forth that were not born in me,
Strange words, like lightning-flashes turned to speech,
A passion, not a voice—and tears ran free,
As Christ's keen silver lance in turn pricked each,
God knew I feared and wept the most of all,
And in the heart laid naked to his sight,
Stamped with his seal and quivering with his call,
Saw still the awe-struck, prostrate acolyte!

3.

O Church of Christ! O flower dropped from the Cross
A thousand years ago! O happy fold
Of spirits, who repairest all the loss
Wrought by the wolf in straying flocks of old!
O New Jerusalem! whose pillared courts
Spring from a stone upon a blessed grave!
O centre whither all the world resorts,
To find the hands that bless, the words that save!
Pure vision of my cloistered solitude!
O Mother sweet! and saintly brotherhood!

4.

I saw thee living—stretching round me arms
Of stifling grasp,—a brazen, sumptuous pile,
All full of dead men's bones and lying charms—
A monster Sorceress, all made up of vile

Corrupted members and an atheist head,
Her poorest monks on the land's wealth o'erfed,
Whose sides were swoln with pride beneath the cord,
Whose bare, bold feet went trampling o'er the Lord.
And he who wore the mighty mantle, filled
With despot dreams—vain head and haughty heart—
Wielded at once the crook and sword God willed
Should rule the Christian world, two suns apart.
In peace corrupting, or in sinful war,
She lived a gaudy hollow ruin, for
Sinners to scorn and good men to abhor.

5.

Sick with a cruel light, I turned again
In some deep shelter to endure my pain.
I sought the narrow limits that might bound
Pure spirits in Saint Francis' hallowed ground—
So close a wall was round it drawn to shut
World-charms, world-splendours, and world-sins out—but
That circle yet too wide, I found ere long,
Not pure enough that air, that fence not strong;
And as the bird that not the wood alone
Chooses, but in that wood must make its own
The deepest nook, to sing and build its nest;
So with the few that kept their Master's hest,
Whose lives pure music made, I sought to mould
An inner Church, a fold within a fold.
For so the strengthening stem, whose blessed root
Saint Francis set, of cloistered sanctity,

Cleft thus in two, might make a choicer shoot;
Since all of good that outer eyes can see
Has yet an inner cell, a finer nerve,
A touch more pure and solemn, a reserve
Of its best gifts.

6.

I sought, but could not find.
That life was but a forcing back of men
To an artificial Childhood; would but pen
In that first narrow Paradise, designed
For half-grown spirits, that which should progress
Ever with moving Time to perfectness;
A growthless, fruitless round of rule-bound days,
That leaves the soul a blank or makes a blot.
So slowly, sadly, I abjured the lot
Of cloistered brotherhood, and with a gaze
Half farewell-blessing, half renunciation,
I plunged into obscurer solitude,
A sacred air for free-winged aspiration,
Where nought 'twixt God and me, save angels, stood.

7.

And low I sat in silent thought, like him,
God's banished Priest, who sat by Chebar's side,
Where came the vision of the Cherubim,
And his sad captive-musings glorified.
When the heavens opened and brought forth to view
An amber-cloud out of the heart of fire,
That moved, and to Four Living Creatures grew:
Straight on they went, a course that could not tire;

As each went forward, from his wings was tost
The voice of many waters, sound of speech
In multitude—the shouting of a host—
The voice of God!—so past they out of reach.

8.

Then caught him up a Spirit—and after them
It bore him to the lost Jerusalem,
E'en to the Temple's inner Court, th'abode
Of the dread Image of the Jealous God.
And there was Chebar's vision! there they stand,
The Cherubim, their wings let down, that fanned
The court with glory,—but look round, and see—
Each in the chamber of his imagery—
The idol-priest, the censer in his hand;
The holy walls with Thammuz dead portrayed;
The courts where Israel's sons to Baal prayed.
Then rose the Cherubim, their wings outspread
Met in an amber cloud above his head.
Him from the Temple-gate the spirit bore,
And all the vision past, and he once more
Stood amongst his own race on Chebar's shore.
But there he raised his voice at God's command,
And blew his warning trumpet o'er the land.

9.

Ah so it was with me; as in a trance,
I had beheld the glory and the shame:
Our Temple, our divine inheritance,
Was fall'n from God to idols, and his Name

By his own priests before his shrine profaned,
And falsehood, tyranny, and rapine reigned;
But God to me as to his prophet spoke,
And from my desert-dream, like him, I woke.
No more I fainted—filled with his dread Word,
By the great toil laid on me made more strong,
I thought I had but in His name—the Lord
Of love—to show the wrong-doer his wrong.
I went forth to the world again; I sought
Its highest places, where worst ill was wrought,
To priest and ruler Christ's own lesson taught;
And still to rich and great these words did speak,
Of—“Blessed are the poor,” and “Blessed are the meek.”

10.

They heard me not; not one now caught the fire
That clothed that earlier speech, so loved and feared:
They called me hypocrite, and recreant Friar.
“What, he reform the Church?” they said, and sneered;
“The House by Christ a thousand years back reared,
Ruled by his Saints, a God-appointed line,
Needs it a crazy criminal's control?”
I heard, nor paid I back their wrath with mine;
But a great darkness fell upon my soul.
Yes, I had failed—and had it been through sin?
Scorned they the message for the messenger?
Had I the Apostle's seal? And yet within
I felt pure promptings—had God let me err?

And then came Satan's direst trial, doubt
Not of myself alone, but of my God;
The laws by which he worked his Being out,
The very ground on which my faith had trod.
It seemed—all sudden the discovery came—
That in a world of nothings I had dwelt;
Heaven glared a brazen blank, an empty frame,
Earth rolled an atheist ball thro' night that would not melt.

11.

Oh! at the first I counted hours of Hell,
When my whole life in heaps of ruin fell.
Repose is in intensity—but I
Was something, nothing, a self-branded lie,
Half-reasoner, half-fanatic—so the heart
By internecine wishes riven apart,
And false through morbid dreams of truth, could claim,
For its own help, victim's nor martyr's name.
Till wroth with my own weakness, I would leap
Into extremes, to reign or perish there;
The midway point of doubt I could not keep;
I needs must be deceived, or else despair.
So I cried: “God!—if God there be, and still
He care for men,—give madness, but give peace;
Let the waves dash me on what rock they will,
'T is rest if I to stem these breakers cease.
This atom miserably sentient kill;
And I will own thy power, thy mercy bless,
Crushing the worm thou mad'st, out of its wretchedness.”

Light came ere quite into the gulf I fell,—
I turned to it, and lived—His will is best;
He wills I yet should tremble in the swell
Of that great storm never quite laid to rest.
For so the soul that else, self-sainted, still
Had slept in opiate heavens, is nerved to keep
The watch of truthful eyes and steadfast will
Against the dragon-foes that never sleep.
Pierced by Truth's sword-flash, from all bondage freed,
By that keen ray my life's great task I saw,
Preferring right to safety, truth to creed,
And law itself to outward forms of law,
Shattering that outer crust that I might win
The perfect central Image fixed within.

12.

So from the Church's walls cast forth, alone
In a strange waste of freedom freely blown
By blasts of all new thoughts, I seemed to stand
Bewildered in a wondrous empty land.
And step by step I went, and hour by hour,
Dreading and pausing, strong because so weak,
As up a stair, into a topmost tower,
I mounted to this silent skyey peak!
Dreamer, saint, preacher, year by year a call
Came with strange sound—God's voices were they all,
That voice that thro' the choral raptures stole,
A still, small voice, upon my cloistered soul,
That said: “From matins on to vespers pave
Thy way with prayers to life beyond the grave,”—

And that which said: “Cry in the wilderness,
Cry to the men who feast, defraud, oppress,”—
And that which since, a silver trumpet-tone,
Flung open gateways into heavens unknown,
And drew me, through the green delicious ways
I never guessed of, to this mountain-den,
Where heart-struck outlaws kneel in prayer and praise
Round one who blesses them as dying men—
All were God's voices—blindfold at his will,
Regardless where they led, I followed still!

MARGARET OF TRENT.

I. SOLITUDE.

Red granite palace-walls o'erwatch
The river—in a corner niched,
A chamber-window leans, to catch
One curve, by one gold gleam enriched.

There leans a fair, pale lady, too;
The day is gone, the river dark,
A black snake sleeping, scarce in view—
Yet still she looks as though a bark

Were gliding, with her heart on board,
Away from her,—she seems a white
Phantom that half to life restored
Is dreaming back into the night.

Untouched the embroidery, lute unstrung,
Her soul in other spheres is sighing;
That chamber-lamp, by bronze chains hung,
Lights dimly books left open lying.

Ah, let the lamp's long dying ray
Those leaves' strange dusky secrets cross
Unheeded—turn thine eyes away
From gain which must to thee be loss.

The hoarded gold of priest and mage,
By bolder search proved dross and lies,—
Still her vexed thoughts these strifes engage,
So drearily she seeks the skies,
As reading, to some painful page,
The answer in Heaven's clear cold eyes.

Most melancholy woman! seeing
Thy birth-mates, love, joy, hope, shut out,
Thou spend'st thine hours, and all thy being,
In solving of a dreary doubt.

For thee, when on thy cheek, unsheathed,
The rosebud burst to girlhood's rose,
Love given and taken should have breathed
Its mingled passion and repose.

So had the fair ideal framed
In real life's core, supplied thy need,
The concrete had the abstract shamed,
And joy in life brought faith in creed.

For to believe, to trust, to pray,
Makes garland fit for woman's charms;
All mysteries would be solved one day
By baby-lispings in thine arms!

Scarce turned the corner yet where lies
Girlhood behind, as though a voice
Called thee, thou leavest Paradise,
And to the desert goest of choice.

Those tender dreams once dreamt—ah, not
Forgot, the wild sweet storm of feeling!—
That spirit-fever, now have got
Another way and course of dealing.

Thy soul's ideal must expand
In purer spheres than walls of clay;
Turned back from Fancy's fairyland,
The spirit life must still away.

But regions metaphysical,
Cold wastes with thwarting dogmas vexed,
And doubts if aught exist at all,
Receive thee strenuous and perplexed.

For thou art strong to stand alone,
Thou cling'st not to a broken faith—
Yet, ah! thy strength has fixed its throne
Upon the stony soil of Death!

The wings once idly fluttering furled,
The vagrant feet chained to the sod,
Thou standest in an empty world,
Cold face to face with an unloved God!

Yet, yet that tender paleness might
Lie o'er a woman's secret care,
That faded bloom is not a blight—
Though changed and wan, youth still is there!

Leave Logic's edge to cut itself!
Throw Learning's useless conquests by!
Leave Thought's sad treasures on their shelf!
As woman live, and love, and die!

“Vainly thou counsellest, O man!
Nor know'st the strong necessities
That rule each single soul, and ban
One from the other's Paradise.

“We are not what we would, we must
Obey the laws of fate and change.
When first the soul was formed from dust,
It held its powers and future range.

“Beneath the sacred hill of Love
Firm lies its granite base of Truth,
Whose crowned godhead towers above
The shattered idol fanes of youth.

“And if through long unlighted ways
The search must lead her maiden knight,
How bright Heaven's crystal towers will blaze
First breaking sudden on the night!

“Yet, while I walk these ways alone,
I know not if that light for me
Will ever dawn—enough! I own
The guiding hand of destiny.”

Thus answered she, in voice sedate,
And drooped the while with no weak moan,
In quiet yielding to her fate,
Like a queen dying on her throne;

Or lily fading to the sight,
Or moon that, lost in morning skies,
Grows thin and wan and pearly white,
And melts to nothing from our eyes.

She knew not then for her were made
A warmer hope, a richer faith,
A love, no pale abstraction's shade,
Strong living love, to conquer death.

Words in a speech unknown till then,
Straight by the soul interpreted,
Like a brave music not of men,
Came to her in her cell and said,—

“There is a Truth, there is a God,
Found in pure thoughts and noble deeds;
Better to sleep, a dusty clod,
Than feed the soul on husks of creeds.

“Ye know the doctrine if ye do
His will, the glorious Teacher said;
And love!—unloving, all in you,
Save the mechanic pulse, is dead.”

II. IN THE MORNING.

“Is this new feeling of prophetic kind,—
And this new trouble, chasing sleep too soon?
I wake with sudden startled eyes and find
The room ablaze with light—'t is but the moon
Alone in the cold empty sky of morn.
Alone?—no, there where yet no traces are
Of day's all roseate birth, in that forlorn
Grey East, keeps tender watch the morning star.
Am I alone with these, with that still sky,
And these two lovely lights?—O company

Mysterious! O mysterious worshipper!
Thou heart of heavenly passion! dost thou err,
In thy supreme devotion fixed above
The unseen god who slumbers? When that sun
Thou waitest with thy throbbing light of love,
Wakes from beneath thee, when thy watch is done,
Then must thou fade and perish from the sky.
Die happy, star of love! thy hope is won.—
Oh had I, too, a hope, heaven-fixed and high,
To wait, pray, suffer for, attain, and die!”

III. ASPIRATION.

“The sunny ages, summers year by year,
Summers of nature and the human spirit,
That flush with endless growths this earthly sphere,
Their richest gifts I care not to inherit.
I feel you, earthly laws, with strange control
Cramp while you seem to speed us to the goal—
I want another body and another soul.

If Love, whose wayward forms of joy and pain
Perplex our path with gracious ghastly strife,
Yet leads us on near some celestial fane,
Some grand perfection seen thro' chinks of life;
If Love's the fruitage of our faculties,
The first flower of our immortalities,—
Oh grant me love, great God! the love that maketh wise.

But if e'en Love with its imperial calms
And tempests, and the splendour of its youth,
Its burst of thoughts that ring in glorious psalms,
Like gates swung open of the heaven of truth;
If even Love, from its first beauty fleeing,
But draw from deeper founts the eternal sigh,
But show how coarse the clay vase of our being,
Spin out the dying strife that will not die,
Oh leave the sword still sheathed, the bow unstrung,
Kindle not here the power by passion wrung—
Grant me not Love, great God! but grant me to die young.”

IV. A LIFE.

An orphan heiress, soon bereft,
To chilly, sheltering arms consigned,
I in the house my parents left
Lived with my kindred, not my kind.

I lived in dreams—no poignant wound
Could from such early losses last,
Yet all was haunted, hallowed ground
Where Childhood's life of love was past.

The lark, a spiral shaft of song,
Whose music dies into a cloud,
The sibyl bird, heard all night long,
Like human passion chanting loud;

The sunshaft down the old dim hall,
The thin cry of the flitter-mouse,
The ivy whispering to the wall—
Waked the sweet phantoms of the house.

The swinging of a gate would rouse
Some dancing footstep in my ear,
The wind that waved acacia boughs
Soft ghostly smiles made hover near.

That life so chilly, stilly sweet,
Though never seeming to advance,
Went forward on its snow-soft feet,
Till something waked me from my trance.

Outside my home's close pale arose
A stir of worlds, new cries of life
That waked with anguish,—wrathful throes,
And clash of souls, and races' strife.

One came, whose name before him streamed,
Far seen, a meteor-banner wild;
Some said he raved, made dupes, blasphemed,
Some said he once had been so mild.

I saw a man most gaunt and sad,
A long life-battle in his eyes,
The fiery brain that maketh mad,
The frustrate hope that should make wise.

He looked on men as though he knew
Himself and them so wholly changed
That he might love, not dare to woo—
Like brethren fatally estranged.

Yet deep below the gloom there lay
A red still core that, if one came
And stirred it, though half burnt away,
And hollow, would break out in flame.

And under yet that vital fire
I saw a constant depth of soul,
Lord over danger and desire,
True as the north-star to the pole.

Long pined I, by my nature's sin
Or want, in dreary system sealed,—
He spoke the word, and all within
Cried amen! to a truth revealed.

He charmed me from the apathy
Of dormant doubt, creeds half believed;
Too noble to deceive is he,
Too wise to be himself deceived.

All that I needed he supplied,
I saw him strong, I felt him true;
Better steep rocks with him for guide,
Than those smooth ways alone pursue.

Yes I have found within my sphere
The man who marks and moulds the age,
The light I follow without fear,
The more than saint, the more than sage.

I might have lived, as thousands more,
Knowing this greatness—as the blind
Know ocean only by its roar—
By some vague talking of the wind,

A far-off murmur, till we doubt
If what we hear be speech or no;
Or by the dusky light given out,
The shadowy reflex books can show

Of things which, seen in such far station,
Win such half faith as we conceive
For legends where Imagination
Doth first create and then believe.

But now, not only to my sight,
But to my soul he comes—a part
Of its ideal world—to light
At once my reason and my heart.

O happy eye! that like a star
Leads the lost dove the true heaven-way—
O happy heart! that flying far
With such a pilot cannot stray.

DOLCINO.

I. AT TRENT.

That hiss of scorn, that howl of hate,
Did my own bitterness create?
No, e'en when first that call began,
There was a calmness in my breast,
And still the little children ran
To him who loved their prattle best.
I taught the truths I ever taught,
Humility and Poverty,
And loved the more the Church I sought
With God's own fire to purify.
How came this change that I, one day,
Stood like a hunted beast at bay?

Slandered and outcast, forth I went,
But after me their shafts were sent.
The innocent shrank and closed their gate
On one they counted with God's foes;
I had no buckler for that hate,
My heart beat bare against its blows.

I wandered far, for mischief kept
A murderous watch where'er I slept—
And still till hooted, pelted off,
Choked dumb with menace or with scoff,
Repeating, in my walk forlorn,
To ears of apathy or scorn
Words once o'er quick soft spirits streaming
Like notes celestial strings let fall,
But thro' dull folds of sense now seeming
Crazed mutterings mechanical.
Thus moving through the world alone
I thought my heart was turned to stone;
For worms on earth and bird in tree
Seemed more than men akin to me.

I came to Trent—and there and then,
With those who knew me not, I found
A little while a standing-ground
Amidst, not outside, fellow-men.
They said: “The madman hath an eye
That melts the soul, we know not why.”
“Fanatic or inspired,” they said,
“Saint Francis' son or rebel-Friar,
Apostle or Apostate, fed
With seraph-light or Tophet's fire,
What know we till we hear him speak?”
They bade me preach—my whitened cheek
Betrayed the change that made me weak.
What knew I now of human feelings,
Or of God's spiritual dealings?

I too—who most of all abhorred
The draping faith I seemed to wear,
The mask of vows my heart abjured,
Which yet to break I scarce did care,
Since nothing now to me seemed true,
And freed I still found nought to do.
Yet if I spoke, might help divine
Supply this perished strength of mine,
Or I, at worst, might catch again
Some echoes of the ancient strain.

The summer's burden grew and swelled
Through long hot hours—the vine-boughs held
Such dangling heaps of grapes as made
The green look purple,—there I stay'd.
I stood beneath the trellised shade,
Where the gold smiles of radiant eves
Shot through the myriad-flickering leaves;
Or in the smooth fair city-square,
Beside the fountain's leaping gold;
Window and door and pavement there
Could scarce their crowd of listeners hold.
Though pierced with sense of bitter need,
Yet powerless any more to feed
On inner hope or outer creed,—
I spoke to them of faith and love,
And called God's fire their hearts to prove.
Did any there the preacher's probe?—
One face I used to single out
Fixed star-like in the shifting rout;
Forehead of pearl and milk-white robe

At first I saw, indifferent yet,—
Within a dark-browed window set.
She kindled not, alone her face
Seemed calm, throughout that crowded place;
As one who all beforehand knew,
But noted if my strains were true
To that which did her life control—
The long-loved music in her soul.

I knew that clear and gentle gaze
Was watching me in all my ways;
And sure I was, if I should e'er
Be to my purpose insincere
By words unpaired with thoughts, by aim
That shrivelled e'er to act it came—
The arrow slipping from the string
Strained at the moment for its spring—
By earthlier passion shooting through
God's rainbow-web a sullied hue—
That eye would sadden with the pain
Of angel's insight—not in vain!

And often when I spoke aloud,
And others throbbed and burned and wept,
I saw that still its tender cloud
The wistful face that watched me kept.
I had not found the golden key
That oped the gates of Mystery.
But when a thought of God's own making,—
From lips it blanched, like lightning breaking—

In words that knew not how 'twas done
Wrung forth some radiant truth from prison,
I saw a face upturned like one
On which the morning just had risen.

Her home, a dark square turret, rose
High in a stately palace—those
Who knew her said she lived apart
In silence with her own pure heart.—
When sometimes in the twilight dim
I saw her gazing from her tower
That overhung the river's brim,
Such cold and holy calm she kept
I thought her angel from a bower
Of Paradise some starlight hour
Had looked down on her ere she slept,
With eyes that wedded her to him.—
But I was strangely troubled soon—
I dreamed one night I saw arise
A solemn, perfect, pearl-white moon,
Above the ruins of my world,
In the unfathomed depths of skies,
And with white wings half unfurled,
Changed to a queen-goddess, stand
Beckoning with a silver hand.

There came an evening, warm with June,
Yet all forgot by star and moon.
The summer night, in feverish rest,
As with her secrets quite opprest,—

Perfumes that came one knew not whence,
And glimmering lights, half sight, half sense,—
Held, till the glad releasing morrow,
A balmy mystery of sorrow.
The river had its ghosts of trees,
Grave monumental effigies;
The air was charged with passion, dark
Yet nursing an electric spark,
And from its slumbering sultry breast
Came now and then a panting breath,
Like sighs from a full heart exprest,
That might be love, that might be death.
But I, whose deepest depths were seething
With the fierce problem “Live or die,”
Could feel no treacherous languor breathing
From dewy earth or dusky sky.
The wounded oryx fears no snare;
My soul was careless with despair,
As blank of wish, as bare of might,
As was that hour of form and light.

Another mood then took its place—
“Dark night,” I said, “I'll conquer doubt;
Into thy stern blind vacant face
I' ll gaze, and force the answer out.”
I took a boat—with steady stroke,
Long, slow, and sad, my oarblade broke
The river's solid sleep—I passed
The houses leaning o'er the wave,
Where lights from all those windows cast
Turned it to an illumined grave.

Each bright-eyed casement gliding under,
“In all those homes of souls,” I thought,
“None needs or cares for me.” What wonder?
Myself the strange divorce had wrought,
By loving souls that had not learned
Their own existence; so I pined,
Debarred the dues of love returned,
And sweet solicitudes of kind.
Hush! hark! an answer comes—but whence?
So softly, thrillingly intense,
Melting of voice and lute, that made
Ethereal passion,—comes the strain
From that shy lattice in the shade?
Or else from some immortal pain,
Some angel, kneeling to complain,
Low at God's feet, with wings close furled,
For a bereaved, benighted world?

I knew the singer and the song—
'T was made before my birth for me;
It touched the key-note of my long
Desires and of my destiny.
I knew it held the pass-word, too,
For her closed being. From that hour
I gained the word that, straight and true,—
First touching like a ray of gold
That face uplifted like a flower,—
Should pierce and split the outer fold,
And quiver in her heart's deep hold.

But then came pain: the morning look,
The evening peace, her face forsook;
Yet by the struggle, not the calm,
I knew my wish had won its palm!

And so I learned, for weal or woe,
Our life-threads were entwisted so,
That not a thought could move in one,
A word be born, a deed be done,
A sigh slip from one heart, but drew,
Perforce, the other after too.
Yet never, never dared we yet
O'erstep the bar between us set.
I still the Friar, God's wrath and grace
Preaching in the market-place;
She still, so bending in the shade,
The ivory image of a maid.

But when,—as if two fearful foes,
Caught, past escaping, in one place,
Should, in defiance, turn and close,
Trembling, yet desperate, face to face—
Our two souls met, the tender strife
Rushed into speech that, clear and strong,
All the great secret told, and life
Broke out at once in flower and song.
Our eyes upon each other dwelt,
As with a long-accustomed gaze;
Our hands, though then first meeting, felt
As 't were the touch of all our days.

And when “I love you!” sounded clear,
It made so utterly a part
Of our whole selves, we seemed to hear
Each but the beating of the heart.
Yet e'en when hand in hand was laid,
Eyes lost in eyes, in life-long grant
Of breath and being, you had said
That moment sealed the covenant
Of two who love, but meet no more,
Not to accept, but to abjure.

O Margaret! my pale sweet dream,
My bridal pearl, my fateful prize!
Thou swan that floatest down the stream
Of my disastrous destinies,
To charm it smooth, my love in death!
I knew, when first love's asking breath
Won that quick flash from silent eyes,
Whose silence was such wondrous speech,
We staked the very life of each!

When for my Margaret I forswore
Vows God had heard not, faith had ceased
To hold, men saw in me no more
Than love-smit man and perjured priest.
They knew not that angelic hands
Unlinked those fetters' cursed rings,
To tie me safe with flower-soft bands
From wandering lost in desert sands;

Or—for who dare say how at last
Such o'erstrained fate may taint and blast?—
From rushing loose to revellings
In lawless pastures unconfined,
Yet set me free to serve mankind.
I know not how I rent my tether,
But Love and Freedom came together.

True Freedom—for that first false oath
Unhallowed not the purer one
That bound to noble service both,
Not each to petrify alone.
God bade me, when he raised for me
The curtain of that sanctuary,
No more believe a being ground
To worthless dust was what He needed
To make the gems with which He's crowned,
And hearts that bled to death unheeded;
No more upon His altar fling
A cankered Self's vile offering,
Now in another purer Self absorbed,
A life by love and sacrifice full-orbed,
The constant prayer of constant lofty aims,
The sacrament of deeds like heavenward flames.—
O pale soft cheek! O innocent dark eyes,
That fixed on mine their grave and sweet surprise,
Thanking for love and offering sacrifice!

God knows, my Margaret, thou wouldst not be,
E'en thou, the all of life thou art to me,

Didst thou not wed with me my mission too,
This great, austere, desolate enterprise,
And join thy lovely strength with mine to do
What Pope's command and Emperor's arms defies.
God led me to thee for thy good and mine,
And to yet nobler issues, sweet young wife,
Thou beauteous outcast from the fancied shrine,
The prison-paradise of woman's life,
The narrow bounds that keep them to old age,
Walking the path all walk, all they desire.
Enough for me that to this pilgrimage
Which dares above their meadow-track aspire,
Thou bring'st the woman's heart that doth express
Infinite love in those small sweetnesses
Which, innocent as play of breeze in bower
With twinkling leaflets, yet means nothing less
Than God's eternal primal law, whose power
Joins two opposing halves in perfectness!

II. DALMATIA.

1

Blue glared above that lone land-tongue
The hot sky; on the red bare rocks,
All twisted by the sea-wind's shocks,
Stone-pines, distorted giants, hung;

And from the cliff's sharp face that flung
Itself out seaward, midway placed,
A dragon-tree fantastic sprung,
That seemed a demon sneering on the waste!

2

All day brown figures on the ground,
Wild women, savage children, still
As upright stones, upon the hill
Crouch in their rags, without a sound.
Red burn the grouped geraniums round,
The cactus wreathes with flowers of flame
The line of cliffs,—no ship is bound
That way, to give the weird lone land a name!

3

But they, that pair, the long day through
On yon rock sitting, who were those?
O fairest woman Europe knows,
What's in this lorn sea-nook for you?
Like idlers that have nought to do,
In too sweet opiates tranced for speech,
Watch ye the pictures on the blue?
The sweet half ring of snow-white fairy beach,

4

That in its lucid water sees
The zoning rocks, flung from their heights
Long purple shadows, jewel lights
On the clear wave that comes and flees?

The tiny skiff of southern seas
Poised like a butterfly, or fast
Flying a seagull on the breeze,
With one wide lateen sail and raking mast?

5

The fisher, in the morn's clear thrill,
Who slow and slow, in doubtful hope,
Draws in, as by an endless rope,
The heavy net, wave-hidden, still?
Or if they roam, is 't but at will
For grey sea-mosses in some cove,
Or sea-flower-cup gay colours fill,
Or else for nothing but to talk of love?

6

Dalmatia's are those rocks untrod,
And these are hiding from the hand
Of vengeful Power o'er sea and land
Stretched after them with flaming rod;
That lonely land, that mountain sod,
The pigmy isles that fret those seas,
Hold many a fugitive for God—
Ah, 'scaped too oft in vain, in days like these!

7

These fled to breathe from hate and crime,
To gather strength a little while,
In this, a moment's fairy isle,
To heights of purer ether climb;

And dear to them that first love-time,
As, first beheld in half-year's gloom,
The long lost sun's whole disk sublime
O'er icy hills up from his Polar tomb;

8

To feel far off the world unblest
With its strong tyrants bad and bold,
Forgotten like dead monsters old
Of primal fen, while Love, fair guest,
Wakes fresh in each pure long-closed breast;
As some fair statue first to light
Unprisoned from its earthy rest,
That dark for ages held its dazzling white.

9

Yet not e'en thus may he escape
His mission's haunting thought; self-vowed
He waits all-vigilant—like that proud
Stone lion on the mountain cape,
The strait that witnessed Helen's rape,
Whose ripples Greece from Asia sever,
Watching with beacon eyes—a shape
On solemn outstretched paws resting for ever!

10

So waits he by the Adrian foam,
While she in tender silence reads
Thoughts soon to ripen into deeds
With battle shout and beat of drum.

Ah! but the dearer thus become
To him this one deep privileged
Love-dream, and she who chose for home
The bark in tempest launched, to ruin pledged!

III. VERCELLI.

“Oh, only love! thou gav'st me this sweet pause
To train me how to love and aid thee best,
To fit my womanhood for sterner laws
Than build the birdmate's nest.
A pause but not a close—with whisper deep
Duty dissolves Love's Eden of a day;
On lids long troubles have weighed down to sleep,
Sharp smites the kindling ray.

But smite it does—the fairy land is gone,
Old haunts and kindred lives rise round us fast;
So be this foreign love-dream left upon
The pillow of the past.
Thy people calls to thee, the brotherhood
Wanders unfathered now; for Sagarelli
Hath sealed his gentle madness with his blood—
They need thee in Vercelli.

Milano calls; the friends who yearn for thee,
And, with thee, for the vision bending down,
Yet leaving not the skies, till there shall be
One Italy, one crown.

Behold, they say, the prophecies converge
From cloud to lightning,—heaven is all alight,
Red with foreshadowed war,—be thou, they urge,
The trumpet of the fight.

'Tis true the trumpet may be silenced ere
Those whom it leads have gained an inch of ground;
For first he falls, who first alone shall dare
Rouse foes couched all round.
And am I brave enough to doom thee so,
I, all so happy once? am I resigned
To worship at thy grave who hast lived to show
Me crowned above my kind?

Can I believe, for whom thou wert life's sun,
Earth will be brighter for that sun's eclipse?
That the great tide will roll more freely on,
O'er wrecks of noblest ships?
It matters not—the way is dark, but straight;
Twins are my love and pride; I wedded thee,
Thee and thy greatness; work thou out thy fate,
Then—oh call soon for me!”

He comes to fling that new-enriched life
On the great altar, nor comes he alone;
The light soft hand that waved him to the strife
Is welded to his own.
Yet strife he brings not, flapping not aloft,
A storm-bird with harsh cry, but like the swallow,
With summer on its wings, and piping soft,
For fuller songs to follow.

But in his children burned Saint Dominic,
A frenzy in their blood; and cowled hate
Gnashed dragon-teeth at him, the heretic,
Who stormed their sacred gate.
Thrice in their gripe he fell, and thrice God's arm
Withdrew him for the work that was to reach
To lives yet ages off—either a charm
Of subtly-moving speech,

Or lingering love of some who once had held
The Fra Dolcino first and best of men,
The willing martyr loosed, the glimpse dispelled
Of heaven within his ken.
So from the city life and peopled plains,
O'erawed by crosier, filled with priestly feet,
And eyes cowl-shadowed, as with blood the veins,
He turned for some retreat.

The summer richness round Vercelli laid,
Where battled walls like a dark ring of shields
Lock in the town, from happy breadths of shade
Severed, and shining fields,
Whose seas of grass are streaked with streams that roll
Diamonds from clefts in Alpine marble rent,
Thence trickling into verdure: these his soul
Felt like a banishment.

Leaving those sunny levels then, he tracked
Safety and liberty up lawless vales,
Where only Nature's wrath those mountain-backed
And sullen haunts assails,

Castle or den, wherein amid the rocks
To all foiled outcasts from the pastures driven
By stronger herds, or singly or in flocks,
Uneasy footing's given.

There did the haughty Ghibeline chieftain—couched
Outside the tamed Vercelli in his pride,
And from his fortress like a dragon crouched
And curled by Sesia's side,
Flinging grim scorn at all nets woven for
Body or soul—to Fra Dolcino call:
“What! art thou outlawed, hunted down, at war
With slaves and tyrants all?

“Welcome to Robiallo! See unrolled
The Biandrate's banner o'er thy head,
To warn the Guelphs off from the prey I hold
Safe where they dare not tread.”
But clipped were Biandrate's eagle-wings,
And foes were busy; lowlier friends, yet brave
As any noble, and from deeper springs,
A surer refuge gave.

IV. VAL SESIA.

Oh, if from all the fairy lands that night
Pilots us to, upon whose shores of dream
Dusk breaks to magic dawn, by such a light
We sought a home for him
Whose life was like a beautiful, austere
Vision in some weird Patmos all untrod,
Wind-haunted peaks without, within, the clear
Calm grotto-shrines of God!

There, where Val Sesia, like a beauteous cup,
Is from the mountains melted out, 't is given—
That Paradise in darkness treasured up!
That mountain-guarded Heaven!
That secret happiness! that dell of charms!
In whose deep heart of sleep one minstrel sings,
And dreams his endless poems in the arms
Of giant-granite kings!

But thou, O dreamer of a deeper song
Than even Nature's murmuring child can teach!
Seek it, to find, high up its course, ere long,
A refuge out of reach.
And first, on Colma's fairy tower, sky-kissed,
Out of lakes, mountains, streams, soft breadths, bright lines,
Fix the one vale where, clear thro' golden mist,
Wood-cleaving Sesia shines.

There is thy home! find, then, the path that flees
Out of the world, between huge heights and deeps,
Where million towers of monster chestnut-trees
O'ergreen untrodden steeps.
Rooted in æons of th'unpeopled world,
Now with leaf-laden boughs they darken this,
Covering like pebbles boulders, that lie hurled
Half-way to the abyss.

And still those depths and heights! and still around
The boundless, endless shade thro' which the gleam
From Sesia's bed deep down, too far for sound,
Breaks white, a dazzling dream.
But the glen narrows, deepens, winds away,
The naked brows that hail God's storms appear,
The path descends, sweet mysteries to betray,—
The glorious voice is near!

Go when heaven's glories stoop to thee in throngs,
Ascend the dell when first the hills are waking;
Hear that immortal minstrel, full of songs,
Chaunt every step he's taking!
See on those regal heads the Sun's young pride
Kiss into crowns of gold their misty hoods,
And in gold-dews bathe all the mountain-side,
All its delicious woods;

While the huge bases underneath still lie,
With their hushed dreaming forests, in a swoon,
Ignorant of the morning; but from high
Slides down the splendour soon,

Touches the river, kindles at a bound
Its infant-spray, shoots jewelled shafts anon,
Till with a thousand glad gold bubbles crowned
It dances on and on.

Prophet of God's Aurora! upward go,
Track to its cradle-cave the wanderer's sweep,
Rushing in whirls white-fringed with lisping snow,
In opal pools asleep.
Still curves the vale, the stream, a soul in pain,
Still twisting with it, panting, dives, to pierce
Rock-jaws and disappear; then bursts again
From ruin, doubly fierce.

The dell shrinks closer, nearer press the rocks,
Narrower the stream shoots, higher climb in air
Brown village-roofs that cling to white stone blocks,
Perched, balanced, hanging there.
The mountain sheer before them like a tomb
Bids ask, “In yon grim walls who of mankind
Could—save a murderer flying from his doom—
Shelter or passage find?”

For this is Campordoglio; here begin
Val Sesia's secrets; here the strong old man,
The peasant ruler, shut his stern life in,
To brood, to wait, to plan.
Lo! here Milano's den, that round thick tower
On solid pillars—gourds, with their green shade,
Fill chinks and crevices, vines make a bower
Round granite balustrade.

That ruin yet sad guardianship imparts
To yon grey roofs that press around; of old
The shrine of outlawed faiths, defiant hearts,
Was that unconquered hold.
These were all here; and that grim Warden hailed
With outstretched arms the Priest of his wild cause;
Him had he loved when Church and World assailed
The scorner of their laws;

Loved more because the darling of his sire,
His own Emilio, followed, with the faith
That turns a young heart to a vase of fire,
That prophet-priest of Death.
Noble and rough, as Nature's splintered heaps
Of stone, built up by her to walls and towers,
There lived he, in his wild heart's stormy deeps,
Through long, lone, wintry hours,

Nursing the dead form which no hours that roll
Shall bring breath back to, in his fresh springtide
Slain by Dolcino's foes—his life, his soul
Henceforth were petrified
Into a tomb for that one being lost—
There kept he watch above
His murdered heart's delight, th'ensanguined ghost,
To hatred curdling love;

Yea, at the very altar,—in his hand
The God for him made bread—
He swore to wreak his vengeance on the land
With that dear life-blood red.

And lived and donned rude armour, day by day
Set furrowed brows against the mountain blast,
Chased wolf and wild boar, dreaming of the prey
That he should pin at last!

There, O Dolcino, with the souls thou 'st charmed
Rest thee awhile; it may not be for long
That thou shalt worship, undisturbed, unharmed,
With fire of prayer and song.
There in the flame of mystic altars mould
Thy splendid fancies, wing again thy youth
With eagle impulses, whose eyes behold
The central light of Truth.

There love thy loves, the heart of friendship prove,
But with a passion purified, a ray
All merged and circled in the fuller love
That sunders soul from clay.
There praying, waiting, count th'allotted days
For the Deliverer, born of some great line,
Fixed by all high souls with prophetic gaze,
Summoned by song divine.

Still track we further up the vale the soul's
Impassioned flight beyond Earth's space and time,
To Riva cradled in its soft green knolls,
Watched by a Form sublime.
There stays the foot—the glen no further goes,
Locked sternly in between those two half-bare,
Half-piny portals, that will ne'er unclose—
And lo! before us there,

That turretted and crested Head, that springs,
A sparkling crown, o'er all the mountain range,
Gazing in snowy scorn on lesser kings,
Cold, clear, defying change,
Throned in sky-sapphire! Mountain rosed at dawn
Into a thing as fair as terrible,
Thou shy, austere divinity! withdrawn,
As by a sudden spell,

Within thy sanctuary of cloud so oft—
O Monte Rosa, happy at thy feet
The rural sweetness sleeps, howe'er aloft
The clouds in battle meet,
Where slope the hills down to the silver glance
Of rivulet thro' Eden plots which passes,
Where sunshine bathes in dew, and crickets dance
And chirp in thymy grasses.

There passed him, with the light bare feet that trod
So beautifully and so nobly free,
Those creatures modelled by the hand of God
From earth of Italy;
Those sweet-eyed girls with smiles that still enthral
The gazer, in some mild Madonna traced
By peasant-painter on the chapel wall,—
Who moved in nymph-like haste,

Plying the spindle, and, from open brows
Bound by the crimson fillet, glancing back
To watch the lambs and kids that stop to browse
Or frolic off the track;

Or where the green-isled cottage thatched and grey
O'erlooks a few calm grazing sheep and kine,
And the gay grace of girlhood loosed in play,
By innocence made divine.

How o'er the sward their aimless shadows flit!
While one o'erhead doth in a green ash-tree
Stripping fresh leaves off for the cattle sit,
And to their rippling glee
Soft answer laughs—then suddenly demure,
Cries “Watch the babe,”—there seated on a knoll,
A pretty, solemn, human miniature,
Small casket of a soul.

Gay group, ye guess not how with thoughts of home,
A thing half known, ne'er to be had again,
Ye touch th'Elijah of God-braving Rome,
And make a pleasant pain.
Time was in that heart's chambers cold and lonely
Kept sternly waste for God, had entered in,
From touch of human joy's wild pulses, only
A bitter sense of sin.

But now the purity of youth, the grace
Of womanhood, the sanctity of beauty,
Could waft a perfume to his storm-girt place
On mountain heights of Duty;
And he could think, “O Italy! thy daughters
Yet on thy sons may breathe, as wind on wave
When God shall move upon the torpid waters,
In storms that clear and save!”

THE MOUNTAINS.

I. RAINIERI, THE BISHOP.

Pope Clement in state was riding now
To his Palace in the fair French town,
With a blood-red spot upon his brow—
'T was the ruby set in the three-fold crown
They had blest for him mid the holy fane—
And two princes held his bridle-rein.
The noble of France who had breathed at leisure
The perfumed airs of a life of pleasure,
Was now the heir of the Son of God,
And his pastoral staff was the heretic's rod.
Brothers or Saints, the Poor or the Pure,
No longer the foul pest should endure.
So from his skies are the thunders given
That once shook the world as the voice of Heaven.

“Lo! God hath ordained a new Crusade;
In the heart of His realm must the plague be staid.

All ye who take arms, and a month will fight
For our Mother's love and our Master's right,
Shall be crowned with the crown and signed with the sign
Of earthly glory and grace divine,
Like those who have warred in Palestine!”

Joy filled the Priests and the lords and knights,
And all who upheld the Guelphic rights.
His stately grey head the Bishop rears,
As one would gaze where the first light appears,
And his mellow voice, for anthems made,
Proclaims through the land the new Crusade.

Rainieri the Bishop was bold and wise,
Vercelli lay thralled by his Argus eyes.
She turned in her sleep, she muttered in dreams,
Still coiled in the net of his will and his schemes.
Full of life and full of power,
He caught the soul of each passing hour.
Such a man as ever thrives—
A man he was of many lives.
In youth of study, of strife in age—
Resolute always and calm and sage.
With his fine polished steel of will and wit,
On whatso height he chose to sit,
He carved him a road to its palace towers,
And the pathway of stones was a pathway of flowers.
Noble he was and of noble kin;
The Avogadri prospered in

The sunshine of his serene success;
Proud birds that build in the highest trees.
When in broidered cope and violet stole
His rich deep voice made the masses roll,
And from the altar to the skies
Pealed the God-imploring litanies,
And his form, as tho' rising on wings of grace,
Seemed towering to reach the heavenly place,
The angel in niche, the saint in shrine,
Seemed scarce so near to the Image divine.

Noble and knight, they took the field
With their patron saint on banner and shield.
They met at Scopa—no fame it owns,
That little hillside town secure,
That seems to grow from the mountain's core,
With its houses rooted in the stones.
A gorge above holds a streamlet pure,
That green and white and pellucid runs
In its close stone walls, and all contact shuns;
While above on its cliffs, the chestnuts among,
Like a bird on a spray's end lightly swung,
Is the tiny painted chapel hung.
And higher and lonelier still, o'er the gorge,
A Lombard-tower like a sentinel starts,
Of some imperial Frederic the scourge,
To fret yet o'erawe Italian hearts.
Below lies the village in its shade,
Of crumbling, tumbling masses made;

Arches, arcades, and chimneys quaint,
Like carved and battlemented towers,
Gloom and gay tints, bright frescoes that paint
The ruinous stone with martyr and saint,
Mystical birds and holy flowers;
Tall campaniles, archways there
Draped with tresses of maiden-hair,
And all the upper chambers piled
With golden maize for winter's use,
With black vaults under, about them wild
Vines, figs, and melons curl profuse.

The glen to a valley did expand,
There gathered the Bishop's holy band;
And at his feet, in God's own house,
They took the cross and they made their vows.
Cursed by the Pope, by the Bishop pursued,
Now first at bay Dolcino stood.
Now must the brethren, sword in hand,
For their own free worship flee or stand.
And now is he with a chosen few
Cutting his desperate passage through
The guarded pass, his only friend
The Rock of the Bare Wall at its end!

And who yon fortress doth defend?
Is it then she, the delicate saint,
Whose soul seems with heavenly perfume faint,
Enskied above all others, no less
All woman in tender timidness—

Doth she on the wall of the fortress stand,
And bid with one wave of her brave fair hand,
Like lightning called by the charmer's wand,
Flash forth the swords of a sacred band?
Three hundred men have sworn it—all
Unknown to her they cherish so—
To leave their lives at the foot of the wall,
Ere a fold of her robe be touched by the foe!
O violet-eyed dream-loveliness!
The calm old Bishop, who came to bless
The war of the many against the few,
Looked up amazed; but well he knew
That Satan had made that flesh so fair,
And put in a devil for a snare.
And well did the witchcraft work on one,
Who saw, who gazed, and was undone.
Famed was Manfredi, Saluzzo's lord,
For zeal to the Church, and a loyal sword;
And when Rainieri tranquilly said,
“Seize ye the sorceress alive or dead!”
And when he had answered, “Lord, that will I,
That mission is mine, to do it or die,”
He laughed in his youthful, knightly pride,
By the hope of adventure glorified,
And dreams of a wooing and a winning,—
Love in sweet April rains beginning,
And a summer of rapture silently spinning;
And how the fresh stem of minstrelsy, whence
Spring those lays, sweet roses of Provence,
Should blossom forth with a new romance.

Soon from Dolcino lighted there
A message that came like a voice in the air.
When the morning broke, the castle wall
Was scaled, and Manfredi foremost of all.
None offered now to bar their way,
For dead to a man the garrison lay.
But she was gone—on the wings of night
The beautiful phantom had taken flight.
“Ah, fairest!” he groaned in his wrathful pain,
“Tho' thou melt into skies, we shall meet again.
Escape mayst thou hatred, swift fugitive dove—
Thou canst not escape from the chase of love.
Away, thro' the paths of darkness! away
To the Sorcerer who snared thee to be his prey!
But one day shall I tear the net he has spread,
With my foot on his throat and my shield o'er thy head.
E'en now are the passes with foes beset;
We will track thee, and find thee, and win e'en yet.
Ere thy feet by thy lover's tread high in air,
On the Rock of the Bare Wall, I shall be there!”

II. “IL VARCO DELLA MONACA.”

It was a glen that you long might seek,
That the crags in their gripe enclose,
Cut through by a torrent, high up a streak
In a bed of unmelted snows,

Pressed out of a sharp-toothed, naked peak,—
That muttering and grinding grows

From its cradle of grey-green pines that look
Like watch-towers on stormy capes,
That take in old age grim fancies and shock
The air with their twisted shapes—
Then, choked between black doors of rock,
Writhes down and groaning escapes.

Turbid and yellow, and split against stones,
It hurries to freer quarters,
Where garlands of fern, on their shattered thrones,
The granite's green delicate daughters,
Wave o'er the steam, and the splash, and the groans
Of the quarrelling rocks and waters.

Then the close portals open, the gulf yawns wide—
Deep down is the hoarse voice sighing;
'T were hard for a horse in its proudest stride,
Or a stag from the hunters flying,
To clear that wide chasm—the man who tried
Were surely lost in the trying.

A pitiless spot! tho' the sun-blaze slept
On its crimson couch of heather,
And the eagle o'er the precipice swept
In the pearly noontide ether,
And the torrent and stones o'er which it leapt
Flashed jewel-like together.

“See! the Nun's Pass!” says the goatherd's boy,
And, faltering, the fable will tell,
How the madness, once, of a wicked joy
Through a love-charm wrought in hell,
Lured out, for a Demon to destroy,
A Nun from her convent cell;

How she followed him breathless, under the frown
Of a night that should know no ending,
Just paused, as to seize her hope's dear crown,
O'er a gulf that she saw not bending—
Then, as if the lost soul weighed the body down,
Fell—one scream thro' the midnight sending!

One scream? Oh by night it returns in shocks
Of echo from cave to cave,
As though phantom yells were splintering the rocks
To let her out of the grave—
And it ends in a laugh of the Fiend, that mocks
The pitiful prize she gave.

And he sees in his dreams in the torrent's bed,
Deep down mid its fathomless stones,
The beautiful, wicked creature dead;
Through the ages she lists to its groans,
Lying there all unhelped—till round her pale head
Peal the judgment thunder tones.

With the blood on her robe, the sin in her heart,
And the dreadful death in her eyes,
That stared thro' the dark till the breath did part,
She must listen, and waken, and rise—

The ghastliest ghost he thinks that will start
To life in the dread surprise.

False legend that paints the midnight and cave,
Still blacker with ruin and crime!
Paint rather two beautiful shapes that gave
Their light to a far-away time,
When Courage so tender and Love so brave
Were made one in a deed sublime.

There's nothing to see save the rocks o'erhead,
Nor to hear save the plash below,
And nothing to guess save the souls of the dead
That murmur their endless woe,
And a horrible depth and a shuddering dread
What a moment of light may show.

But lo! a red flash o'er the glen is cast,
And a spirit seems standing there,
Seems watching another come flying fast,
Come bounding adown the rock stair,
Like a white bird driven before the blast
Through the billowy gulfs of air.

A spirit? yes, surely just plumed on high,
So luminous, rapid, and white
She joins him as tho' in a flash from the sky—
On! on! in your double flight—
But ah! the abyss, that yawns murd'rously nigh,
And that must be crossed ere night.

He flings the red shaft of his torch's flame
O'er the wide, deep blackness they face;
He holds it aloft—what hope? what aim?
Save to die in a long embrace—
For they know that Murder is tracking its game,
Close—on to that very place.

He clasped her round—on his arm she hung,
And rushed to the brink unscared—
Then light as on wings, from that brink they sprung,
Twin comrades for life and death paired—
They bound o'er the void—brave, steadfast, and young—
And Love has achieved what Love had dared!

She looks not back on that death defied,
Her eyes the faint lids cover,
And she droops her head in a tremulous pride
On the shoulder of that strong lover—
“Worse gulfs than this, O my own!” she sighed,
“Thou hast carried thy stray lamb over!”

III. MONTE ZEBELLO.

“Yes, ye stern Alps, ye cruel refuges,
Ye horn'd stone monsters glaring up so high,
In your hard jaws ye take us from the foe,—
Opening your stony hearts, so far as just

To take us in where man cannot pursue—
But yield no sustenance save your bitter air,
Nor outlet to the happier plains beyond;
Walls that make frowning limit to our world,
Without a portal to a better one.
Yet to your hospitality austere
We must give up ourselves—at least not man
Shall slay us there, but God!”

So desperate spoke
The hated, hunted Brotherhood at bay,
Now clustered on the Rock of the Bare Wall,
Whose blind, blank, upright face goes steeply down
To the Val Rossa—on the other side,
Across a tangled growth of forest hair,—
Like a delicious dream already in
The skies of the far past, and seeming now
A life asunder—Sesia's happy dell
Lay, never to be visited again!
And yet without a sigh they quitted it,
Dolcino and his chosen ones, to whom
Clung thousands, breaking from all joys of life,
To clasp its miseries.

All those wild waifs,
Whom common needs and faiths had bound in one
Strange brotherhood, had vanished from the vale
That was so late their paradise—all fled—
Like to a flock of quiet-couching birds,
That start on sudden wings and melt in air—
Fled up to ghastly, lifeless pinnacles
And precipices!

But not long that spot
Could hold them: neither ground to pitch a tent,
Soil to yield food, nor glimpse of human life
Beyond nor underneath; no path between
The world and them; chill air that stabbed them dead,
And shelter nowhere from the rasping file
Of frost and winter-rains and gusts that whirl
Rocks round like feathers, and the piercing white
Assassin snow-flakes.

“Come, my brothers!” then
Said Fra Dolcino; “one last effort more!
I know a spot where eagle families
For ages have been reared 'twixt earth and sky,
Yet where we shall command the means of life
Within our untouched limits—Nature's bounds,
Strengthened by skill, shall keep our foes outside.
If we can reach it, we are high above
Men's hate and the world's temptings, as in heaven.
There shall we breathe in airy solitudes
Safe as our Sesian grottoes, if austere
As hermit's penitential cavern—there
Hold our high service, only heard by God.
Come, brothers! through the very jaws of death
May be the passage, but all beautiful
Stands Freedom crowned behind it!”

And they came.
Whilst in the year's pale dawning, Winter yet
Stretched out an icy arm into the spring,
They tried the cruel passage—never one
Had at that season done that deed before—

The pass of the Bochetta, through the ridge
That drives its monstrous wedge between the dells
Of Sessara and Sesia: there they went,
Men, women, children, all the fated band,—
The narrowest track the shepherd scarce can lead
His mountain-flock by,—through huge walls of frost,
High among mountain-needles homed in mist,
The ghostly birth-place of a thousand streams;
Where sometimes, islanded in cloud, a point
Strains upward, like a stranded ship or rock
Among the breakers; where, lo! leaps a passion
Of water down the gorge, and tunes its shriek
To the loud raving of th'incessant blast—
Shrieking because the rock hath clenched its jaws
So fast, to shut it in.

A perilous pass!
Tourmentes and avalanches! here ye reign.
All down the mountain-wall's huge buttresses,
Torrent-seamed, crag-torn, iron-bound with ice,
The grooved path of the avalanche is seen,
Scarring and furrowing all its way most like
The zigzag lightning. Hearken! they're awake,
Those mountain-thunders, as the snow-floods rush,
Rattling and roaring through the death-like air;
And all below are desolate valleys, broken
With nothing but these tall, straight, black pine-spires,
Like pilgrims in procession.

And at night
How ghastly, how funereal seemed their march!
How strangely looked some shadowy peak in front,

Like the dim dreary goal that phantoms seek,
Till rose o'er the white mountain the white moon;
Above the cold clear spectre hung the cold
Clear sky-lamp, whilst around dark heads the flash
And frolic of weird stars made dreary glee.

A fearful march! marked oft by snowy graves,
Where many a child-soul, all as white, exhaled
Its thin life-breath into the bitter air,
And many a weary woman fell asleep
Into the bosom of the snow, and there,
Dreaming of clover-meadows, past away;
And men, strong-limbed, seeing in those stiff heaps
All they had loved, grew weak, and died on them.
Yet none complained: thro' frozen days and days
They struggled forwards, strong souls kept alive
In dying frames by all-unquestioning trust.
Still as they mounted, forth in clusters burst
New mountains, and below them suddenly
New vales were hollowed out: a world of hills
Towers up, unfolding under and behind,
As 't were a company of grave, grand forms,
Kings sitting round upon their marble thrones
In their eternal silent councils.

So
At last they reach their mountain-ark, the head
Three-cleft of Mount Zebello, that shall be,
Henceforth, home, fortress, temple, sepulchre!
On Sessara's deep vale it gazes down.
'T is called Saint Bernard's now: time hath forgotten

The heretic host that made it famous once;
But now, as then, it is most beautiful.
And when Dolcino bade the weary march
To halt, and they stood 'wildered—they looked up,
And round and down, on glory! Far away
The snow-ridge heaves like a great frozen wave
With its pale azure ocean of soft sky
Behind it, northward; westward, close at hand,
Soars Monte Rosa, a broad dazzling mass,
Pure, perfect, cloudless; and there stands all round
A family of mountains hand in hand,
Guarding the infant valleys at their feet.

The further side toward the stream descends,
Split into gorges even from the top,
And all those gorges feathered to their feet,
With those live pillars, famed in epic song,
On Italy's ridged back, her columned pines;
And oaks, that were young giants in the days
Undated, now shells, ruins, skeletons,
Yet still the forest's green Goliaths, still
A red-brown pavement yearlong under them
Of dead fall'n leaves; and chestnuts, summer's cool
Castles of shade; then, nearer to the top,
The sudden edge of forest-mantle left
Rocks, like soft-swelling cushions dyed with moss
And lichens, tufts of gold, red, green, and grey,
And bilberry-leaves and berries, scarlet-dipped,
A grey-green carpet of dwarf-juniper,
With sky-belled gentian, and a thousand more

Delicate Peris; and beyond them all
The Alpine towers, peaks, pinnacles, spires, crests,
Ridges, toothed, waved, and scolloped, glacier-fields
And glacier-floods, all sharp, yet looking soft
As is a white bird's plumage.

Still they went
Up to the central and the loftiest height
Where was to be their citadel. All weak
And weary were they, yet their eyes, new lit
With gladness, followed up the mountain-side
Their leader. At his bidding, every step,
As toward some shrine in summer festival,
Is timed to those delightful hymns that once
Rang from sweet Hebrew pipes in cedar shade,
Through the deep moon-blanched nights of Palestine,
Leading God's worshippers with dance and song,
Up to God's glorious mountains.

There they stood.
What unnamed precipices, what strange vales,
What hopeless breadths of forest lay 'twixt them,
And all the human life they once had shared!
Yet feared Dolcino nothing. “Once assured
Our perch in air, our hold of liberty,
And we will live, and snatch with the strong hand,
E'en from armed enemies, our daily bread.”
And such a strength was in that brotherhood,
And such a teeming brain, unerring eye,
And daring hand, their mighty chieftain bore,
That but one night had past, and the cold dawn
Saw them descending on the other side—

A sifted few—to where Trivero lay
Amid fresh pastures, and delicious groves,
Where flocks and fruit and swelling granaries
Snared hunger-glaring eyes. They shook from sleep,
With sudden tramp, the wildered habitants,
They seized their spoil, and hastened thence,—in vain
The leaping out all round of angry chimes
From startled bell-towers, hurried to their arms
Hundreds of villages,—in vain they barred
Those birds of prey from bearing back their treasure
To the starved eyry.

So Dolcino held
His citadel, a mystic dread to all.
E'en the undaunted Bishop held aloof
From one who seemed a prince in deeds of arms;
As he was first in fire of thought and speech,
God's mouth-piece and a very lord of men.
Then did he set himself to build that camp
Into a lasting home. His barren height
He strengthened—every peak became a fort.
Woods crashed to make their dwelling, scanty plots
Of pasture nourished mountain-goats and kine,
And lightning raids to richer ground below
Sustained them, as the spring and summer brought
Fresh life and milder airs and gladder pulse.
And prisoners seized bore ransom, and the feats
Of breathless daring and deep strategy
That made Dolcino's name a wizard-word,
Kept his foes, trembling, from his desert-realm,
As men shrink from some monster-making spell.

No water in that high-placed camp was found,
But further down, from its rock-prisoned spring
Pure silver gushed; he o'er it built a well,
Encompassed it with walls of stone, and made
Thereto a roofed-in gallery from his camp.
So that the tenderest girl that manly care
Kept far from danger's clutch or glare of foe,
Could safely bear and dip her water-jar,
And in a pretty triumph so trip back
Tracked by a vagrant carolling.

In truth
A varied group was round the warrior-priest,
Whose tunic and white mantle seemed to garb
Some mystic snow-king, visibly proclaiming
The reign of purity and holiness.
There were Franciscan brethren whose sad years
Past, vainly striving, in a world of sin,
To find and win the vision of their youth,
Till hope had fled the cloister-cell for ever,
And driven them to the waste and to the man
Who could once more enkindle the dead ashes
Of their defeated yearning. There were men,
With hearts by some strange magnet-passion drawn,
Lawless till love of him first gave them law,
Owning till then no god but Liberty.
Milano there in hoary constancy
Stood, the same ever—home for him was now
None save where he and his loved prophet-king
Breathed Freedom's air together—there he still
Hoarded his vengeful dreams, and every night

Slept with his hand fast clenched like a dead man's
Whose last gripe was upon his murderer's hair.

And there—ah, why, with eyes half grief, half pride,—
Did he, whose magic wrought that change, behold it?
Like a repentant wizard, now admiring
This his strange work, now wishing nature back?
Is this the moonlight-maid, the seraph's love,
The student-vestal, now the outlaw's bride,
Calmest and bravest of the band, all strength,
Spirit and still endurance, facing peril,
Escaping foes, counselling, encouraging,
Vigilance on her brow, resistance in
Those sweet curved lips, keen eye, swift foot, armed hand,
And soul at watch and ward, dreaming no more
Edens on earth for stainless souls, but braving
A world of wicked men. “Will the years come,”
He thought, “when in some world across the floods
We shall talk over all this troubled time,
She shining my own sky-sphered pearl once more?
When she shall say with her old moonlight smile,
Bending half-puzzled like a child toward me,
‘Love, have I dreamt of it, or did I once,
For love of you, assume the part of man,
And play at fighting?’”

But alas! that time—
The first months on their guarded mount—must soon
Be looked on as the fancied breathing-space
Of an impossible peace. Rainieri said
Calmly at last, “The time is come, and preached

Again, again the stern crusade demands
Its combatants. Ah, that on knees of prayer
Men should implore God's will, that yearning eyes
Should ask his message to their wildered souls
From lips for that same message set apart,
And rise to slay the brothers who like them
Have knelt, and prayed to hear, thro' dark and doubt,
The music of salvation! So it was,
God's love now meant man's hate. A vaster force
Closes in narrower bounds the foe at bay,
Cuts off the lovely pastures that in long
Luxuriant strips lay betwixt hill and hill,
Grasps one of those three hills and leaves to him
Only a desert-camp.

That autumn saw
A day of carnage in the weirdest spot
Where Nature in her dreamiest whisper tells
Her mysteries—Stavello's twilight pass.
There in a long and vaporous streamer down
A perpendicular rock, the torrent hung,
Mistily wavering; then rolled through the gorge
Its broken, bubbling silver; there engaged
Bands led by nobles with the vaunting Cross
Upon their shoulders, throbbing in their hearts
Salvation's hope, through ways of murder given,
With the poor gaunt worn-out laws of their faith.
That dancing silver was all slaughter-dyed,
Its wave bore ghastly burdens of the dead,
And in the name Carnasco from that day
Bubbled its blood-red tale. But they whose hearts

Dolcino's eye had set on flame, rushed forth
From the encircling thickets, and with cries
And huge hurled stones, and passion turned to force,
Flung the Crusaders down the mountain-side.
And foremost was the stern old peasant there,
His dead son like a living nerve to clench
That knotted gripe, and in his desperate heart,
At his fierce thrust, from more than one high plumed
And cuirassed form stunned in mid-air, the soul
Flew out, so paying back in one dread gasp
'Twixt precipice and abyss the lordly sneer
Which from cold lips had sealed Emilio's doom.

Yet none the less the brethren saw themselves
Locked fast into their drear, aërial jail,
Barred as with iron from all human help,
A ring of rocks and armed foes all round.
None could approach, none violate that ark
Of solemn refuge—none too could come forth.
In sight were pastures and rich food, and men
Who had been brothers once, and all between
Was an eternal adamantine wall.
Now nothing but the bare wide heaven above
Was open to them—upward they would look,
And ask—is there a stair to reach to God?
Or, but some passage for the voice of prayer?
Or any way for answer to come down?
So autumn passed—the fair days, like false friends,
Smiled as they left them—soon with storms of sleet

And snow, heart-freezing ice, and blackened skies,
Comes cruel winter—will relenting spring
Shine ever for those shrunken outcasts, pledged
To all the dread endurance of despair?

IV. STARVATION.

Hunger! hunger! blind with famine, without comfort, without hope,
O'er unburied comrades' corpses, like those corpses' ghosts, they grope;
Cattle in their pens are dead, sheep lie mouldering on the slope.

Lo! their leader, gaunt, unweakened, iron-framed, of hero-race;
And their Margaret,—tho' they tend her like a child of fragile grace,
She, they think, can never perish, nor can aught her charm deface.

If the violet shadow deepened under melancholy eyes,
Yet had not those eyes been ever homes of mournful prophecies,
Ever seeing close before them far-off future tragedies?

Whitened her pale cheek to wanness, 'twas a lovely spirit's hue;
And the ethereal life within her like a flame was working through
That fine frame's transparent essence, when her form so shadowy grew.

Was her voice a dreamy whisper, and her floating movements slow,
'T was her pity for the sufferings she a spirit could not know—
Ah, she only smiled to comfort, tended, helped, and hid her woe!

She would find an orphan, feed it with her whole day's scanty store,
Kiss it, then cry over it, heartbroke she could do no more;
So she moves, an angel-blessing, so they loving still endure.

V. THE CAPTURE.

The year went on; again the wild March winds
Whistled round Mount Zebello, and again
Fresh promptings in his soul the Bishop finds,
Rekindling that Crusade long waged in vain;
So meet his scattered followers in the plain.

The Cross protecting marks their sacred banner,
Vercelli sends her citizens—for those,
A guardian saint o'erfloats them in like manner;
And, furnished with huge bombards, they enclose
The threefold peaks held by their godless foes.

All through the Holy Week, day after day,
Under those fortressed peaks they skirmishëd
With those forlorn and famished ones at bay,
Still gaining ground until they reached the dread
Pass where Carnasco had been made so red.

“Here were ye vanquished but a year ago,
By fiends on Holy Cross Day—now behold!”
The Bishop said, “God hath fore-doomed the foe!
That place shall be new-named for you,”—so, bold
In hope they hastened, and, as he foretold,

The morn before that Day of solemn shame,
When the whole great world round One crucified
Stood watching—what it knew not,—in the name
Of Him, the man who sinless lived and died,
In the same day and spot, their fates were tried.

That winter morning, all with stripes o'erlaid
Of red, grey, purple, gold, the eastern sky
Looked like a many-coloured pavement made
Of granite, jasper, agate, porphyry;
And thro' its rifts the sun looked doubtingly.

When in Stavello's Pass through mountain haze,
The heretic Leader viewed that host the word
Of one man brought against him, then old days
Revived in him, the pastor's heart was stirred
With the old mission to the sin-struck herd.

“I loved them when their sins I wont to brand,
Blessed them when they cursed me for those sins' sake;
I love them yet whilst 'gainst them armed I stand;
But ne'er, I know, will they my blessing take
Until I give it from the block or stake.”

So came the fight, the fiercest, and the last!
Strange strength in skeletons! each cavern-eyed
And bony form yet held a soul—and fast
Did they pour out their life-blood's scanty tide,
Till on their knees they fought, and fighting died.

“But where's the infidel Priest, the demon chief?”
They cry. “All through the day we saw him, sure,
Heading the mad resistance—no relief
He needed, for that strength no mortal bore
With strokes received and dealt waxed more and more.”

Was he then in mid-battle snatched away
On some dark cloud by comrade fiends? or lies
Under a cairn of corpses? “Search,” they say,
“Since for God's glory we must keep the prize,
And do Him pleasure with a flaming sacrifice.”

When on the knoll where he had stood he found
Himself amid the slain well nigh alone,
With the few left he quits the carnage ground,
Veiled by the dusk, and seeks a spot unknown,
Where, ere the fight began, when morning shone

He had hid his Margaret; strange that spot appears.
Where after-days point out the “Devil's Home,”
Blurring with misty tale the blank of years,
A long cleft, hollowed by some love-soured gnome
To nurse his spite in, splits the mountain gloom:

There, when, those swan-soft arms unwreathing, he
Laid all he cared for down in that abyss
Of dark and silence, through the mystery,
Their souls at once, renouncing all earth's bliss,
Met in the perfect heaven of one mute kiss.

And all was said—at once Death's long farewell
And the endless greeting soon as Death be over—
All too, since city-square, and turret-cell,
Began the sweet tale of the loved and lover,
The heart's soft lightnings in one flash recover.

For they were two whom had the hand of Fate,
From that first interchange of eyes, removed
Oceans apart, thro' speechless years to wait,
Could yet each say, as truth divinely proved,
“I know thou lov'st me, for thou once hast oved.”

And they were such as hours and days, and years
Of life with no division, no disguise,
But drew more nearly near—difference endears,
As likeness, each the other's needs supplies,
The two halves softly join, and richly harmonize.

So to a temple they built up that past,
A splendid consecration of their love;
And so Dolcino—all those sweets amassed
In his full heart—left there his wedded dove,
Wearing Love's ring of gold beneath War's iron glove.

There had she lain through the long hours of fight
In darkness, drawing faint and painful breath,
With others, helpless too, and loved, whose light
Of comfort she had been—day perisheth,
And he comes in, all life, to share in death.

That narrow chink, that ne'er till then was used,
He entered, to the world and to the sun
Bidding farewell: “In this grave-mouth,” he mused,
“Is our last home: live we or die, all's one.
The life of daylight is for ever done.”

Three stalwart warriors at his back he placed
With broadswords drawn 'twixt Margaret and her foes,
And he within the shade still hidden, faced
The death outside, with his armed strength to close
Entry, till nought shall, save a corpse, oppose.

For, though in vain the contest well knew he,
Yet ready all to its dire close to meet,
“Well could I end it now for thee and me,”
He said, “and in one linkëd death and sweet,
Untouched by foes, our lives and loves complete.

“But let us wait God's will; if here to fall
'T is well—well too, if 't is to live to some
Strange trial! if I right pre-read it all,
He wills us (e'en in fire His kingdom come,)
The great and glorious grace of martyrdom.”

So when through starless night the conquerors searched
And tracked to that recess their prey, by light
Of burning brands, at that dark crevice, arched
Too low for a grown man to stand upright,
What saw they? Kneeling, yet in act to fight,

Blood-splashed and battle-worn, with hand on sword,
Brows grimly calm, knee rooted to the sod,
He, the beleaguered, hated and adored,
The Wizard, Hero, Devil, Demigod,
Kept that sepulchral treasure-house untrod.

Ah, happy could they all have left their lives,
That night of carnage, on the cavern-floor,
There, hushed from battle tempest, saved from gyves
And death-flames, sleeping their first sleep secure,
The windy red March morn had never waked them more.

But “save their lives!” the leader cries—and lo!
A score of hands wrest off Dolcino's brand,
Bind him, draw tight the cords, and lay him low;
Then creeping inward, aiding foot with hand,
Seize and drag forth the remnant of the band.

There, silent as a creature lacking breath,
Passive her gentle limbs, as form of wax,
As one who long had lain embraced by Death,
See the dread Sorceress! fear and hate relax,
Wondering how soft a thing had borne those fierce attacks.

The dimness of the cave was in her eyes,
Numb was her tender form, so long confined,
Death-stilled were all her body's faculties;
More helplessly forlorn you scarce could find
A dead bird in the snows, blown by the wind.

Yet circled in that quiet like a dream,
All things the soul within her felt and knew;
Tho' the wild-coloured past that fate extreme
Dimmed in its twilight, yet she lived it thro',
Content there was no more for her to do.

But he—still burning from the strife behind,
Yet with clear eye-grasp of the doom before—
Seemed one that hath, alone of all mankind,
Gone down to the volcano's heart, leant o'er
The cauldron whence its pent-up fires out-pour,

Making white ashes of its burning vault,
And hath come up from that hot world, unshaken,
But branded as by heaven's red thunderbolt;
So they stood round, astonished to have taken
One blasted to such doom, yet never self-forsaken.

And, silent, conquerors and captives past
The drear waste hill; red lights, and livid blue
Shadows the brands o'er all those dead men cast,
So that on faces stilled for ever, grew
A weird false life, as though the angry ghosts looked through.

One instant, as he passed, Dolcino's eyes
Were fixed with something deeper yet than grief;
What corpse is there that on another lies,
His hand upon the foeman's throat?—one brief
Struggle fulfilled thy life's dream, hoary chief!

“Milano! rude but faithful force, good rest
To thee,” all sadly in his heart he saith;
“Tho' vengeance shaped thy dying act and geste,
Thy life was loyal to a nobler faith,
A something half-divined, yet clasped for life and death.

“For these new spiritual insights, like a child,
Striving with untrained faculties, long tied
By old rude instincts and blind creeds—Oh, wild,
Trouble-tossed heart, in quiet now abide,
Son, foes and thou, enfranchised side by side.”

They see around their pathway everywhere—
A calendar of deadly years—bleached bones,
Unburied, yet kept safe in mountain-air,—
Where once were living sobs, and dying moans,
Mute corpses lying like so many stones—

An iron sky, white spectral earth, and air
Filled by the wild wind with a grieving sound
That writhed bare boughs, and drove them to despair,
And Mount Zebello, one great charnel ground
For that vast fortress-camp—lies waste around.

For those rock-citadels, all, one by one
Stormed by the rude war-engines, whose huge jaws
Hurled stones, were burnt to ashes,—thence are won,
Half-living, some few wrecks of their lost cause,
Wounded and weak, to wait the award of man's stern laws.

Down past they where the Bishop's tent was reared
Beneath Stavello's edge—by that cold light
Of ghostly dawn, a ghastly face appeared
Awaiting them, 't was worn so sharp and white
With all the long keen watching of the night;

Till peering forth with strained tired eyes, he caught
Dolcino's form—then a cry, upward driven,
With lifted hands, emptied the heart o'er-fraught,
“The Sorcerer taken! Oh, my God, thou'st given
All I could wish—now there's nought more save Heaven!”

THE MARTYRS.

I. MANFRED OF SALUZZO.

“O beautiful Margaret!
Pearl of Trent!
There is time e'en yet—
O save thee, repent!

O self-willed sweet Martyr!
White heretic flower!
But sign thou Love's charter
That frees thee this hour.

Disprove those drear omens
Of tempest-tossed years,
The long mountain-roamings,
The bloodshed and tears.

I, who thy fortress
Have seen thee command,
On its walls, pale fair Sorceress,
Seen tranquilly stand,

I who have faced thee
Inhand-to-hand fight,
Have breathlessly chased thee
In perilous flight,

And still ever lost thee—
Left cruelly there,
O'er the glimpse that had crost me
To dream and despair;

Who loved thee then sadly,
A vision so fleet,
Now love thee more madly,
In chains at my feet.

I offer my trothring,
My gold and my lands,
For a smile—for a nothing,
Yet all from thy hands.

I offer thee liberty,
Safety and rest,
The guard of my shield
And the fame of my crest;

My castle for nest,
Poor wandering dove,
For thy home my true breast—
Oh! the world for thy love

So did a dungeon-grating love-warbling lutes admit,
As tho' a nightingale should sing just o'er a charnel pit—
O Manfred of Saluzzo! has that one gleam of sight,
That face upon the castle wall, a flash of pale clear light,
So carved into thy spirit its scornful conquering grace,
That thou thro' dusk and daylight canst see no other face?
Do thy thirty castles and thy crown of many a knightly feat
Lie in the dungeon dust at a heretic woman's feet?

He said, love's fault excusing, “Who can a woman blame,
Tho' she be true to falsehood and blindly honour shame?
With her the brain obeys the heart, love is her spirit's pole,
She follows the strong leader, and gives him up her soul.
If him who wrought her ruin she still love tenderly,
The beggared outlawed madman, how will she not love me?”

Some, too, bewitched by hearsay, did offer love and life—
“Forego,” they said, “the penal fire, come forth and be a wife!”
Keener was that love-fancy, edged by a manly pride,
From the ghastly stake and Satan to snatch a beauteous bride;
And they burned in dreams for her, a creature glorified
By the rays of noble lineage round that soft gold cloud of hair,
And by the dowry making the white hand doubly fair.

In tones that seemed disdain to stifle, “And shall I then resign,”
She answered, “for so poor a trifle the heaven so nearly mine?

With these long wandering years so lonely, amid the dismal ice
On mountain heights I 've only just purchased Paradise,
And shall I lose my treasure now that I 've paid the price?”
Then when they bade her see the brands heaped high—a hideous pile,
And cried, “O save thyself!” she softened to a smile.
As one storm-tost who watches draw nigh the saviour-sail,
“Dolcino waits me there,” she said; “his waiting must not fail.”
But when the dark night came and all alone she lay,
Then terror seized her like a child whose nurse has past away;
With arms stretched wildly out, “O friend! so true and brave!
Come! come!” in sobs she cried, “and thy poor Margaret save!”
Then felt she thro' the darkness, balmy as dropping dew,
A hand that touched her forehead, a soft, soft whisper too?
For sudden slumber cuts in twain the sob, and lo! she lies
On her hard pillow, childlike still, with sealed and quiet eyes.

II. THE POPE.

Six weeks ago, Rainieri to the Pope
Had sent to tell the triumph past all hope,
Ask what of the offenders should become,
And for sore loss some compensating sum,

Since 't was his will and his enjoined Crusade
That woke the warfare and the havoc made.
The Pope, where was he? Not where Christendom
Was martyred first, then throned, from catacomb
To temple rising, in transfigured Rome,
Who made her martyr's heir of Souls the Prince,—
City of buried gods! unburied since
In marble forms: three visions interwined,
Where gods and saints, and men of sinful kind,
Together and in turn, themselves up-built
Into a world of marbles—glory, guilt,
And faith its dædal masonry: dost thou,
Thou with thy people, in thy stagnant Now,
Do penance for the strange sin, sumptuous crime,
And the Satanic splendour of thy prime?
And yet, oh, when we stand in that world's home,
And see below us, from the hill we've clomb,
The core of that great being that was Rome,
Tread the hard lava roadway that yet feels,
Yet bears, the wounds of conquering chariot-wheels,
Up to the Capitol; within the square
Front the immortal Steed, bronze-breathing there,
Ages have seen in act to bound away
With an immortal rider; gather bay
And myrtle on the Cæsars' palace heights,
Perished magnificence, drained-out delights,
Now in a riot of wild foliage hid;
Or found—O ruinous perfection!—mid

A squalid gloom, some sudden mystic wall,
Or glorious arch, or delicate column, all
Mossed, ivied, and fern-festooned, brokenly
Telling for thee in hints thy mystery,
That needs some deep diviner of world-stories
For its interpreter. Amid these glories
Seem not the after-ages a succession
Of common pilgrims, in unbidden session,
Pitching their paltry tabernacles o'er
A hallowed ground, in ignorance to adore?
But, ah! to drink the life and feel the heart,
And count its beatings, passion, thought, and art,
Of those old days, in that great treasure-house
Rome ever keeps the keys of. Enter! arouse
From trance that sculptured people, in days flown
Alive in flesh, and now alive in stone!
Gods, heroes, nymphs, and fawns, beautiful youth
And heavenly womanhood—looking, in truth,
From their serene heights of Divine descent,
This age into a conscious dwindlement.
In jasper, alabaster, porphyry,
Urns, altars, friezes, and sarcophagi,
Though vast as made for more than mortal kings
By more than mortal hands, with fairy things,
Mimic Elysiums, all embossed, delight
Of vintage, sacrifice, and wedding-rite,
The feasts and triumphs, dances and repose,
The dead within, outside the passionate throes
And lovely riot of Hellenic life.

Go on, and see for whom those halls were rife
With dreams of marble love and silent strife—
Here frowns some eagle-master of the world,
With the brooched tunic, and the hair strong curled,
On whose firm brows that mastered world is writ,
In the deep eye the price that's paid for it.
Here see the sage more sorrowful and sweet,
And there the monster, hatched in the foul heat
Of that imperial furnace, the result
Of demi-gods and heroes!—Deus vult!
But o'er that carven Rome another rose,
And smothered glorious death in living shows:
For into Cæsar's seat sprang Constantine,
And made the hall of Jove a Christian shrine.
Still in the early days some shadow stayed
Of the poor Fisherman she first obeyed.
Not yet on the pure hill of heavenly truth,
Over the spiritual worship of her youth,
Had been built up complete that towering
And sumptuous architecture of a Thing
On a false Priesthood based—age after age
Adding its splendid stones to stage on stage
Of rite and symbol—all a dream unstable,
And every symbol stone a splendid fable!
Not yet upon the city's edge in air
Hung the world-worshipped dome, not yet might dare
A vain-mock God to fill Saint Peter's chair.
As yet the gorgeous Idol claimed not all
That man can give—his very soul for thrall;

Whose rule, between the stone-world of the past
And glaring Christian symbols that outlast
The things they symbolize, as false things can,
Holds now in long decay the world of man,
A whole great city crumbling on for ever,
Stagnant with it all thought and all endeavour,
While that dull rule works secretly behind
Blank palace walls and iron gratings blind.
But Rome not yet was prostrate at those feet,
The factions raged and shook the holy seat:
So a French pontiff the French monarch blest
With Avignon for pomp and rule and rest.
And thither came the Legates, and they said,
“O Holy Father, God hath been our aid.
A battle has been fought, and He remains
The victor; slaughtered hundreds strew the plains;
Dolcino and the Sorceress are in chains,
With their two foremost followers, feared and famed
For daring desperate, Longini named.
Seven hundred more are taken, wretches poor,
Wasted and worn, in birth and life obscure.
For all these heretics, do thou, 'gainst whom
Most deeply have they sinned, award their doom.
Grant, too, thy blessing, in return for all
The loss and suffering that did befall
Thy faithful flock when warring in thy cause—
The world grants but vain tributes of applause.”

Great was the Pontiff's joy, but smoothly spoken;
He blest the Legates, sent by them a token
To the good Bishop—an antique ring of price,
A turbaned negro's bust the quaint device,
In onyx and black agate; then he wrote
To the fair King of France a serene note
Thick-sown with texts, to his advice referred
The fate of those accursed ones,—in word
Discreet and vague,—and waited his reply.
Till then he blandly put the Legates by.
But all the pastimes of that gracious court
Were used to soothe suspense and make time short.
At length came back the pithy royal billet,
That only said, “When you 've caught vermin, kill it.”

Then Clement called the Legates, and he said,
“Much I 've revolved this thing, and humbly prayed.
First a novena I, in thanks, proclaim,
And will myself in state attend the same.
Say, have ye striven with these recalcitrant,
Promised their lives and pardon in free grant,
If they their errors utterly recant,
And holy Church obey?”

“We have—in vain.
None will give way.”

“Then be it as ye ordain.
Let your tribunals with the offenders deal;
I trust Rainieri and his holy zeal.
Deal not severely with the helpless fools
Of whom the Arch Impostor made his tools.

These are but rebels, or I judge amiss—
Not heretics—a nice distinction this.
Well have they reaped the fruits of their mad game;
Give chastisement—then penury and shame.
And for those two Longini, pestilent
Yet warped perchance, not sinning by intent,
Mulct them of world-goods for the Church's gain,
That hath incurred such loss; let them remain
Fast in your dungeons, lifelong if ye list—
'T will save their souls, and they will not be missed.
But for the false Friar and his paramour,
Judge them yourselves, your courts are just and sure.
Guided by zeal for God and for the Church,
Ye cannot err, nor need ye long research:
Their guilt is proved—would ye could save their lives!
If not, Heaven's piteous, and Repentance shrives.”

Then said they with a fearful sad appeal,
“Much have we suffered, Father! for our zeal,
The diocese is ruined, deep in debt
Our Bishop and chief citizens; we 've let
Our soldiers, to destroy that rebel-band,
Who ravaged on their part with ruthless hand,
Lay waste the country; wholly is it shorn
Of men and money, cattle, fruit and corn.
And we repine not, but would fain derive
Some comfort from the Fount whereby we live.”
And Clement smiled, compassionate and kind,
And mused, and presently disclosed his mind.

“God will reward you, trust, with some rich gift,
And ye may make amends by careful thrift.
Yea, to my blessing, warriors of the Cross!
Will I add help, albeit to my loss.
The tribute that all dioceses pay
The Church's treasury, I, from this day,
Remit your Bishop—(he is old)”—aside—
“(And I lose little)—God for him provide
Long life to enjoy it!—he may lay withal
A tax on churches and on convents all
Within his diocese. All this, be sure,
Will I confirm by letters; now once more
Receive you here my blessing, and farewell.”
The legates knelt, and on their heads there fell
The hand on which that peerless ruby shone.
And quickly, somewhat sobered, they were gone,
To bring the tidings to Vercelli, still
In sore suspense, and bid it do its will.
Short was the trial in the Bishop's court,
The judgment on the two chief sinners short.
'T was—at Vercelli to be burned by fire;
The two Longini to a fate less dire
Were sentenced—at Biella, where they lay,
To pine in chains till grace their hearts should sway.
The rest in many a dark unlicensed way
Slipt out of life, or grazed expected death—
But till the first of June all yet drew breath.

III. MARGARET'S DREAM.

Back, back to her half-effaced childhood, this last night of all,
Fled sleeping the spirit next morning should fiercely enthrall;
And all came again like the sky when a curtain's undrawn,
And her heart seemed all bathed like the landscape, in dews of the dawn.
She stood in a sweet summer-garden, the wonder was spent
At once in the joy—'t was her home in the palace of Trent.
But ne'er was in childhood so lovely that magical ground,
Ne'er shone so those white-robed fair ladies, the lilies, all round.
Each green bush holds a musical uproar, a silver-voiced choir,
The wren with its dancing gold crest, like a sparkle of fire,
On the cypress,—and oh! hear the steps that rush down the path—
The brothers and sisters, the playmates of garden and hearth,
Come laughing and shouting—O God! a stone now covers all!
Then sudden she hears, seeing no one, her sweet mother call
On her pet name, each accent all dipped in the honey of love;
So murmurs, to hush her small rebels, the glad mother-dove.

And she runs at the sound, but her steps by strange pathways are crost;
And she tries to return whence she came, and her way is all lost.
O God! whence this change? that gold daylight, where is it all gone?
A thunder-storm, waiting and watching, now slowly draws on,
Earth and heaven compressing together in deep sullen gloom,
Yet it breaks not, behind that grey curtain it broods like a Doom.
O'er the sky a dull purple, a dead metal colour, is drawn,
And the air is all heavy with awe—but no lightnings are born.
The trees stand green, sculptural, solemn, the leaves hang in swoon,
Only against the half light burn lurid the roses of June.
And the rich garden scents are transformed to a weird phantom-breath;
So all the long June day lay nature as bound to feign death.
Only from time to time fell the still shower drops, singly and slow,
Like tears from a heart too oppressed, to weep more than so.
So sank day's half life to whole death, the sunset and night
Had come and she still was alone, no being in sight.
All had fled, all abandoned her coldly, the horror had grown,
And she felt she should now be for ever and ever alone.
The garden was peopled with creatures, unseen, mute, accurst,
And the next step would bring her among them, to do their dark worst.

100

She stood still, she grew stiff, soul and body were turning to stone—
When hark! thro' the trees comes a voice so thrilling and oh! so well known;
It called on her name and it made her that instant its own.
At the sound of that voice—the mere sound—went vanishing all
The sulphurous hot garden-gloom, the black, stifling wall,
The terror, bereavement and loneness, the dismal despair;
They were gone and a daylight all amber and Heaven's self were there—
A wide blue clear world, a scene washed in azurest air.
On a rock that stood out in the sunshine, an island of gold,
Stood they two, and before them an Ocean magnificent rolled.
All turquoise and pearl were its waves, softly whispering beneath her,
And then, through the depths so translucent of crystalline ether,
Came his voice, a strange music of happiness, saying “That Sea
Is Eternity's self, O my Margaret, we two are free!”

IV. DOLCINO IN PRISON.

My native town! That dream of six years night
Dreamed in the mountains was a faithful one—
If this were not the dream that shaped me out,
Through one dusk moment thickening into dark,

101

Vercelli's crowd of roofs, all interchanged
With verdure, pointed spires, and battlements,
Like a dark necklace studding it all round.
And one, one house that stilly shrinks, as though
Ashamed to be so old and so forlorn,
In shadow back—house sadly consecrate
To memories most mystic, of a strange
Half-orphaned infancy, and one plaintive ghost
Part fancied, part recalled,—smiles yet Madonna,
From those poor shattered walls? I thought and went
Looking, not seeing, till down the silent street
The narrow windows changed to burning eyes.
Each seemed a welcome, but none shone for me.
To-morrow in bright morning I shall pass
The convent where life's dawn, through opal mist,
Stole on, I thought, to a serene long day;
When what would please Saint Francis was the thought
My eyelids rose with, and the gladsome aim
That pushed day forward, till to sleep and God
Night gave my soul away, when daily rites
Murmured me safely on, I thought, to heaven,
Like wave of a half-slumbering angel's wings.
How will it look, that home of quietness?
Will some devout calm brother of old days
Stand there to bid his comrade one God-speed?

Yes, we have met once more, my town and I,
And seen each other, nor surprised, nor changed.
And yet it is a change—for never yet
I saw her as a man adjudged to die

102

Upon the morrow—never past along
These stones familiar with my childish feet,
Tombstones engraven all with memories
Thence like pathetic voices crying out,
While the whole town gazed, shouting “Let him die!”
Yes, I can die—for you, with whom I once
Had dreamed a different meeting; I beheld
My triumph in your looks, your hurrying feet,
Your hands before you held, your faces mute
With breathless blessing, until all the soul
Break loose perchance with such confused glad cry
As “Our Dolcino! is it he at last?
From his great fight with devils is he come
So worn and yet so smiling, scarred and crowned?”
“We knew him,” some will say, “a curly pet,
And when, his lisping time of mischief run,
He walked among the choristers, his hand
Too small to hold the towering taper straight,
‘See his rapt earnest brow,’ we used to say,
‘That child will soon unsheathe a pair of wings,
And leap into an angel!’” Others, “We
Loved next our parents e'en the gentle Friar,
Asked why he looked so sad, and when he went
We wondered why he stayed so long away,
And was he bearing God to heathen men?
As knights go forth into enchanted lands,
Alone, to scale ghost-guarded walls and slay
The terrible blazing wyvern in his fen,
Did he go forth barefoot to kill sin's worse
Soul dragons? and is he now here to give

103

His remnant days to us who love him so?
And will he still smile on the little ones,
Now that he is so famous and has made
His old Vercelli proud and famous too?”
And I, grey, pale, perchance in humbled thought
Of the small harvest sprung from lavish seed,
From what poor half-done work I had come back.
The petty work so proudly prophesied,
Should own my old Vercelli kind indeed.
In truth I have not gone the way for that,
My work was not the tree to bear such fruit.
So let them gather what they can from me,
Wild berries of erring hate, mis-pious scorn.
Let God's success be masked for man in robe
Of failure—if upon man's epitaph
Of “Felon” he will write instead for me
“Martyr.”

A Martyr! once my heart would heave
As at some splendid thing incredible,
At such a name, and wonder how it felt
To stand at Heaven-gate gloriously consumed,
Re-making to new form, half-soul, half-fire,
Still doubting of myself, till reassured
By angels' eyes and wings and waving hands,
Glistening with welcomes, pressing through the doors
To draw me in, then standing half-perplexed
To see a mortal form so glorified;
And now it seems to come as naturally
As comes a child when we have called his name,
As slips the heir into his father's seat,

104

As wedding follows love, or age crowns youth,
Or the last rhyme rounds some long-linked lay.
Not as I fancied once the passage made
From one life to the other—as creeps forth
From chrysalis-sheath a crumpled thing with weak
White wings, still crippled from its prison-case,—
Come I to the eternal light and air.
Can this be martyrdom? what right gives this
To a throne next Saint Stephen and Saint John?
Hope shrinks ashamed, and needs cast back a look
On that long, stony path of desperate years,
The bitter first abjuring of my dream
Of a world gently drawn by love to God,
Changed to a world defied, withstood in arms,
A life at bay—and O the brother hearts
That beat along my savage pilgrimage,
And broke upon the way—yet never quailed.
O fearless faithful ones! not one of whom
Repented of the wretched life, the death
Ice-stiffened, where the frozen ribs of rock
Split into gaps to tomb them where they fell,
Still faintly blessing me,—and her, O her—
My bride! my sister! tender as a child,
Yet calm as a strong seraph, suffering still
As though she suffered nothing—O my dove!
But it was so ordained—no choice had she,
No choice had I—God wrote before our birth
Each step of that strange pathway in the stars.
Not more her home the palace garden-zoned,
Than cold Zebello's top—the cyclamen,

105

A pink flush born amid the mountain-glade,
Seemed not more native to the wilds than she.
Yet smiling she grew pale, and inmost pain
Had fixed a strange sad vigilance in her eyes.
Then was the martyrdom—'t is over now.
She sleeps, my own beloved, I know she sleeps.
I will not now think of thee, Margaret.
I have left thee in God's hands—so rest in them,
Like the dear child thou art, and dream no dreams,
And I to-morrow morn shall see thy face;
See it as I have never seen it yet,
In a great glorifying light that seems
Reflected from Heaven's heart of radiant fire,
And so transfigured shalt thou float to heaven.
I will not think of that transfiguring hour,
I will not think of all the honeyed past,
Nor of that coming midway moment in
The clasp of life and death—when human all
Living and loving, lovely as the star
Of Venus just dipped glittering in the wave,
Shall look on me that face—the face of her
Who called me husband—O love! love! be still!
Shake me not thus to-night.

The fit is past,
And I have now this one calm night of all,
The first for many a year, that like the stream
Of a long life of reverie shall pass
In tranced, intense communion with you,
My church, my country, and my brother-men—
My Italy! one form with many names.

106

In the fierce fiery rush of my career,
The thought of thee was hidden undermost,
Twined in the heart-roots whence my life sprang forth,
And keeping pure the source that gushed in deeds.
Yet now—now only, in this pause profound,
Stirs quick the sentient love of thee, as stirs
With passion for her babe the mother's heart,
Tender and restless—now the kindred claimed
By great souls with each other, star by star
Rising from age to age amid the sky,
Links all into one radiant brotherhood,
A cluster that expands into a race,
A race that moulds itself into a world,
A world whose beating heart is Italy.
It is not yet, but it is fixed to be,
While we have blindly all fought, suffered, died,
Nor dreamed the great and beautiful thing we so
Were slowly shaping—on his inch of ground
Each stood at bay, and saw but the small space,
The gain but of a day.

Spiritual Hope!
Though in the dust and whirlwind of the race,
I missed thee sometimes, I pursued thee ever,
Blindly, but all-absorbingly, for God
Had granted me the intense secret gift
That comes to those who by long speechless days,
In deserts void as death, and fast and prayer,
Kindling and feeding the soul's lamp within,
And closing all the gateways of the flesh
That open on the world, e'en on this earth

107

Are half-unbodied—so that only that
Which shall be is now for them, and their age
Of life is one whose sun not yet has dawned
Behind the eternal hills. This power had I
In lightnings, but my eager dreams fore-ran
The vision—straining towards the splendid light,
That God had set far onward in the sky,
I seemed to grasp the future I foresaw,
And seeing across ages thought it nigh.

This is a time of chaos—and for me
What wonder if I grew chaotic too?
Lo! the volcanic anguish knits its chain
Through all the under-chambers of the world;
The shock that in some city of the East
Throws in a heap foundation-stone on spire,
Runs under Ocean till in the far West
The lakes are trembling with the self-same woe.
So from Jerusalem to Rome spread first
The spiritual shock that now makes tremble all
Kingdoms and empires, nations, churches. Yet
There dawned on me with ever clearer ray
The truths that under all this turmoil waited
To lighten up the world—ay, and the time
Will come, in spite of many an age of strife,
Of clashing dogmas, barren symbols, forms
That in the handling them have died, when that
Which I have lived and die for, shall be found
The anchor of lost spirits—the twin truths—
Of Freedom in our faith and worship both,

108

And of a spiritual God made known to us
But by that Goodness that's derived from Him
Who is its Essence, known, not by the forms
Made for Him by our thought, by glorious tales—
Man's visions of Him—not by the abodes
Behind dread Shiloh's curtains, nor within
The Holy of Holies, or yon fane of Rome,
Nor e'en that awfullest veiled sanctuary
Of an ideal Heaven. These things are all
The symbols of the Unimaginable
Who hath no dwelling-place conceived by man,
But in Humanity.

That day shall come.
As certainly 'tis coiled up in to-day,
As in the acorn-cradle sleeps the oak.
And when that day comes, shall not that come too
That was the passion of my outer life,
As truth was of my inner, which I erred
Dreaming that we were ripe for, as we longed?
Ah Italy, not yet canst thou be saved!
For thou requirest many a martyrdom,
And many a soul must pave the avenues,
An Appian road of glorious sepulchres,
By which thy city of empire is approached.
Nor Rome nor Emperor shall thy saviour be,
No, nor the Avenger seen in many a trance,
Those raptures only born of deep despair,
Crying, O Lord, how long ere he whom thou
Hast chosen, comes to save us?—till we saw
A light that settled on a hero's head,

109

Saw the last rays of Swabia's setting sun
All gathered up and beaming out again
In the gold crown of the young Frederic's hair,
And deemed the Aurora of our race was there—
Until that meteor-halo dimmed and died.
And then we sought again, and yet again
God smote to dust the vessel of our hopes,
Till with the iron ring of Fate a voice
Cried to our souls, War on! and every step
Of the great war stamping the fruitful sod,
Shall bring a helper forth, and he shall be
The master of the moment—all shall strive
And do and die in turn, but none shall wear
The diadem of that accomplished fate.

I die, my heart's dear vision unfulfilled.
Thou too, the great heart-broken Florentine,
Thou of the Song that made thee gaunt and grey,
Whose eyes were flames that pierced into the dark,
And made it all alive with souls of men
And unborn things, who ever sawest there
The crimes of Florence shaped to punishment,
Yet lovedst her, in that white heat of wrath
That drove thee from her; who, with livid gaze
Fixing thine enemy, didst cry bitterly
“O wolf of Rome! when will the circling heavens
That, changing, change our earthly state, make thee
Abhorred ashes?” thou my brother who
Didst warn me from the hollow deeps of Hell;
We two have prayed, denounced and wept together,

110

And prophesied—and still our doom is one.
For the great hope, the freedom unachieved,
Thou singest still and sufferest—and I die.
I die without my glory; it is well.
Else might I die in doubt if God accepts
Me as a martyr, seeing my reward
Already given, but men cast me out.
Light-footed, poor and glad, I go to God.
His favoured child, because so abject here.
My light was but a twinkling spark, descried
Only by those close to me; it had not
Flame to make night day, in the years to come.
And when this spark of breath is quite blown out,
My name will be a nothing—in its own
Waste charnel-ground, fenced round with curses, night,
And horror, it will moulder out of sight.—
Well, Italy can spare me, for her soil,
Rich with life roots, throws ever freely forth
The souls that make a nation—such as he
First saw in that serener land apart,
Where gathered, from all ages and all climes,
Great names, fair spirits, ancient herohood,
And queens of souls and lords of those who knew.
Well couldst thou furnish such an amulet,
Were all thy gems told over, Italy!
Thine are those men with bearing of command,
And slow and serious eyes, and voices soft
And rare of speech, that rise and change the world
As with a wizard's wand. Yet 't is not he
Or he shall do it—rather, all in one

111

Whence a new radiant spirit shall arise—
'T will be Herself. O but to live till then,
To creep a quiet shadow through bright noon,
An old grey priest, and say, with wishes stilled
To peace, my humble, happy mass before
Some altar of my boyhood, then to steal
Into some nook of Palestine, and die.

Dreams! idle dreams! dreams of a cancelled past—
Words that mean nought.

The darkness gathers, and
The light that glitters at the end of it
Grows redder, larger—through a chink I see
Into another world, clearer day,
Like a vast wall with sculptures storied o'er
That in the growing light start out and seem
To move and utter—is the future there?
Yet when my eyes would sever form from form,
They lose all vision—was it then a dream?
No, God is in the future, and behold!
Our nation is engraven on the palms
Of his eternal hands. Lo! there she sits
A Queen of lands; at her bright feet I see
The shrunk and shivering giant, impotent,
As those vast wicked spirits that lay bound
Deep underneath apocalyptic seas.
Ordained of old for God's great Enemy,
Tophet's huge pile I see, heaped up on high,
And at God's breath to kindle with a stream
Of brimstone.

112

Oh! the purifying blaze.
I see it, God's revenge, not mine—not thee,
Priest-idol, thou whose human half was crushed
Beneath the atheist-crown, not thee I doom,—
Not thee, but that which made thee what thou art,
That overweighted thee upon Sin's side,
The wealth not thine, and power not given by God.
For men all stand before the judgment-seat
With the same cry for mercy, the same sin
To be forgiven—and Pope and Heretic
Shall look into each other's softened eyes,
As brothers long estranged and reconciled
Upon the stilled sepulchral battle-field.
Oh that is sweet at last! now all goes right.
We are Italians both, and the true Church
Includes both him who rules and him who prays;
Ay, even him who goes astray in sight
Of the right path; and him, too, who rebels,
Loyal to some false Truth.—My God! how well
It is to feel all anger leave the heart.
Give me this strength to-morrow, for one hour,
For one strange lifelong meeting—and farewell.

113

V. THE GREAT DAY AT VERCELLI.

1.

Vercelli smiles—the warm June day has made
In all that little town a feast of light;
Deep into narrow streets, a tangled braid
Of walls and tall grey towers and vaults like night,
And grated windows, and round wide-arched doors,
Letting dim daylight in on stony floors,
And steep stone steps of some mysterious stair,
Dive golden shafts, and dazzle through the screen
Of vine-leaves climbing, trailing everywhere,
Weaving a curled entanglement of green
Round the grey squalors and the frescoes old,
And sharp black shadow-lines, and squares of gold.
Vercelli smiles—and so from street to street
She watches, with the sunshine's burning eye,—
On to the knoll where two white torrents meet,—
Her son, her priest, her prophet, led to die.

2.

He passed the tall, white bell-tower, whence a crowd
Of lovely holy fancies like a cloud
Of angels in a pictured sky, of yore
Had dropped a crown on him, and made him proud
That he the robe of Christ's own weaving wore.
And now, that garb, that glory disavowed,—

114

He heard his death-knell from those silver chimes
That he had worshipped to in long lost times—
Those bells that rang him back from swoon divine
On the mosaic pavement of the shrine.
Then thronged adorers in—and now, behold!
The streets are full, yea, fuller than of old.

3.

The priests are there, austerely jubilant,
In cope and chasuble, with cross and chaunt.
And men whom once that eye of Truth could reach,
Who, set on fire by those swift flames of speech,
Had scoffed at what a worn-out Church could teach,
But, setting now two years of war and waste
Against that fruitless eloquence, make haste
To shrive their souls, the slaughtering bishop bless,
And damn the heresy of ill-success.

4.

And they, sweet maiden-buds ten years ago,
Who, at his feet their innocent sins confest,
Now come all gaily ribboned to the show,
Bringing their infants with a mother's zest,
And hold them up to see the pinioned Friar,
And watch with little laughs the crackling fire,
Yea, make the small vague hands throw on a stick
To burn the wretch, the priest, the heretic.

115

5.

The Priest, the Heretic! he stood a stern
Unhumbled figure, yet perchance within
Fought hand to hand such passions as might turn
Heaven into chaos, yet that could not burn
Through stony features nor deliverance win
From downcast eyes, that thro' a dark profound
Saw worlds break open worlds, yet nothing round,
And yet that mob which, by their holiday
Made mirthful, followed to the dreadful ground
Hooting and pelting all that cruel way,
Nor cursed nor blessed him to the stake when bound.
They looked, as though by wonder silenced, or
Awestruck, at more than they had bargained for.

6.

For by his side his Margaret stood to bear
The doom she made a triumph by her share.
When desolate in the car of death she went,
The white, pale figure, shadowy, softly bent,
To spell-struck watchers in choked windows pent,
A spirit seemed, on spirit-pathways driven,
And those strange eyes, so clear, so pure, so cold,
Shone with a far-off light like stars in heaven,
Too high for men to read the tales they told.
But when by hard prompt hands the knots were tied,
And, made once more a Bridegroom and a Bride,
The branded Two were standing side by side,

116

To those sky-stars the human light returned,
One human form was all that they discerned.
Her eyes in their long living on his face,
Held soul and body in a mute embrace.
To that intense farewell all words were faint—
And still she gazed,—no trembling, no complaint—
A solemn, beautiful, passionate Saint!

7.

Few and low words, and simple, they exchange,
As those to whom could happen nothing strange.
“How hast thou done, dear, since I saw thee last?”—
“O love! I dreamt of thee this sweet night past,
And I feel brave for death.”—“We're soon in heaven;
God's strength to thee, my only care! be given.”

8.

For now through swooning noontide, swift and bright,
Spired quivering, strengthening up a lance of flame,
And fanned her with impatient sigh, alight
With the hot death that toward her stirless frame
Like a wild beast still near and nearer came.
And for one moment's agony her face
Was blanched to its own ghost; on that live grace
Seemed the nigh doom already to impress
Its seal of torture turned to rigidness.
Yet through the sudden lonely horror still,
Like a blind face fixed by a voice, did she

117

Keep her face turned to him whose look would be
A hand to hold and draw her where it will—
Since all the same to her were Fate and he!

9.

“Keep thine eyes on me, and I shall not quail,”
She said—in such a tone—tho' words must fail,
He, when that strange enchantment reached his ear,
Raised eyes, whose solemn splendour slew all fear.
She saw in them the very heaven that lay
Just past those gates of noon whose light turned dim
In that excess of rapture—but for him—
The sweet sounds ringing back love's April day,
The violet breath of love's surprise, betray
One moment to a human rapture vain—
The next to God's feet is brought back again.
One word says “Margaret” and his look adds “wife!”
And she is ready for immortal life.

10.

As there he stood—no statue's frozen pride
More steadfast—yet with feet about to slide
Off the world's brink, while these winged seconds fly,
Into the abysses of Eternity,
A woman by him, killed for him, with more
Than hideous death—with infamies of shame;
A world behind him left to bid his fame
Go blackening down the years—a heaven before,

118

To which his parent Church annuls his claim;
The martyr of his mission or his dream,
The vanquished hero of a losing game;
What lit upon his cheek that smile's grave gleam?
Was it the presage of a star-bright name?
Or the past passion of a burning fight
With wrongful strength for undefended right?
Or, framed between the death-gates, has he caught
A glimpse thro' skyland of a clear gold shrine?
And thinks he of the ten spent years that brought
A second time the trance and sight divine
To God's forsaken and forgotten seer,
When, wafted to the land abhorred and dear,
He saw upon the long-polluted sod,
All measured by a cherub's dazzling rod,
New Temple towers and walls built up to God;
Saw all the glory, once by Chebar's flood,
Revealed him at the temple-gate of yore,
Entered the inner court, enraptured stood,
And knew God's holy house was His once more!—
So sees he now the Church he dies for, shine
Once more a Temple for the Form divine,
Where the sweet solemn services should wait
The new immortal Priest, glad trembling at the gate?

11.

Or did e'en then the one strong love that bore
The tenderest form God's love made human frames,
Shake one last pulse in that heart's steadfast core
Just ere it fall to ashes in the flames?

119

God knows—the look was patient, as of one
Who draws a long and deep, contented breath,
After a fight with floods, so hardly won,
The languishment and rapture seem like death.
So death with him seemed rest—e'en so a wave,
Victorious, wins the shore and breaks and dies;
One look of care—the last before the grave,
For her whom Love brought there to agonize;
One ache of fear lest that delivering fire
Should tear her all too roughly from her clay—
And now, God judge them!—fiercer flames the pyre,
And those two royal spirits are away.

121

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A POEM IN EIGHT SCENES.

123

I. ON THE FIELD.

“See,” says one warrior to the other,
As they sit on the field of the dead,
While the white moon dies in the dawn's pale skies,
O'er the stream they have made so red;
Where down thro' a gash in the rock it slid,
And thick by its babbling flow
The silver-leaved herbage grew, now hid
By the wrecks of that field of woe:
A strange, a ghastly, and gaudy mass
Did the dews in their silence steep;
Curved blades, gilded breast-plates, and helms of brass,
In a sanguine, shattered heap;
And the wearied victors slept on the grass,
As still as the vanquished sleep.
“See! those grim faces and forms of stone,
Are thy foes and the foes of the Cross.
The Crescent is wan, like yon moon that's nigh gone,
And light hath been our loss.

124

And the King when anew thy triumph he hears,
With new honours will requite
The kinsman who had but sixteen years
When he won him his first fight.
Tho' I am, thou know'st, his kinsman, too,
'T will be my greatest pride,
That I to-day a comrade true
Fought by Bernardo's side.”

“What!” said the other, and a frown
Knit o'er that look of pain—
“Think'st thou I fought for Alonzo's crown?
The Moors that here lie slain—
As fain had I been to head their band,
And the Christians overwhelm,
As stand and receive, from the King's own hand,
The price of a rescued realm.—
Think'st thou, Ramiro, I've forgot
Saldaña's son am I,
That he for five and twenty years
Hath never seen the sky?
Nor sire nor father lived for me,
Tho' all Asturia knows
He was the pearl of knights, and she
Of royal maids the rose.
That peerless love, that perfect pair,
That year of hidden heaven,—
A fitting theme Alonzo's care,
For sad love lays has given!

125

She was the sister of a king,
He was but true and brave;
So he's in a dungeon withering,
She sleeps in a convent grave.
That blinded fettered father
Shall my free youth forget?
Nor deep against th'oppressor score
The ever-swelling debt?”

“Nay, but Alonzo was thy friend,
He reared thee as his own,
His page, his knight, yea, doth intend,
They say, for thee the throne.”—
“Ay, and he taught me all the time
That I was a traitor's child,
He made that memory a crime,
That holiest name defiled.

“But when I grew to boyhood, and heard Saldaña's name,
In whispers named by those who yet loved a true man's fame,
Sounding like some sweet song made up of love and praise,
That secret music changed my heart and haunted all my days.
When ten years past, a boy all fire, I drew this sword of mine,
One dream I had, to free my sire by doing deeds divine.
I heard that horn's long, dreary call from Fontarabia's dell,
That told to Charles the King, how all his peers round Roland fell.

126

Ah, what availed my glory then on Roncevalle's plain?
Ten years—and still Alonzo's king, and my father wears his chain!

“That hope a sullen purpose now, a smothered sparkless fire,
Little I care for king or creed, of glory's self I tire.
I fight in reckless rage to wear the dreary time away,
Or make myself a power to use when God shall grant a day.”
“And hast thou then,” Ramiro asked, “no other tie? or why
Still com'st thou to the court to tell thy tale of victory?”
“Another tie there is,” he said, and mournful grew his tone;
“But for Estella, I were free to shake Alonzo's throne.
But she beside that throne in her soft splendour stands,
And holds my rebel heart in her lovely, queenly hands.
She bids me to be patient till the dark chain's untied;
And I have vowed that not till then I claim her as my bride.”

II. IN THE PALACE.

In his dim palace hall at the close of day
Alonzo, the King of Asturias, lay
On a couch, with a wolf-skin over it thrown—
Himself slew the wolf in the days that were flown.

127

A cross and a broadsword were fixed o'er his head,
And a long, heavy war-lance leaned by the bed.
Above on the wall hung his ponderous mail,
Whose deep-dinted plates told a wild war tale,
With its huge iron bosses the joints to guard,
The carved, gilded gorget and cuirass hard.
As relics they hung, for their service was done—
All wakeful and watchful his hollow eye shone
'Neath a brow deeply ridged with thought and pain,
From the strain of the body, the throbs of the brain.
And the haughty warrior and despot sage
Was a tree that's stripped bare, not bent by age.
For still on that forge of the brain the will
Was shaping deep schemes with an artist's skill,
And knew to his purpose all means to bend,
And fine them and point to a piercing end.
They kept him ever alone and apart,
The deep-working head and untrusting heart.

Queen Bertha sat by with her broidery fair,
And the Queen's niece stood by the ivory chair.
All listened and waited and nought was said,
For their hearts were suspended 'twixt hope and dread.

The horn's blast was heard and the herald was seen,
And he told how a battle at Lugo had been,
Of the Moorish chief's fall, and his hosts' overthrow,
And Bernardo's return with the spoils of the foe.
And the King's ashy visage was strongly stirred
With the shadows of feelings that spoke not in word.

128

A subtle misgiving, the tyrant's doubt,
Thro' the gleam of applauding joy stole out.
Estella in silence listened the while
With her dark dewy eyes and the tender smile,
That spoke her sweet thoughts, and face kindled as though
That silence were music—then softly and slow
She bent to the Queen, and in low pleading strain
She murmured, “O help me but once to gain
Yon turret mysterious and secret cell,
For I have a mission—I needs must tell
The poor Count in his loneliness there how his son
His glorious duty hath gloriously done.
Full fain would I catch, as he turns them on me,
Those eyes ever watching that cannot see,
The glimpse of a blessedness longed for thro' years—
The praise of a Son in a Father's proud tears.”

An iron-sheathed man from head down to heel,
From morion to greaves and gauntlets of steel,
Bernardo strode in and greeted the King,
Who proffered high thanks and a rich jewelled ring;
Nor betrayed by one sign that Saldaña's son
Was hated yet worse for the service done.
But statelier still was the youth in his pride,
And carelessly scornful the gift put aside;
“No guerdon, O King, I accept,” he replied,
“Till my work is accomplished; too rash is thy trust
That the scorpion of Afric is crushed in the dust.
Mohammed is fallen; Alhakem remains,
With the fierce Eastern passion all hot in his veins.

129

The Frank too is waiting the moment to seize
To pour thro' the passes of yon Pyrenees,
Thus swelled on all sides will the flood, tenfold grown,
Roll over thy borders and boil round thy throne.”

III. IN PRISON.

1.

Christ Jesus! who upon the cross
Didst count by pangs six hours of death,
Lord, hast thou counted all my loss
Of years that had no life save breath?
If Love was guilt that Wrath must blast,
Has not, unscourged, far darker sin
Met thro' an unshamed life Thy gaze—
While five-and-twenty years since last
I saw the light, are buried in
The gulf of the dead yesterdays.—
O light! in one short day amassed—
O day! the last of my rich past.
Deep in my brain with fire are graven
All that day's sights from earth to heaven.

Where the King's summer-castle stood
For sylvan sport, below the hills
Up which pine-forests waved and caught
Voices from birds and streams and rills,
There from the courtyards overflowed
The tide of youth, one April day,
Rippling with hawk, and hound, and gay

130

With all the colours of the spring.
Into the forest forth we rode,
But halted, waiting for the King.

The dawn for mist was scarce discerned,
The grass was clouded white with dew,
But on the dews the sunrise burned,
And winds in pine-tops trembled too,
And, whispering of the morning, through
The depth on depth of boughs at rest,
They waked a wild dove in her nest.
I fancied how the brooding breast
Was fluttering o'er the wealth within,
Transparent silvery shells, so thin,
Such as a touch might break or melt—
I felt—what matter what I felt?
What fancies curled in a young brain
That soon should die to joy and pain?

The silver-leaved abeles were waving—
Myriads of white and azure eyes
Laughed from the bank, where, stilly laving
Their cool dark roots with moss entangled,
The stream, o'erdanced by dragon flies,
Crept on thro' meadows blossom-spangled,
And by the heron-haunted trees.—
The woods, with leaf-buds just unfurled,
Swelled hourly by the sun and breeze;
Beneath, the young fern's yellow curled
Soft tufts; beyond, the steeper world

131

Of gorse-clad hills, whose sides unfold
A sudden passionate bloom of gold—
Carved out in light, I see it all;
Under an oak,—in dreams of love
I stood and watched a shadow fall,
From one great curling bough above,
On the broad sunny stem clear traced;
For now the sun was making haste
To melt all clouds and dew in light—
The King was coming—all was right!

I see my horse, the glittering mist
He snuffs with nostrils keenly spread,
And my jer falcon on my wrist,
That just unhooded shakes her head,
And wide expands her shining eye,
And flaps her wings and longs to fly,
Proud of her beauty, and my hound
That well nigh tumbles to the ground,
With his great frantic leaps of joy,
My page, my bright-faced guileless boy.
The faces round so glad—I think
They made the spring bud everywhere—
My Jesu! how I seem to drink
That crystalline Sierra air!
And those fair riders—Time has dimmed
Your gay vain smiles, you supple-limbed
And bold Dianas—lures so light
For such light prey!—yet I recall

132

Those broad black eyes, those mockeries showered
From rich red lips on plumed knight,
Or page so proud of being tall—
And that face, fairest far of all—
Left there behind me, safely bowered
In her close myrtle-nook of love—
My secret flower, my hidden dove!
I see that smile thro' trellised screen
That flashed the soul up thro' her eyes,
The small fair hand pushed out half seen,
Waving triumphant prophesies;
Unheeding that she missed the place
Once hers, for rank and skill and grace—
Fairest and foremost in the chase!
I left her there alone, to weave
Her dream of happiness till eve.
Mad dream of lovers madly wed!
No guilt is punished like th'excess
Of an audacious happiness.
Ere eve God's lightning struck ours dead.

And what is Count Saldaña now?
And what the bride of regal brow,
Too strangely precious to avow?
That beauty for whose crimson bloom
I in my youth of fervent trust
Dared all things, torture, bonds, the tomb,—
Happier than I—has long been dust.
While for that one year brief and bright
I sit in expiating night.

133

Ah, Count Saldaña! chief confest,
Thy horse, thy hawk, thy hound the best,
On whom from marble balconies
Spontaneous crowns have dropt from eyes
That others died for, thou so used
To gifts at Fortune's lavish pleasure,
Nothing demanded nor refused,
And every hour itself a treasure,—
Art thou the grey blind man subdued
And sad, who in his prison tower
Marks but by each scant meal the hour,
And has to watch his gaoler's mood
For all the pastime he can wrest
From this huge blank of days unblest—
Some half-told news, some surly jest?

Ah, saw'st thou, Lord, that fierce despair,
When young, strong, loving, hating, first
They dragged me hither—where, oh where?
I felt, but could not see, my tomb—
How the blind eyeballs seemed to burst,
Seeking the fiend who wrought my doom,
And hers—oh, worse than murderer-King,
Didst thou sleep sound thro' all those nights,
Whilst I, a blighted, blasted thing,
Helpless and bare to all affrights,
Fancying, all round, the universe
Was narrowing to a coffin, walled
In that death-blackness, dreamed appalled
Or waking saw, th'embodied Curse—

134

For eyes in this world's darkness thralled
Can yet see spirits—a gliding, black
And dragon creature, with a track
Of sombre fire behind, that crawled
Up from the pit of hell and came
Close to my bed—O God! the shame
To be so terrified as I
Was at that dull inanity!
For now 't is worn away, the strong
Quick youth that was my torment long,
My nights are calm at least; I lie
And wakeful muse more tranquilly
On all those past unmeaning shows,
And when this weary life will close.

2.

O Christ! that from thy cross didst see
And pity all the griefs to be,
One thing has by thy grace survived—
For years a bitter-sweet, strange pain,
A doubt put by, and then revived—
A question that I asked in vain.
I saw—that morn, before whose night
I saw no more—my life's best sight,
Of God's dear grace the very sign—
Ximena's beauteous boy and mine.
I took him from her arms, how light
Were both our hearts! we chose his name;
I thanked her for my future knight,
I kissed her for his future fame.

135

But there life stayed—in my dark thought
Time, being, growth, alike were nought.
If I in fancy dared to draw
Thine image, spite of Nature's law,
'T was as the babe that then I saw,
Or haply like thy mother dead—
Until an angel came and said,
“Thy son is living! and in all
Alonzo's court is none so tall,
So strong and handsome, nor so brave,
And true is he as hand to glaive!”
She told me how the Moslems fall,
Slain by the war-cry of his name,
How through the wild Asturias all
The mountain echoes shout his fame.
She told me—dare I think it true?—
In her sweet tones, he loved me too,
Would fain my prison bolts undo,
And let heaven's blessed sun and rain
On this blind forehead fall again.

So now two pictures I can paint
Upon my wall of darkness, yea
My brain repaints them night and day,
Of her my visiting sweet saint
And my brave son! It were a joy,
Like tourney triumphs long ago,
If I might talk, an hour or so,
Of knightly things with thee, my boy,
(If all's not lost I used to know,)

136

Or might at yon barred loophole sit
And hear him slowly riding by,
With clanking hoofs and ringing bit,
And know he upward turned an eye.
Methinks that I should single out,
Amidst a troop, his horse's feet,
Perchance in his clear joyous shout
Catch her young laughter thrilling sweet.

My son! I meant to be like you,
The burden of heroic song,
I felt my limbs so light and strong,
My hand so firm, my eye so true.
But what availed it? Manhood's pith
And pride is gone, the end is nigh,
And that career I dallied with,
And for vain pleasure, let go by,
Will all be thine! If, ere I die,
I yet might greet thee perfected
With the full aureole of renown!
Might lay my blind hands on thy head,
And feel in thy bright hair the crown
I could not win—more dearly won—
And from my darkness bless my son!
But since I think this will not be,
That God ere this will set me free,
I would but hear once more that voice,
Whose sweet news bade me first rejoice,
When first its silvery greeting fell,
Faltering with pity, in my cell.

137

I thought, all wondering, wildered, stirred,
It was a song from fairyland;
Then felt that tremulous soft hand
Dropt like a flower in mine, then heard
Again that music flowing on,
And all in praises of my son!
When, as the sound betrayed, with face
Half turned, she praised his noble grace,
I thought if I had eyes to note
The tender swelling of the throat,
And cheek's quick rose, 'twould sure make known
The hidden cause that gave her tone
Its faltering softness—ay, old age,
Blindness, and solitary thought
That turns a soldier to a sage,
Make subtler our perceptions oft,
Of things all womanly and soft.
She spoke of all that comfort brought,
Of earthly hope and heavenly bliss—
And when she went, a weeping kiss
I felt upon my hand—
The strange sweet homage thrilled me so—
Who had till then cared but to throw
To the poor weeping captive aught
Except a rough command!
And she the Queen's niece—well her name
Of beauty I recall—she came
In very truth, my evening star,
From heavens invisibly afar.

138

Sweet child! and hadst thou then no fear
Of the grim Fate who pent me here?
Of him who calls himself the Just
Because he never pardoned wrong?
The Good, because like stone he's strong
To grind the human heart to dust?
No, none will harm thee, gentle one;
Thy innocent course they let thee run,
Nor check it more than we 'd hold back
A sunbeam gliding on its track.
Then come, O bird of heaven! again—
Come, till this failing strength sustain
No more the pleasure, nor the pain;
When comes the moment that shall be
The turning of a sullen key,
Loosening of rusty chains that fall,
A jangling heap upon the floor,
A drawing through an iron door,
Out of cramped gloom 'twixt wall and wall,
Into a splendid daylight air
Poured blue through some great marble hall,
Where slender milk-white columns bear
The beauty up into the dome—
See how dull fancy plays me traitor,
And even Hope, the bold creator,
Can but, as feeble memory, roam
Back, for the picture of its heaven,
To some lost half-forgotten home.
Well, let it pass,—to me be given
No other way to die but so

139

To sit and hear her tender speech
Onward like a rivulet flow,
Till, as the rivulet gains a reach
Where stilled and smooth in some deep cove,
Like an imprisonment of love,
All the river-ripples die,
And water seems a sister sky.
So may I to a trance be wrought,
And through its veil the sweet voice hear,
Still fainter, fainter in my ear,
Until, Bernardo's name just caught,
There come—a silence, and the soul,
Carried asleep beyond Death's goal,
Pass, seeing, freed, to new existence,
In the immeasurable distance.
And yet,—and yet,—alone to pass,—
Ah me, my son,—alas, alas!

IV. IN DANGER.

Soon rose the huge war cloud, all black overhead,
And Bertha the Queen to Alonzo said:
“Dost thou deem he again will fight in thy part?
Canst thou trust with thine armies a rebel at heart?
Thou hast said thou wilt never his father release;
Ah, break thy stern word, and let all be at peace.”
The King pondered darkly—Bernardo was still;
Alhakem advanced and had past o'er the hill,

140

And on toward the gates was fast drawing nigh,
Still stirred not Bernardo—then loud came the cry
That the Christians are flying, their forces are broke—
Then called him Alonzo, and earnestly spoke:
“Now rouse thee, young hero! this one triumph more
For the cross, for thy country, thy King—and be sure
Thou winnest it too for Saldaña and love.
I swear to thee now by the great God above,
That if from our frontier Alhakem be driven,
To the wolves and the ravens his armament given,
When thou from a perfect success art returned,
Thine then shall at once be the meed thou hast earned.
Estella thy bride thy coming shall wait,
Thy father shall meet thee, I swear, at the gate,
And thou be proclaimed of my kingdom the heir—
Nor long wilt thou wait that kingship to wear.
Now art thou content?”

“Alonzo! I know
That thine oath never yet has been broken; I go
To win thee this fight, and my father to free—
As thou shalt deal with me, so God deal with thee!”

V. WITH THE MOORS.

The Moorish minstrels sing—lo! how the Moorish King
Comes to destroy the Christians in their lurking-place;
They sing how the white banner courts mountain winds to fan her,
The banner of the Caliph of Omeyad race.

141

In yon old glorious East of empires long deceased,
Ghost-rid with phantom-cities and dead dynasties,
That race of Arab-birth sprang like a flame from earth,
And built on fallen worlds new worlds up to the skies.

Where once the low sad ray o'er wastes of ruins lay,
Where Tigris and Euphrates, memorial waters, roll,
Is bright Damascus piled—yet still toward wastes more wild,
Still toward intenser climes, yearned the lone Arab soul.

So where from fiercer light hid in deep forest night,
All the great lion-life on thro' the ages goes—
Dusk regal nurseries, unknown to mortal eyes,
Where the young tawny brood up into kinghood grows,

With their soft silent moving, of killing, playing, loving,
The slow eyes beautiful with the topaz light within,
The mane like a golden crown, the grand pacing up and down,—
There came those wanderers to find their mighty kin.

Then, in that Afric, land of dragons, by the brand
Of savage suns that ever on the hot sands sleep
Hatched into cruel life—all winged for dreadful strife,
Like fiery flying serpents thence to Spain they sweep.

Now in that desert race has flowered a glorious grace,
Born of Spain's balmier breezes and her softer light,
In Cordova mosque-crowned with citron thickets round,
And the spiced gardens of the palace of delight.

142

Where the jasper-fountain falls thro' magic marble halls,
And all the jasmines throb to delirious nightingales,
And the Moor dreams love and war with hand on scimitar,
Lulled by the endless murmur of Arabian tales.

In the golden-gated shrine thro' the thousand columns shine
The thousand perfumed lamps, there doth Alhakem kneel,
Then grasps the curvëd blade with gilding all inlaid,
And charmed with sacred names, on the fine cloudless steel.

That sorcerer's sword of thine, tempered in ocean brine,
Bernardo! shall be ashes, touched by the Holy Name;
Thy Gothic devils all shall flee at our loud war-call,
And Allah's wrath shall follow like a burning flame.—

With song and cymbal so to war the Moslems go,
With a wave as of white wings, a scarfed and turbaned band,
While beneath is the shirt whose rings, those delicate steel things,
Like a fine silk net can all be crumpled in one hand.

O! ladies almond-eyed who helmed your knights with pride,
Then o'er your eyes let fall the broidered silken veil,
To hide love's answer there to youth's impassioned prayer,—
Those folds ere long may cover love's despairing wail!

143

For whatsoe'er the host, with blessing or with boast,
Sent to defy Bernardo on his mountain-wall,
Bitter must be the loss and crimson-dyed the cross,
Ere borne by such a leader in the dust it fall.

VI. IN THE GARDEN.

A Garden terrace in the warm
And moonlit night of Spain lies drowned;
There, of an armed and kingly form
The shadow glides along the ground.
The summer roses breathing sweet,
Guide him to yon deep arched recess,
Carved marble round a window meet
To frame a perfect loveliness.

He stands beneath a laurel-cluster;
The moon makes gleam with her white kiss
His fluted mail, and streams strange lustre
On that young noble brow of his,
That, raised to where yon casement stood
All open to the perfumed air,
Now as in pale stone carving showed
The melancholy passion there.

But when a tender footstep stole
Across the floor, and when a face
Looked out, his glowed with all the soul
To meet Estella's maiden-grace.

144

The leaning form we just discern
Makes that recess a niche divine;
So surely fair white creatures turn
All resting-places to a shrine.

So might a dove, the silken string
That held it slipped, still, trembling, charm
The laurel-gloom, a glimmering
White dream in darkness—the white arm
Of a wild wood-nymph, so within
The ivy's twisted stems and sprays
Be stretched, the fugitive to win—
So downward the live silver plays

Into a hollow cup of rock
Moss-darkened, where it hides and pines;
And so, her grotto-gloom to mock,
A goddess's white vesture shines.
But human love, made sad by fate,
Was burden to the words that fell
Trembling: “Within my maidens wait—
One hour is ours, and then farewell!”

As from that window down she bent,
His deep sad eyes with sudden light
O'erflowed his face, a splendour sent
By passion rather than delight.
They held each other's hands, and each
Loved with their silent looks; at whiles
She stole upon the hush, with speech
Made up of sweet few words and smiles.

145

Yet pale was that young beauteous cheek,
And on him oft, with tender sighs,
As seeking what he could not speak,
She turned her shining, swimming eyes.
As in the sapphire's heart the mark,
The magic cross, comes out—appears
Love's mystic star, and bathes those dark
Bright gems in rich blue light thro' tears.

“I have a gift for thee,” she said;
“'T was given by one who loves thee well—
The last memorial of the dead,
Long cherished in a prison-cell.
I placed it in my reliquaire,
I kissed it as a hallowed thing;
That amulet thy heart shall bear
To guard it, as my hand thy ring.”

All crusted o'er with gems like fruit,
She gave that ivory casket rare;
It opened, and disclosed a shoot
Of sunshine wove in silky hair.
In solemn passionate still he took
That charmed reminder of the dead,
The blind, the loved; with pleading look,
“Thou art so sad to-night!” she said.

“Thou know'st,” said he, “my own dear heart,
I am not wont to show a brow
O'ershadowed, when for war I part;
But something strange o'erclouds it now—

146

Although such precious trust I bear,
A father's vow'd release my scope,
And though I see thee look so fair,
And have thy beauty for my hope.

“The fate that round my life has thrown
Its purple stormcloud, brow and breast
Encircling, till, indifferent grown,
I've worn it like a crown and vest,
Now seems with lightning livid-edged;
Defeat I fear not—I am one
To do this work by birthright pledged,
And though I fall, 't will yet be done.

“God knows, no fearful fate it seems
The well-fought field of fame to see
My own, and sleep in glorious dreams,
A warrior dead, beloved by thee.
For war has been the atmosphere
Of all my fancies, toil and pleasure,
Since first my hand could grasp a spear,
And life by deeds, not days, I measure.

“But to leave thee, to live and bloom
On Danger's rock, fair lonely waif,
And him within his breathing tomb,
And his grey tyrant free and safe!
Nor mayst thou keep that maiden life
To bless my turf with precious rain—
Ramiro heirs a crown and wife
When I am counted with the slain.”

147

“Ah, no!” she spoke: “when, from a child,
I 've seen, just off the wayside, lie
Some nook of heaven, in cloisters isled,
I 've thought 't was made for such as I.
And sooner than another's spoil
This hand, for ever thine, should be,
If thou art lost, from life's wild coil
I hide me there, till called to thee.”

“Not so!” he said; “for fool and slave
These sepulchres of souls were built,
Souls drowsy prayers are droned to save,
When dulled with sorrow, sloth, or guilt.
Since she my whole life missed was hid,
A girl as young and sweet as thou,
In that dark cerement-garb, I bid
Defiance to the wicked vow.

“Their rites are dreams—I find the God
I worship under open skies,
In Freedom's air, on Life's fresh sod,
In play of glorious faculties.
With different hues all souls He paints,
And shapes their different aims in life;
Mine be the hero's, not the saint's,
And thine to be a hero's wife.”

She smiled—all womanhood its part
Held in Estella's fair young breast,
Yet beat the bravest patriot's heart
Beneath that white and waving vest.

148

“Go, then,” she said, “to thy bright goal,
My heaven on earth, my hope, my pride,
With all the war-flames of thy soul
By pure ambition sanctified.

“Crown after crown, for duty's meed,
Far mounting over self, attain;
Set high as heaven thine aims, succeed,
And then, oh, come to me again!”
Still pressed against his heart's strong beat
Her hand, her gift, a gaze of flame
Watched those rose-lips so girlish sweet
From which such noble music came.

“O glorious beauty! now I know
How looked War's clear-eyed priestesses,
The Druid queens of long ago,
When warriors knelt for them to bless,
And rose up victors! But, ah yet!
Time wears, heaven's lights are falling far;
Thine only ne'er for me can set,
Queen of my heaven! soft, splendid star!

“'T will shine down on my field of rest
Or triumph yonder, still to view
Thy threefold token on my breast—
Estella, only loved! adieu!”
With yearnings inexpressible
Of love's intense, in pain revealed,
It past, that bitter sweet farewell—
So went Bernardo to the field.

149

VII. IN OVIEDO.

Through Oviedo's streets the tidings run—
“Bernardo comes! the hero and the heir;
Of all his fields the noblest has he won,
The triumph of the Cross, the Moor's despair.

“Alhakem flies, and leaves a slaughtered host,
Caught like the wild wolves in the hunter's traps,
Sunk in deep Ebro's pools, in forests lost—
Dead in the white Sierra's frozen gaps.

“A city mad with joy his coming waits,
A sovereign's thanks, a bride, a crown—ah, see!
Grandly his war-horse bears him to the gates,—
How proud his soldiers, led by such as he!”

“O father! O my father! now the land
Of promise from my hill-top I discover—
Thee, won by years of warfare, I demand;
Thy bondage and my orphanhood are over.

“And that dear hand that was to be my own
When thou couldst lay it in a victor's clasp—
Without thee, though it waved me to the throne,
I'd turn and change it for the foeman's grasp.”

150

So spoke his heart; but silent to the world
Was that young warrior's joy—he passed along,
Wide stand the gates, rich banners are unfurled,
And all Oviedo forth with flowers and song.

In lines of gold the dazzling day that train
Of forms, robes, heads, roofs, walls and windows gave,
The human tide heaves on, pressed back in vain:
The triumph swells to bursting, like a wave.

The air is giddy with the trumpets blown,
Drunk with rich music rocks each Gothic spire—
Yet a few steps, Bernardo! all thine own
Is then God's threefold gift—crown, bride, and sire!

Forth comes the King, his chariot-wheels flash bright,
And by his side—O hero! can thine eye
Guess who, thus robed and veiled and wreathed in white,
A snow-pure bride, sits softly drooping by?

Yes, 'tis thy bride—what makes those lily-looks
So pale and downcast? and that hard old King,
Frowns he to see the joy he scarcely brooks?—
Turn then, O youth! for happier wondering.

See by the car a stately war-horse led,
A stranger's was the tall gaunt form it bore;
Silent he sits, nor once he lifts his head,
Nor stirs a hand, nor heeds the glad uproar.

151

In those young eyes soft drops unwonted grow,
He bends before Alonzo—happiness
Bows that proud head at last—then whispers low,
“Is that my father?” and is answered, “Yes.”

“O father! old and blind and prison-worn!
How silently thy son thou welcomest!
But, gently to my sea-washed castle borne,
Life's setting sunshine yet shall prove its best.”

Down from his charger then himself he flung—
The whole procession stopped, straight on he sped,
And kneeling to that rider's stirrup clung,
Looked in his face—it was his father—dead!

And nothing saw he but the corpse that, keeping
Its ghastly tryst, there met him face to face,
And nothing heard he but Estella's weeping;
And all was chaos, lost was time and place.

“My word is kept, Bernardo; when I made
That promise, yonder form e'en then was clay;
Fixed was my will to loose him ne'er till dead,
The dead is yours—do with him what you may.”

A shivered sword before Alonzo lies,
A mailëd foot has stamped it in despair,
A statue fronts the King with hollow eyes,
A voice as of the dead hath cursed him there.

152

“The crown thou hast polluted I abjure,
The God thou ownest is a fiend for me,
The bride thou promisedst is mine no more—
She were accursëd as a gift from thee.

“I live to wreak on thee this misery,
Unending war, undying hate I swear;
Thy face I see no more until thou lie
Slain by my hand—dead like my father there.

“Touch me who dare!”—Upon his horse he leapt,
Just waved his hand, his band and he were gone;
Beside the sacred dead Estella wept,
The useless radiant hours passed mutely on.

VIII. IN THE CONVENT.

O thou Ocean, rolling up the shore
With thy long-drawn passion evermore,
Sobbing Ocean! is it with remorse
For the craft thou'st shivered in thy course?
Art thou like a mighty lyre whereon
Storm-winds thunder their shipwrecking tune?
Art thou weary of the basalt caves
Where, in sounds that drip from cell to cell,
Do the sea-nymphs to the drowsy waves
Their eternal murmured secrets tell?

153

Or complainest thou against this Earth
Thou hast battled with since either's birth,
Eating her black limestone-ramparts down,
Wrinkling their hoar faces with a frown,
Fretting chasms to fill with hissing spray—
Yet canst never sweep her quite away!

Well thou suitest him whose life is curst
By a burning ever-baffled thirst—
Not for vengeance—no, that cup ran o'er,
Yet his heart was craving as before.
For his ruth the murderer-king had prayed,
At Bernardo's feet his sceptre laid,
Had himself endured the captive's lot,
Loosed in scorn, had died a wretch forgot.
Not for power—for he had let the crown
Destined once for him, like some scorned toy,
Lightly to Ramiro's brow slip down—
While with bitter laugh he wished him joy.
Not for glory—all the Spanish land
Started at the footsteps of his fame;
Seen for moments, traced for long, a grand
Dreadful marvel, living, he became;
Till, like carven foliage wreathed around
Some tall column in a lonely ground,
Lay and legend clustered round his name.

But there sat a ghost, a haunting grief,
By the pillow of the robber-chief.

154

'Twas the moment's glimpse of a lost heaven,
'Twas the father's blessing never given;
Love that drew so nigh, then winged away,
Never more to make a moment's stay;
Hopes that of the boy a hero made,
Turned the youth to robber-renegade;
Church and kindred, home and land abjured,
Nothing left him but his name and sword.
Never with Asturian mountaineers,
Bold, gay youths, in happier times his peers,
Went he now exultingly to face
All the rapturous perils of the chase;
Never with them, when the dawn crept chill
From the arms of night silvery and still,
Pressed he up the dew-drenched mountain glades,
Dim with ancient oak and chestnut shades,
And with shout and javelin from his lair
Roused the grey old monster slumbering there.
Never in the almond-blossomed vale
Sighed he to love-warbling nightingale,
Never shared the vintage revels when
Rich grape bubbles danced in hearts of men,
And the noblest youths flew hand in hand
With the brightest maidens of the land;
Far away mid Paynims of the south
Passed what hours were spared from fierce affray;
There his lurid melancholy youth
Wasted without fellowship away.

For, thus cleft from Christian brotherhood,
Yet 'mongst Moslems he a stranger stood,

155

As his rock-built castle seems to stand
Haughtily apart from sea and land.
And at times by Guadalquivir's side,
Or in Merida's embattled pride,
Or when lured a false brief rest to seize,
In a trance of Oriental ease,
In the carven cedar-chambers lying,
Where on Moorish lutes sweet sighs are dying,
Would there come, from strong reaction born,
Dreams of that ancestral hold forlorn,
Where, by him in gloom and silence brought,
Lay the dead who never left his thought,
In a chapel-vault that heard the sea
Round and o'er it moan incessantly.
So at last some desperate foray ended,
To his followers leaving all his share
Of the spoils he won them, thence he wended
Northward to that fortress of despair.

Strangely stood it, meet for such as he!
On Asturia's wild, rock-splintered shore;
Where far down, beneath the mighty sea,
In earth's morning æons, when its core
Gushed out flames upon the ocean floor,
Floods of fiery stone had cooled to rocks;
Through the cloven waters then their blocks
Forced their way, built upward stair by stair,
In black giant steps that, splitting there,
Grew into a storm-swept, turret-crag;

156

Built by men thereon were walls of stone,
On whose highest tower a sullen flag,
Drinking the salt-sea winds, waved alone.
There flap cormorant wings, heavily sailing,
'Twixt the leaden sea and leaden sky,
There amongst the rocks the seamews wailing
In and out their ancient hollows fly.

On those long-abandoned walls he lay,
Listening to the turmoil of the bay,
All the roaring surges of Biscay;
Dreaming of some pirate ship whose sail,
Set for wild adventure on the deep,
Far away should bear him from that wail
Of the waters round his castled steep—
Far away from Spain, lost land of shame!
Never more to greet his wandering helm,—
Make himself a new race and new name,
Die the hero of an unknown realm.

“Would,” he thought, “that I might reach the North,
Dark and stormy world whence sea-gods roam,
Whence wild lays like seabirds winging forth
Bear the shrill fierce music of their home;
Land of mountains and deep dells that show
Pure white snows above, black pines below;
Land of wolf-men and swan-maidens, land
Where fight gods and giants hand to hand,
Wrath divine with mad brute rage at strife,
Æsir against Jötun—where man's life,

157

In a world of warring phantoms made,
Is a tempest black with wild endeavour,
That soon howls itself to rest, and laid
In a tomb of frost, sleeps sound for ever!”

Ocean-dreams in brooding darkness nurst!—
But from that vague trance his spirit burst,
When he heard what set in flame his blood;
All that district owning his command
By a rival chief had been subdued;
So with fire and sword he scoured the land,
Till one evening with his weary band
Came he where he saw a convent stand,
In the twilight, on a knoll's still crest—
Rock, stone-wall and trees, together prest,
Sheltered, sleeping, dreaming, dim with rest.
Olive woods around it filled the dell
With their soft grey melancholy shade,
Only where the evening gold-streaks fell,
Slanting, on the sharp-cut leaves, they made
Silver touches in the greyish green—
On the greensward, tranquilly, between
Those white, many-cleft and twisted stems
Like Laocoon-serpents, grazed the sheep;
Distant hills wore soft cloud-diadems,
Unseen waters murmured half-asleep.

Hearken! floating upward from the choir,
Like a flight of doves from dusky shade,
Or as blessed souls to heaven aspire,
Soft heart-yearning notes of pure desire,

158

Vestals hymning sweet the Mother-maid—
Mute the soldiers stood, as though they prayed.
But—as spirits lost from music flee—
Turned their chief, between his teeth a curse;
“Stop those sounds,” he cried, “they madden me!
Better far the wailing round a hearse!
Fling we wide th'accursed gates—away!
Let the captives loose—then hurl your brands,
And yon jail of souls in ashes lay—
Only first the chapel for my hands!”
Loud the shrieking—from the invaders run
Timid forms invoking names divine;
With a scornful laugh the obdurate one
Strode into the chapel; at the shrine
Knelt the Abbess and an aged Nun—
“Ho!” he said, “begone! this place is mine!
I have sworn to level with the ground
Every roof where captives may be found.”

Then arose the Abbess, and she faced
Him, the grim destroyer, undismayed,
Raised an ivory crucifix—the haste
Of his onward rush awhile was stay'd;
Though a hard defiant glare replies
To the world of sorrow in her eyes:
And she said, “Bernardo, dost thou see?
'Tis thy mother kneeling by my side;
Whom so scornfully thou viewest, she
Is Estella, long ago thy bride.

159

Have these twenty years of dark despair
Hardened thee to heaven and innocence?
Shall not twenty years of peace and prayer
Win for us this grace, thy penitence?”

Strangely on her did the robber look
With a wild despairing scrutiny—
All the truth read there, yet could not brook
Eyes that pierced him so with days gone by.
Stifling half a groan, he turned to go;
But a something held him—could he so
Part from all that once had made life sweet,
And not kneel and kiss Estella's feet?
From that mother lost and found again,
As tho,' by a lightning-flash descried,
A new world had risen? found all in vain—
Better ere such meeting to have died!—
So he paused, he turned—hot, sudden tears
Burnt up that hard crust of twenty years.
Mother! long ago believed at rest,
Where the broken hearts forget all pain—
Art thou living, suffering? can thy breast
From that drear half-life one throb retain?
Shall this meeting compensate his wrong
From that vision waited for so long,
In the flash of its fulfilment lost?
Comes it not too late? and will it cost
All the remnant of that feeble breath?
Seven days did Ximena hold from death,

160

But to fill them with the unknown past;
Her Saldaña from the dead to win,
And the life of motherhood at last
In the twilight of the grave begin.
All was lived through, that dim dreamland first
Of her youth's enchanted wedding-morn,
And the childhood she had never nurst,
Of the marvel in that dreamland born.
Saw she then that lost and beauteous one
In this haggard stranger called her son?—
Still she gazed on him with dream-helped eyes,
Shaping through the clouds that earlier truth,
Till together the two faces rise,
In the glorious beauty of their youth;
Now the long-lost husband, now the son,
Now the double image melts in one.
Through a gentle trance of happy dying,
Murmuring love and hope and peace again,
Those faint tones, like some good angel sighing
In Bernardo's ear his holy strain,
Cast the devil out of wrath and pride,
And he prayed her blessing ere she died.

From that day all knew—but how, none guest—
In Bernardo's place a blank there came;
Years went on, conjecture ceased her quest,
But the Convent stood, the land had rest,
And the Abbess slept—a sainted name.
Long amid the rocks, ten miles away,
Morn and eve was heard a chapel bell

161

To the boatmen out upon the bay,
Oft at nightfall, through the ocean swell,
Came a voice that chaunted Miserere,
But the shore no cell, no chapel shows;
Only near, all ghost-like, blank and dreary,
On its crag the robber-castle rose.
Some bold fishers sought at last the spot—
From the sea they scaled the cliff and found
That below 't was hollowed to a grot;
And with snowy hair upon the ground,
On the hard stone floor, the hermit lay,
Ivory crucifix, and reliquaire
In those hands death-frozen, and, they say,
By his side an open book of prayer,
With one name—Estella—written there.

163

THE DESERTED HOUSE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1.

My child, who in this cottage lone
With thy poor nurse liv'st all unknown,
Wouldst thou not fain have marked the dates
Of childhood's years in some grand hall,
With its wide woodlands, merry mates,
And love of parents over all?
Then listen to a nursery tale
Once told me long ago,
That left me all in tears and pale—
It moved my pity so.
Thou, too, wilt weep—but let thy brow
Not long that shade of sadness keep;
For they, who wept so once, have now
For centuries forgot to weep.

164

2.

I cannot take thee to the scene
Where the sad things I tell have been;
No trace of it on antique pages,
Or painter's tablets, is remaining;
And though the story down the ages
Runs like a tender voice complaining,
That plaintive murmur never names it,
And for its own no region claims it.
Keen fancy, searching long, may seem
To fix the place—but 't is a dream.
Somewhere perchance, not far removed,
It stands dream-haunted, legend-loved,
By mountains kept as hid as heaven,
Or masked with woods no axe hath riven,
Or buried under some paved street
Trod flat by throngs of sordid feet.

3.

But could I paint it thee aright,
That long-deserted house would be
Like the fair homes thou dream'st about all night,
That thou, poor child, didst never see.
What sunny chambers bathed in air,
Led up to by a magic stair;
What hide and seek through pillared halls,
What fairy casements arched with roses,
Where tales are told when twilight falls,
Till, when the weird mute darkness closes,

165

E'en the gay teller shivering sees
The ghosts of his own fantasies.
What courts where orange blossoms shower
Dreams of Love's perfumed bridal hour.
What subtle side-doors, by-ways out,
With trails of jessamine masked about;
Windows where if, in reverie sweet,
On marble steps we stand,
A moment's wish lets forth our feet
Into a fairyland.—
How oft some woman-hearted child,
By moonlight and soft shade beguiled,
Of yore to Love's dear peril may
Have fluttered out, that sweet stol'n way!

4.

And there were twilight arbours—scenes
For sad and sacred hours,
Where spicy tropic evergreens
Made mysteries of bowers,
A cedar-dusk whence statues white,
Like moonlit ghosts, surprise the sight.
Thence, when, a perfect golden round,
Cut out in solid blue, the moon
O'erhangs that grove, a sudden sound
Makes night a magic noon.
The nightingale his lyric love
Sobs to those silent witnesses,
The shade below, the lamp above,—
Who knows how long ago may these

166

Have seen, as speechless mourners, Fate
Close there some drama passionate?—
How still some death-scene they record
Of human love God would not spare,
Two hearts that clung, broke, perished there,
While the moon shone on their despair,
And on the silent sword!

5.

But they who, as the story says,
Lived in that homestead golden days,
Who were that household? He who stood,
Its lord and sire, on life's midway,
Sternly composed, seemed yet to brood
On worlds he had been born to sway.
For though a youth of splendid storm
Had wasted that imperial form,
And that pale brow with thunder cleft,
Graving deep thought and strenuous aim,
The darkness hath rolled off, and left
The star of a noble name.—
A smiling lady by him stood,
His Margaret, soft, serene, and good,
Her children's type of angelhood.
And well those clustering buds enclose
Their beautiful white mother rose.
A wild yet lovely brood are they,
Gazelles or leopards in their play.

167

The halls and galleries, wilful rout,
They fill with laughter, shouts, and games;
Musical echoes rave about,
From mocking calls and petting names.

6.

Like sprites in every corner still
They work their busy idle will.
In garden grotto, quaintly decked,
You catch some fairy architect;
With tiny spade and serious zest,
Some rosy gardener toils his best.
Some golden-haired small warrior here
Is tilting with his reedy spear.
There some babe-queen her waxen hand
Holds out in miniature command,
Making a high-born loftiness
With that cradle-grace to meet;
She courts you fondly to caress,
But not too lightly treat.
An infant angel thus, should such
Come down on earth to play,
Smiles sweet, yet at too bold a touch,
Unwarning flits away.
And some we see grow fair and tall,
White lilies in their father's hall,
Watch their still looks, their soft replies,
And, in the blue dreams of their eyes,
The dawning womanhood surprise.

168

7.

Where are they gone? did that whole race
Melt at touch from off Earth's face?
Or must those gracious creatures roam,
As squalid vagrants, far and near?
What curse was built up in that home,
Its beauteous growth it could not rear?
In truth this only can I say,
When twenty years had flowed away,
There came a balmy night in May,
(Most weird, most fatal night of nights!)
When through the shadows and moonlights,
The dusk and shine, on walls and floor,
There passed a ghost from door to door.
No sleeper woke, nor dreamed of death,
Though passed so close a spirit's breath.
No curtain waves, no dim lamp dies,
Fanned by that spirit's heavy sighs.

8.

And hast thou left thy bed so deep,
To see how well thy children sleep,
In those old halls long built by thee,
Brave Founder of the family?
Yet why that wail o'er tarnished glories,
O'er secret shame and woeful fall?
Why seem those eyes to read strange stories,
In scarlet flames writ o'er the wall?

169

What dreadful thought must they disguise,
That lofty lovely pair?
What curse on each small pillow lies
Beside the sunny hair?
Yet never com'st thou, grey old Ghost,
Save when unguest-of sin,
That thou through darkness dimly know'st,
Is hatching doom within:
Now wails't thou a forsaken place,
A perished name, a wandering race!

9.

At morn the parents rose to do
Their daily duties as before;
Awhile their children smiled, then grew
An awe in which they smiled no more.
For one looked dark, the other pale,
And downcast eyes betrayed a tale
Of sleepless hours and haunting fears,
And hearts surcharged with silent tears.
And hearts surcharged with silent tears.
The Lady stilly paced those halls,
With eyes that bade them all farewell,
And then the Knight his household calls,
And bids them leave awhile those walls,
In other homes to dwell.
For they must thence that very day,
And sojourn long far, far away.

10.

One child they left, the Hall to keep,
Till their return—to wake and sleep,

170

Sole charge of those old guardian-trees,
And shut as safe from sight the while,
As in the furthest desert isle,
Across the stormiest seas.
A magic mist, they said, was spun
Around those groves—but all should run
Its daily round, as it had done,
Until they came again.
The mother wept, and then she smiled—
“Pray for us morn and eve, my child,
Thy prayers will not be vain.—
In May we part,” she thus did say,
“My Eva, have no fear;
Wait but one year, another May,
And again shall we be here.”

11.

Another year! it sounded nought
To her whose life was yet so short
Before the future's long-linked charm of years—
'T was but some suns, some flowers, the more;
And if sweet Eva's pearly tears
At the last speechless kiss ran o'er,
Those tears as quickly were dried up,
As when we bend the lily-cup,
And shake the rain-drops out—no less,
When ceased that childish tears' first swelling,
With a child's steadfast hopefulness
In solitude, with none to bless,
That beauteous darling made her dwelling.

171

12.

The day wore on—and still she smiled;
She was no weak, impatient child.
She sang her father's favourite ballads o'er,
Though at the end none spoke a word;
And kneeling on her chamber-floor,
She said the hymn that every eve before
Her tender mother heard;
Though now glanced in no sister, bright
With loving jest, to laugh “Good-night.”
What angel on thee, lonely sleeper,
Through thy vine-lattice shed
His smile, to make thy slumber deeper,
In thy small soft white bed?—
Where vine-leaf shadows, like green fays,
To breezy music danced and made
A chequer-work with pearly rays
In glittering patches o'er it laid.—
That vine marked well her moving year,
A natural green chronometer.
First sprout the small ribbed leaves—each one,
Expanding in a July sun,
From red turns grayish, then a brighter green,
And then are clear pale tendrils seen,
Making a thousand shoots and rings,
That, first coiled up like curled harp-strings,
Stretch forth, twist round, and seize each other,
Till all the wall the spreading clusters cover.

172

13.

Yes, now hot summer broods around;
June roses, like young queens, are crowned
With crimson and with perfume—now
Droops in the glow that childish brow.
She is tired of watching slow, heavy hours,
She is languid with exuberant flowers,
And stifling richness, and the swoon
Of the warm imperial noon,
That swells and over-ripens all
The great globes of fruit on the southern wall:
The black-blue grapes, the rich yellow plum,
The flies that buzz there all the hours,
The bees with their endless opiate hum,
Where drip with honey the trumpet-flowers.
All things seem drawn in lines of light—
Black on the turf the shadows sleep,
One cloud diaphanous and white
Lies in a trance in its great blue deep.
The sycamore's large leaves sleep warm,
Sheltering a quiet arbour—look,
In the dimness sits a small soft form,
That bends half-sleeping o'er her book.
One side the tresses have fallen down,
'T were too much trouble in a crown
Again to bind them—so they cover
The shoulder her head droops softly over.
The book is dropping on her knee
From the warm white fingers' drowsy hold,

173

A pearly moth hath perched there—see!
Just where the magic secret's told.
What book, what star, what oracle,
Her cherished secret may foretell?

14.

But when the long cool shadows fall,
And o'er those turrets brown
Appears the setting sun's red ball
Suspended like a crown,
The fresh young heart awakes again—
Another day is gone!—and then
With forehead bent on folded hands,
She meets her loved ones in the skies—
Then floats her soul into fairy lands
Under the sealed-up eyes.

15.

And summer past—tho' its life seemed charmed—
In its own spices dead and embalmed.
And the mourning month November
Winter's first-born drew near,
And covered with her robe of grey
A buried beauteous year.
And now beside the fire alone
She mused the frozen eves away—
Outside, the gusts would howl and moan,
Like famished wild beasts, for their prey.
Silence within, without seemed death,
No bird nor insect now drew breath.

174

16.

Still ere she slept, from lattice bending,
To heaven her earnest eyes are tending.
Lo! slowly climbing up the sky,
Those glorious groups are fixed on high,
In forms that cover heaven with light,
The splendid phantoms of the night.
'T was Conrad taught her first to mark
Orion's jewelled zone,
And Sirius' blazing, throbbing spark,
And, diamond-dust amid the dark,
The Pleiads closely sown.
With that sole company above—
Semblance of human forms—she strove
To make companionship—but ah!
They held their solemn games too far.

17.

So wastes the winter, and the snows
Melt into snowdrops—soft air blows,—
Each naked twig is turned to gold,
And thrushes try again the old
Forgotten music, notes that break
In fragments as if half awake,
O'er the old moat, the orchard old,
Where the thick first violets grew,
Where dragon-flies all green and gold
Over the twinkling water flew.

175

Now every night her dreams joy-stirred,
A thousand laughing voices heard,
Crowned by the father's one calm word of bliss,
Made heaven by the mother's kiss.
Those shouts, that word, that kiss were near,—
For lo! she wakes one morn, and May is here!
May with her emerald grass and daisies,
Her snow-showered thorns, and leafy mazes.
May with her white-winged butterflies,
Like to May-blossoms just set flying;
Her musical bird-talk, and sighs
Of young spring winds—a happy sighing;
May with her hopes warm air uncloses—
Sheathed rosebuds now, to-morrow roses.
And yet they come not—day by day,
Wears on the month, and gone is May.
The smiles are lost in tears, to see
The spring to summer deepen;
The burning June and July flee
From autumn's onward creeping;
The new year, trampling all that's gone,
Turn winter's corner, and pass on.

18.

And many a year has vanished so,
Nor brought the wanderers back again;
The cruel seasons come and go,
The ever-baffled hopes remain.
For them she keeps all things in order meet,
She tends their petted birds and flowers,

176

And in the favourite garden-seat
She reads and works at wonted hours.
Still May brought heart-beats—still May flowers
Were Hope's own jewels—but the hours
Regardless shone and brought no boon,—
And ere she ceased to hope, 't was June.
The summer now is moped away
In listless torpor—oft she lay
Long hours unmoving in one place,
Vexing the sunshine with her weary face.

19.

Oh, the long silence!—where such dear
Voices once sang her name,—
Desperate the precious sound to hear,
“Eva!” she cries, and “I am here!”
Is answered—ah! 't is but the same,
Same voice that summons and replies,
And into dreary silence dies.—
In winter by the hearth she sate,
And at her feet her dog was laid;
He whined in sleep, as desolate
As she with love's caress delayed,
Looked in her face to read his fate,
And seemed to ask why thus they stayed?
And she would say, “They'll come again.”
And she would say it o'er and o'er,
But fainter still, till, soothed in vain,
It seemed that he believed no more.

177

20.

Up the long oaken staircase soon
She paced as soft as phantom feet,
And through the grating shrank to meet
The cold face of th'unpitying moon.
From room to room she then would wander,
Choosing the dark, wherein to frame
A dream that in the corner yonder
Some one was hiding for a game;
Or that behind those curtain folds
The oriel's depth a lurker holds.
But the great mirror, in the black
Carved frame, that lights the place
With a white spectral shine, gives back
Only her seeking face.
And still, up stair, through corridor,
And in each niched retreat,
Where'er she goes, pace after her
Four faithful little feet.
Not long might she that solace hold;
Poor dog! he grew untimely old
With pining,—and his days were told.
As weary of the life he led,
She found him in a corner dead.

21.

So, as she rose from sleep one morn,
And, thinking how she lived forlorn,

178

Looked in her glass,—that glass where first
Had she, in childhood softly nursed,
Smoothed amber curls from elfin brow,—
She saw, with thrill of sad amaze,
That 't was a woman's face that now
Threw back from it her yearning gaze.
She wondered at the mystic shine
That in those eyes' clear diamonds played,
The flower-like moulding, slight and fine,
Of those straight features Time had made;
Loose curls that slept the white neck down,
In sunny twilights of gold-brown;
The meanings manifold that parted
Those small red lips where now no more
Childhood's frank smile flashed out gay-hearted,—
A beautiful sad curve they wore.
Vain burst of Beauty's bud to flower!—
Where ne'er the soul's shut bloom may blow,
Nor woman's cestus of sweet power
Round that young form's perfection grow.
How many thoughts divinely deep
Must die in their unconscious sleep!
Or wake but in the dark, to brood
On that rich useless life begun,
The mute, imprisoned maidenhood
Of Nature's garden-cloistered Nun!

22.

'T was now she sorest felt the weight
Of her inexplicable fate.

179

Now the dear forms that raised the veil
Of dusky sleep came dim and pale;
They looked her mutely in the face,
And fading shrank from her embrace.
All, all, was changed—her tearful eyes
Haunted them vainly, passionate cries
Were met by that drear dumbness—shame
Then choked the sobs none seemed to mind.
Awake, by day, it was the same,
Still haunted by a spell unkind—
Closed doors with one she loved behind,
A hand upon the lock, that still
Lingers, till, mastering her will,
She goes to look—and there is nought—
Or sometimes just a glimpse she caught
Of a brother's form that at the end
Of a lengthening, darkening gallery
Stood sad as a forgotten friend,
With eyes fixed on her—she drew nigh,
And it dissolved in spectral flight,
Or turned a corner out of sight.

23.

Voices she heard, confused, perplexed,
Sweet accents grown strange, hoarse and vexed.
And when she tremblingly would follow,
Then were they faint and far and hollow;
They seemed to sob “unkind, unkind!”—
And died away upon the wind.

180

But see—she changes too—a change
Unlooked for, a contentment strange.
She glides with light, swift footstep o'er
The galleries sadly paced before;
Sweet name on name her lips let fall
In a caressing, warbling call.
Into some chamber she will creep,
And smile as watching one asleep.
She kneels beside the old oak-chair,
And melts in long embraces there.
Into the west she 'll gaze with straining eye
As though she saw her sisters in the sky;
And ever as her foot is straying
With frequent sudden pause through alleys green,
See o'er her face what light is playing,
As tho' conversing with some friend unseen.

24.

Yes, wish had settled to belief,
And gladness budded out of grief.
The softest, tenderest madness stole
O'er that ethereal frame and soul.
The loved, the longed-for, with such constant prayer,
At length obeyed her summons and were there.
Yet mourn not that bewildered mind,
But rather call the illusion kind,
The bliss sane Reason never might enjoy,
Now granted without limit and without alloy.

181

25.

So lived she on without distress,
A hermit in a beauteous wilderness,
While Nature, last and only friend,
Watched the fair thing to her confided;
If 'twas her doom long years to spend
Solving a problem ne'er decided,
She counted not, nor guessed the years,
Nor bathed youth's parting steps with tears.
The changing cheek she never saw,
Who lived by an ethereal law
Of gentle dreams that in their stay
Fixed life into a long to-day.

26.

But if perchance that long sore strife
Blew off the blossom of her life,
A dream-life powerless to extend
Past woman's dawn and childhood's end,
And gently fading, she expired,
Of life and hope and visions tired—
Did not a soft cold spirit-kiss
Take from her whitening lips the breath,
And promises of boundless bliss
Sing her all-smiling into death?
So be it! yet the legend tells
(For all her life was witchery)
That through the ages there she dwells,
In an immortal constancy,

182

Still in that Hall of Silence bound,
And to that haunted garden-ground.
That still she wanders, still she sings,
As only birds and spirits can,
While melancholy beauty clings
To that pale form ne'er seen by man;
And still, or shade or living maid,
True to those parting words so long of yore,
Looks for the parents who return no more.

183

THE RIVER'S FATE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By Gyndes' sweeping stream the Persian host
Stood like a lion panting ere the spring,—
Who first hath tried it? whose the wanton boast
Life like a toy amidst its whirls to fling,
As conqueror or as victim? 'T is a steed
Milk-white, the noblest of Nyseia's breed.

And well awhile the proud one clove its tide,
His swan-like neck swelling above the surge!
But mountain-born, it arched with equal pride,
And he has vanished ere he reached the verge.
Foaming with triumph, the god-hated wave
Towers up, a sacred charger's eddying grave.

And Susa's Lord there stays, to make a vow
Of vengeance. Thank that vengeance, Babylon!
Half-way, the destined Conqueror lingers now,
And spares, to smite a stream, Belshazzar's throne.
“Henceforth thy dwindled wave, proud flood,” said he
“Crossed by a woman, shall not wet her knee.”

184

An army toiled to drain it—to this day
The shrunken river rues a despot's wrath;
So pass Titanic dynasties away,
So shall Euphrates when his word goes forth.
Ne'er more shall Gyndes rush in rapid joy,
Leaping and singing like a mountain-boy.

Now many a time when noon is bathed in brightness,
The Persian girl, beside that baby-stream,
Just lifts her robe, and laughs to see the whiteness
Of her small feet break through its amber gleam;
Nor dreams to thank, for that cool passage o'er,
Cyrus who made it for her long of yore.

185

KARA GEORGE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

“Father, what palsy cramps thy feet
When we should cross this boundary river?
The ford is here, the stream runs fleet,
Yet not to drown, but to deliver.
There Freedom waves to us her hands,
Here comes the shade of Turkish bands—
One step decides for ever.”

“Son, sharper than this frost's white tooth
A very knife my heart-strings tears;
In one same nook my happy youth
Stole through mid age to hoary hairs.
My flock bleats to me from afar—
I've folded them 'neath one white star,
Through one and fifty years.”

“Father, where Freedom's hearth-lights glow,
A foreign home as dear may be.”
“Son, to my mother-land I grow,
Like moss that clings to its own tree.
Thy wild hawk wings flit here and there;
Where'er's a rock and open air,
A home is there for thee.

186

“Of sixty Mays I 've missed not one
That round my walls from apple spray
Shook snow-flowers down—my son, my son,
I cannot from these walls away.
No picture will my brain supply
Of other homestead—here must I,
A Servian herdsman, stay.”

“A Servian herdsman stay—thy place
Next morn will hold a turbaned slave;
Recall that ghastly struggling face,
My mother's—try again to save
Her live corpse dragged from out thy door—
God grant thou hast a wife no more,
Set free by Bosphorus' wave!”

“Oh, stay we both, my son—not long
Thy youth my age's shield need be;
But if the tyrant be too strong,
Then to this river will I flee,
And in its frozen calms my life
Dream over—there with that young wife,
My herds, my hopes, and thee.”

“Father, and would you that we both
Should try the dreams no morn breaks through?
That can I not; I have an oath,
Servia shall own I kept it true,
When many a Turk is gone to tell
His howling brethren down in hell
What Kara George can do.

187

“The moments waste; pale Death's behind,
Urging their hoof-tramps through the night,
His voice is hollow on the wind.”
“Son, leave me to my chance—take flight!”
“Not so, a surer way I see:
Stand thou against that old oak-tree,
And bid thy son good-night.”

The old man stood against the tree,
As firm for all that might betide,
His eyes upon his son; but he
Turned with a rigid frown aside.
Sharp cracked a shot—the wildfowl spring,
And screaming shake a blood-stained wing
By the river's reedy side.

In that bare oak-tree sat an owl
Forlorn and old, and hooted slow,
Shivering in his last summer's hole,
Now filled, instead of moss, with snow.
The dying and the living ear
Received his dismal parting cheer
With thoughts that none can know.

Stiff in the frozen bloody sedge
The father lay, when day dawned red;
Along the far hills' orange-edge
The unrepenting murderer sped.
Burns all red-hot thy bosom, George?
Burn on, and thence the weapon forge
To strike th'oppressor dead!

188

ANNETTE MEYERS.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Over a pavement sunny smooth we tread,
White palaces around, blue air o'erhead.
'T is true, gay citizens, that built upon
Hell's naphtha-lakes, towers your bright Babylon.
Yet your silk-sandalled feet may boldly pass—
They will not stir the close-pressed, seething mass.
Wait, till self-forced the black hell froth shall cast
Its steam up to the day, to stand aghast.
Strange lessons often hath some outbreak taught,
When through the hideous cloud a glimpse we caught
Of Beauty only seen in its eclipse—
A Grace with maddened eyes and livid lips,
Cherub to Demon tortured—Love like Hate
Frowning—and Passion armed and fixed like Fate,
Laying unmoved a whole life desolate!

Oh, never till such forms, half-flame, half-night,
Into life's shadowy nooks fling meteor-light,
Know we what Woman is, what Woman can,
The counterpart-antagonist of Man!
True e'en in common life her lot may teem
With things that sound, if uttered, like a dream.

189

But dark and trackless, dreary, low, and long
The pathway of her suffering and her wrong,
Obscure distress, that by the world severe
Is brought to daylight only for a sneer.
And she, as Duty taught to view the task,
Herself adopts the miserable mask;
Can rival man in her deceptive zeal,
Laughing to scorn what she's forbid to feel.
Yet oft when, cased in that cold mail of pride,
She casts like cobwebs olden ties aside,
Her heart, for all the iron case above,
Swells with strong achings to forgive and love;
And when the sternly severing words she writes,
Still dreams of meeting tears and reconciled delights.
And, though the struggles of that twofold state
A strange and bitter semblance may create,
Yet is the bitterness more love than hate.

This mood no anger cures; insulting wrong
May drive her mad, but cannot harden long.
All that makes savage men, or makes them wise,
Can ne'er her weak fond mould unwomanize.
Of something loftier were this mood the sign,
The calmness of a charity divine,
'T would bear her, as the swelling waves uplift
The ship that trusts them, o'er their stormy rift.
Yea, on its wings forgiver and forgiven
Might both be wafted within sight of heaven.
But, oh, most useless of all useless things
Are those wild impulses, whose sealed-up springs

190

With wayward longings trouble woman's breast,
Powerless to act, unblessing and unblest,
Tossed to and fro in weak, uncertain state—
Loving, alas! because she cannot hate.

The thirsty tiger that, amid the waste,
Once stops by chance some lonely spring to taste,
Seeks not again the treasure of the wave,
But goes his way, forgetting what it gave.
The fount, that charm unable to recall,
Still bubbles on, but to the sand gives all.

Yet oft, when man inflicts and woman bears
The hardest wrong, the fault is fate's, not theirs—
As but obeying Nature's saddest laws,
Unconscious actors from an unknown cause.
For change will wither hearts once warm and fond,
And Time will wear, and Mischief snap the bond.
Error, blind god, makes sport of things too deep,
Too delicate, for his rude hands to sweep,
And blindfold stumbles into fatal deeds;
What is, is hidden, and what's seen misleads.
The soul speaks not, and outward acts speak wrong,
Silence seals all, and the world drives along.
So may a heart warm, tender, innocent,
Be wholly blighted—by an accident.
Another's hand may wring it to the core,
Till it bleeds tears, and then may wring it more;
May do it to the end, nor e'er repent,
Nor yet the while be guilty in intent.

191

For half the wounds we deal, the ill we do,
The error we believe, we never know,
And take for our most wise and prudent deeds
Our worst mistakes whence harshest wrong proceeds.

Oh! for a crystal frame through which to show
Feelings that deep in the heart's darkness grow,
Or for a sun to draw them forth to air,
All fresh to bloom instead of dying there.
But wait—there comes a full enfranchised life,
The soul's apocalypse: then shall the strife
Of will and powers, the mortal life that tore,
Die on Love's heart as waves upon the shore.
At once shall meeting looks and tears make clear
What words disguised and deeds distorted here,
And hearts that parted in the dark—betrayed
Thenceforth to roam apart through Life's long shade—
Meet in the light and wonder where they strayed.

So was it not with thee, thou wild Annette!
Not such the wrong received, not so 't was met!
Not erring but depraved, the heart that dealt
The outrage, nor by thee 't was weakly felt.
Thy thought had language, and thy word had act—
Thy passion stares at men in one grim fact!

A sad and quiet sympathy attends
The tale's beginning that so blackly ends.
How love, from its first mystic birth—a slow
Sweet growth,—o'erspread her life, all women know:

192

How he who sowed it made that sweetness turn
To bitter ashes, must too many learn:
But to what horror it could change, could stir
All hell within her, few have proved like her.

Of parentage half-foreign, born in France,
Her birth a crime, her bringing up a chance,
Seed by the wayside, growing strong and wild—
She lived a lonely, not unhappy child.
The girl to England came, in service found
A refuge for a while from perils round.
Her earnest soul her duties strove to meet,
And a kind mistress made those duties sweet.
True and devoted on its tasks it spent
Its silent fervour and was so content:
The slumbering fire no fiend as yet betrayed—
A trusted, loving, gentle servant-maid.
But a sweet seeming fiend stole in ere long,
In still ideal form and yet how strong.
That dreamlike being long it seemed to keep,
Nestling, a child, within her heart asleep,
Yet breathing all around an atmosphere
Of sweetest fancies, making all things dear.
She loved a soldier—handsome, lively, young—
Her heart's depths listened while his passion sung:
He led her swiftly, joyously, awhile,
Along luxuriant paths, all bloom and smile—
Charmed feet still dancing at the tempter's call,
Loving and trusting—onward to her fall!

193

How trace the sequel that from worse to worse,
With progress certain as a prophet's curse,
Goes stair by stair down flights of misery
That only they who suffer ne'er foresee?
The tenfold consciousness of sin that grew
When all her soul was lost for, perished too—
Those first days of desertion—wretched child!
When with astonished grief her soul ran wild;
The long, long blanks—the torturing meetings then—
A rush of frenzy—and long blanks again!
The heart, grown fierce with all that it had borne,
That longed to see him, to upbraid and scorn,
With its own flames to burn the torpid heart,
Shame with its guilt the shameless—and then part!
Yet proving, by the nerves that quivered so
Even with wrath, the source from which they grow
Still to be love's irradicable woe;
The cold and bitter words, in turn exchanged,
By her love outraged and his love estranged—
While still her eye hung madly on his form,
And 'neath the storm heaved yet a fiercer storm—
Such were the meetings now their passion gave,
Such all her lonely droopings had to crave!

Yet then the dreary moment when 't was over,
The longed for, prayed for meeting with her lover,
That dreaming hope had into ages spun;
How short, how vain, how nothing, when 'twas done!
When the dark night had come down on the day,
And all she loved, oceans behind her lay.

194

And the long sunny days when all alone
She walked for hours of anguish up and down,
Wringing clenched hands that ached with the soul's pain,
And in choked accents o'er and o'er again,
Crying the same wild cry where'er she trod,
“Have pity on me, oh, my God! my God!
Oh bring him back! oh let us meet again!”
No power had she to change that constant strain.
Then in the safe blind hours when others slept,
All the dark night how hopelessly she wept,
Bound by a stifling chain she could not break;
It was as if a spirit lay awake
Bewailing in the darkness of the tomb,
Her body dead, her soul, amid the gloom,
Feeling a fearful life—the presence of a doom.

Or if she slept, she knew that morning beams
Would bring grief back—and thence sprang grievous dreams.
All dismal pictures—midnight wanderings
In endless woods where fatal nightshade clings;
A solitary boat on a dark river,
That mid entangling boughs drifts on for ever;
Friends turned to foes; strange faces, frowning black
Upon her; then the ghastly leaping back
To wide void light, when the real grief again,
With the first day-streak, shot into her brain.

Let Reason wonder that a wretch so base
Should in that nobler heart still keep his place.

195

She reasoned not, but felt, by what strange law
Love e'en from poison nourishment can draw.
She saw him changed, she saw he was no more,
Who, pure or seeming so, woke love as pure.
Yet had those changes not the power to change
The passion rooted whence it could not range;
But grievous mischief in her soul it wrought—
The thing she saw, and that on which she thought,
The fiend she hates, the idol she adores,
Joined in one form that still her fancy lures.
And hence it came that love for aught so ill
Debased itself, and her it fettered still.
The soul that spends itself on viler things
Must catch a stain from that to which it clings.

This was not all—unmasked to his heart's core,
He showed what Pardon could blot out no more.
Dead to the good he had not yet effaced,
He strove to make her as himself debased.
His foulness outraged earth, made dark the sun—
Then rose th'avenger in the injured one.
All woman's heart, love, hatred, virtue, pride,—
Swelled up, boiled over, and the villain died!

Look on her now; thou need'st not fear to see
How meek and passive wretchedness can be.
The neat attire, the staid, submissive mien,
Remind us what so long Annette had been:
The faithful servant-maid, esteemed so well,—
Now what? a murderess in her prison-cell!

196

Yet that wan lifeless creature, can she be
The being of such tragic energy?
Beneath such torpor can such fervour dwell?
No,—for thou only seest an empty shell;
At once a gravestone did her being cover,
When her dead lover's face said, “All is over!”
One of those souls was hers that in their course
Hold a subdued and intermittent force,
That, living in the shadow of their power,
Show in a sudden frenzy for one hour,
As if compelled by Fate, the intense flame
That lay coiled-up within their inmost frame,
Then, still through Fate, not will, the passion o'er,
Return into the dark and burn no more.

'T is the still time when the day falls asleep;
She sits and seems a sullen calm to keep;
Till rises, softly looking on her woe,
The young moon in the sky, a spot of snow.
She sees and feeling wakes, the past returns,
But pale, as though from haunts of funeral-urns.
A cloud of tears comes quickly o'er her eyes,
And in that mist the moment's vision dies.
'T is finished! she can but the words recall
Traced at that crisis: “Love has done it all!”
Poor child! who fain wouldst wander back to what
Is lost, renounced, and ruined—not forgot:
A spectre stands between thy past and thee;
Thou canst no more the young dear lover see,

197

Only the dead heap that thy vengeance made,
Stiff earth that now thou canst not e'en upbraid—
The pistol whose sharp ring thy tale made known,
Hurled down upon the corpse as on a stone—
Thou in a dreadful triumph standing there alone!

But of such thoughts she scarce is conscious now:
Not twice such passion our life's laws allow.
Though for a while her mind reviewed the act,
'T was coldly, vaguely, as some foreign fact.
But from that death her spirit slowly wakes—
A living terror on her torpor breaks.
It grows, it grasps her; all she should before
Have thought on, fastens now on her heart's core.
Her own dread fate is nothing to that ill—
Could she the spirit with the body kill?
Could she who loved him bid that spirit be
Dragged to a horrible Eternity?
She heeds not now the wrongs that she has borne,
Still less the open shame, the public scorn;
The bloody scaffold, where her wrongs must end,
If ever thought of, 't is but as a friend.
His soul—his lost immortal soul—alone
Upbraids her, scarcely conscious of her own.

Forgive her, man! proclaim not to the sun
How stern is justice to the injured one.
Shall her young blood, in stare of thousands spilt,
Wash out the madness caused by other's guilt?

198

The life whose course scarce aught save evil saw,
Mangled by love, oh, kill it not by law!—
The prayer is heard—the forfeit-life restored,
The wretched remnant yet to be endured.
In apathy she hears the new decree
That cannot change that past Eternity.
What will become of her concerns her not,
She has outlived her world, annulled her lot.
To far-off climes the victim they remove;
Annette, her broken heart and murdered love,
Are in the swallowing gulf of Exile lost,—
Pale shades that have the severing ocean crost,
From lands for ages by such tales defiled,
To plant strange memories in the vacant wild,
Where she, there ceasing e'en to dream or crave,
Through aimless life must wander to her grave.

So be it! justly, for God's perfect ends,
On guilt the shadow Punishment attends.
I call not sin no sin, to others' sight
Paint not her blotted page a stainless white:
The hand in murder dipped I do not call
Heroine's or saint's, nor glorify her fall.
The harbour-bar of Purity once crost
Out into Passion's breakers, all was lost.
But oh, I pity thee and such as thee,
My sister—gently judged thy errors be;
And He who all thy love and madness knew,
Whose pity is forgiveness, pity too!

199

THE HUNTING OF AVERSA.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1.

O ghostly Convent of the woods, thy creviced, shapeless stones
Seem thro' the shuddering centuries to echo dying groans.
Dank mosses crust thy floor that ran one festal night with wine,
Where gape thy rafters' ribs, no monk dares make the cross's sign.

At fair Aversa all the day a royal hunt had been:
From summer-morn thro' sapphire-noon in chestnut forests green,
Thro' all the glades with plumes and gems did horse and horseman burn,
And rouse the deer like yellow stones that slumbered in the fern.

They break the waving shadows cast round by boughs at play,
Their tossing crests the sunlit tears shake off from every spray.

200

The morning breeze with laughter each bugle-call hath paid,
From its green heart laughs back the sound the thousand-leavëd shade.

Woe! woe! for like a long black cloud low hanging in the skies,
All dusky-edged with rain, I see the ghost-like morrow rise.
Prince Andrew on his tall black steed sweeps like a glad strong wind;
Woe! woe! for Death's pale horse unseen is following close behind.

The lords of Naples with him ride, and Naples' girlish queen:
But sixteen radiant years had yet Joanna's beauty seen.
As leaf by leaf glows out a rose she opened grace by grace;
Her smile's triumphant sweetness shot light from face to face.

How light her hand upon the rein! how light her seat on steed!
Calm as a bird on floating wing mid all that fiery speed.
Now rains she round her golden smiles, now graceful welcome bows,
While softly all her milk-white plumes bow forward o'er her brows.

“Know'st thou, my queen,” Prince Andrew asks, “on yonder rising ground,
That handsome knight in green and gold, with a ring of lances round?”

201

“'T is Louis of Tarento, my noble cousin he;
He comes to hunt with you, and bring a peerless hawk for me.”

The evening falls, the chase is o'er, and in yon Convent met
The joyous weary hunters are in sylvan revel set,
And at the board Joanna sits, in her Provençal charm,
With a crimson robe and lace set round her queenly, pearly arm.

Thou glancest round, Prince Andrew, at each one in his place;
But canst thou see, yet heed not, one pale and wicked face?
Can thine eyes from thy stranger guest so careless pass, while he
With the light of those strange, cruel eyes unmoved is watching thee?

And seest thou not one face whose glance to meet his glides
In brief and mystic converse? That face, it is thy bride's.
Others have seen, and will recall, that secret glistening smile,
Whose light and darkness gives strange shadowy hint of guile.

“My busy bride, why twinest thou that shining threefold cord?
Is 't for thy falcon dear?” “It is to strangle thee, my lord!”

202

She said and smiled. “Thou knowest thou hast a charm no force can wither;
A ring that makes the trenchant steel soft as a downy feather.”

“Good luck be to the silken cord!” said the young guest aside:
“That love-thread that in thy fair hand has chained the falcon's pride,
Can also choke the serpent, and from his poisonous den
Set free the Beauty in his coils—good luck to the falcon then!”

2.

Dark lies, this night, the Convent in its garden paradise
Embalmed in dusky thickets of leafage, bloom, and spice;
Be still! the royal chamber let no rude sound molest,
Die, music! laughter, hush! around your sovereign's sacred rest.

What means then that quick step that to the door draws near?
“My lord, my lord, I pray thee now unbolt thy door, and hear.
For news is come from Naples, that threatens mischief sore,
And I am sent to tell it thee—Prince Andrew, sleep no more!”

And up arose Prince Andrew, though dizzily he heard,
Sleep still half-closed his heavy eyes, and ran word into word.

203

Half-wrapt he round a rich night-robe, and thro' the door he past;
And lo! 't is shut against him, 't is shut and bolted fast.

The night that climbs from star to star in yon ether darkly pure,
But one hour more hath wasted since shut was that fatal door;
Yet in the Convent garden where cypress shadows wave,
The lone owl now is hooting o'er Andrew's dismal grave.

That midnight hour still hung a mourner in the sky,
When thro' the lamp-lit corridor did a shrieking woman fly:
To the queen's chamber by a secret door she came,—
'T was Andrew's nurse, Isolda, the old Hungarian dame.

“What mean those yelling shrieks that from the garden come?
Joanna! O Joanna! art sleeping? art thou dumb?
What cries of rage are in my ears? what hideous, scoffing glee?
Where is my son, my Andrew? O lady, where is he?”

In her rich, dusky chamber the queen sat all alone,
Her head bowed o'er the pillows, like a watcher turned to stone.
Her face was hidden in her hands, as at her evening prayer,
And down her silken night-robe lay the glory of her hair.

She spoke in slow, dull tones that ne'er were heard from her before,
Yet thro' her life that altered voice henceforth Joanna bore;

204

“What know I of thy son? why dost thou come to me?
The night is dark: if death's abroad, do thou go forth to see.”

Then seized the nurse a flambeau, and to the window flew,
And saw a strange unmoving thing that lay amid the dew.
“O God! is that my master, choked with that knotted cord?
O murder! hellish murder! help, help! they've killed my lord!”

“Yes, he is dead; old woman, cease those wrathful looks and cries,
And bow to heaven's just hand that our false marriage knot unties.
You wail o'er your dead boy, called not my living death for tears,
That else had lasted thro' God knows how many bitter years?

They murdered me in childhood with a gilded, poisoned dart,
They forced in his the baby-hand that could not hold a heart.
I grew, a crowned Enchantress—my spells of love and joy,
The only one they bound not, was that dull, wrangling boy.”

O Siren city! did thy night of azure catch the breath
Of yon scarlet phantom nigh and blaze into a sovereign's death?

205

Dare men's low whispers ask before the chasm of ghastly doubt
Who from the red hot world below let the fiends of murder out?

In the King's portrait-gallery none with Joanna's vies;
Regally robed, with regal smiles in those long soft brown eyes.
Yet look into the beauteous face, a shade is surely there,
We know not if of grief or guilt, but a stain it seems to bear.

If then those rose-tipped fingers were deeper dyed that day,
The blot so dropped on thy clear youth no charm shall wash away—
Not thy new husband, tho' awhile love seemed thy path to light:
Ill live the doers of secret crime chained to each other's sight.

Fair queen, his heart no longer, nor any heart thine own,
Shunned like the tigress in her den, pine on thy fairy throne,
Till at the altar kneeling the traitor's silken cord
Send by the same dark door thy soul out to thy strangled lord.

206

FRIEDRICH AND AMALIE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

“We meet?—Is 't thou?”

“Is 't thou I see?”
“Is that the voice of Amalie?”
“Ah, look not round thee for another!
But know me by the sobs I smother.
What didst thou look for? Still that gaze,
That shrinks yet tries to meet me!—true,
'T is twenty years, love, since those days,
And all those years I wept for you—
Think what a life of tears must do!
Oh, let me hide my face again!”

“My God! that dungeon was less pain!”
“Sweet love, dear life, but that's too warm—
I know it cannot suit this form—
Frederic, kind friend, can you forgive
My cruel sport in loving you?
The glorious years you had to live
To dust my wicked fancy threw.

207

With idle smiles I wound the chains
That crushed those noble limbs so long,
That now too little life remains
For e'en your star to right the wrong.
Oh! could it rise for me once more,
Th'aurora of my womanhood,
With twice the lustre that it wore,
And innocence, like a rose in bud,
And smiles than sweetest thoughts more sweet—
That I might lay all at your feet,
To cry forgive!”

“Oh hush, princess!
We had our time—that o'er, no less,
Had all hope's fruitage been success,
We now were what we are—at least
We can talk over that first feast.
With youth at flow, with hearts on fire
Betwixt ambition and desire;
I vain as youthful knight can be,
Who counts each fancied victory;
Your soul silk-pillowed, vaguely sleeping,
Yet still a languid flutter keeping;
Such, in their blaze of youth, those two
Who met with hearts all wonder-leaping,
Wild creatures, full of love!—can you
Recall it?”

“Oh!—that scarf of yours
Whose gold fringe caught in the folding-doors.
A light laugh passed—I hear it now,
I see your grave and gracious brow;

208

You stood—your silence had a charm—
The torn scarf drooping from your arm.
Near you I passed, and your mute glance
Followed—my soul grew bold at once.
‘Give me the scarf!’ You gave, and bowed,
With but one moment's meeting eyes;
That night despairing midst the crowd
My heart had said, in secret sighs,
‘I am a princess! Love's warm breath
May never melt the stone to life—
No heart will bleed itself to death,
Or swoon with bliss, to call me wife.’
All changed at once!”

“From earth to sky!
How beautiful my princess! I
Triumphant o'er humanity!
I boy-like rash who climbed to rend
One spray from that high-flowering tree,
And dreamt not how that tree would bend
And yield up all its sweets to me.—
That niche where—is not this the same?—
We sat when all that ruin came,—
So oft had sat—no, not secure,
'Twixt shame and dread, yet all the more
Blest till life's very springs ran o'er.
You turned against that curtain's fold
Your girlish cheek's deep flush before
Love looks that nothing could make cold—
Not e'en the death behind the door,

209

Should it too suddenly unclose—
Since there each footstep was a foe's.
E'en if a child came dancing in,
You shivered like condemnëd sin,
And sternly I choked down, within
The teeth fast-clenched, my swelling heart,
That nought might wring my lips apart.
Why weep? I grieve not—I was proud;
For e'en the rack had but avowed
That dream a consecrated truth.—
Not he, the man who killed my youth,
And flung its corpse to rot deep down,
Could that imperial past uncrown;
Nor bar out shapes whose strange delight
Made that foul coop, that frozen hutch,
Breathe balmy like a warm June night—
A dream of whisper, look and touch.—
But my brain reeled beneath the weight
Of all that past of love and hate;
A fire the soul could not contain
Ran scorching out thro' pulse and vein,
Till the worst torture heart could bear
Was in that name of Amalie;
And grinning masks had looks more fair
Than hers I shook and groaned to see.”

“And she? No! Heaven, too just to spare
Your sorrow's cause, gave her her share.
I was not penned in jail or cell,
I thus had lived too calm, too well.

210

So in my place, amidst the great,
I lived—no, I decayed—in state.
All knew the secret none would name,
For they were tender of my shame.
At fêtes my maidens did their best,
And when the living ghost was drest,
Would whisper, as in checked delight,
‘How well the Princess looks to-night!’
And then those circles—the set speech
To each and the reply from each,
‘Your Highness honours me!’—Oh, you!
You talked not thus—what art could teach
That language? how had you that true
Fresh being? whence, if it should chance
In those grave spheres that glance wooed glance
Freely, or real smiles dared break loose,
And tones re-found their natural use,
And jests caught laughter, all at once
Knew you were there,—but never since
Hath it been so—”

“Was this your life?
Alas! why were you not a wife?”

“A wife! a wife! who would dare wed
The heartless ruin Love hath made?
Who drag the phantom from the bed
Where her dead Passion hath been laid?
Who see the pale wretch kneel, and dare
Break in upon the lifelong prayer,

211

Fixed into one same groan each night,
That God would, while her body slept,
Transport it from this world's loathed light,
To where her soul its vigil kept—
Your dungeon! There! O there! how sweet!
A fond slave, fettered at your feet—
Then had I been a wife indeed!
At first, with some dim hope that grew
From dreams what woman's love can do,
I tried to keep my bloom for you.
But the vague Time that held my trust
Went ever crumbling charms to dust.
And so I nerved myself to read
Time's sure defacement in my glass,
To see your darling from it pass,
And a bleached likeness shade by shade
Come in the place of that fair maid.—
'T was little all! I look on you,
And hear you grieve that I was true.”
“Nay, as we grieve but o'er some story
Of passion's tender tragic glory,
By bitter fate martyred and sainted—
And say 't is all too sadly painted.
Well, well, the story's ended—you
May sleep the rest of life away;
And I will try what I can do
With all this crippled strength one day.”

“Ah, hush—my brother”—

212

“Is that he?
Is that the King? then are not we
The only victims, as it seems?
Why! see the face by which my dreams
Were poisoned, when I called on sleep
To set me for a few hours free—
There on my prison floor stood he,
Half god, half devil! sneering there,
With those hard eyes that bade despair,
And that cold delicate cynic tone,
Counting the years I had to groan,
There, in my dungeon, to his throne.
And I was chained! with all my will
The hideous thing I could not kill.
Now I could hail him as we stand,
Call him old friend and shake his hand.
Pale, grey, and almost meek he looks,
Like a sage withered o'er his books.
My locks are whiter though than Fear
And Hate have made his.—I am here,
The Baron Trenck, sire, at your feet
All he has left of life to lay,
And with his service, as is meet,
Your mercy, lately shown, repay.”

“Father! 't was just the dream should fly;
I lived for it and now can die.”

319

BALLADS.

THE GREAT DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

It is the Lady of Savoy!
By alp and glacier hasteth she—
She hastes to meet him in her joy—
All hail, great Duke of Burgundy!

To battle for her right he goes;
She has no fears for what may be,
For where's the king can strike such blows
As the great Duke of Burgundy?

With many a banner, many a lance,
In golden glory marches he.
No prouder is the King of France,
Than the great Duke of Burgundy.

320

Yet comes to her a woful tale,
As down from Jura gazes she;
And now she waits with cheeks all pale,
For the great Duke of Burgundy.

With teeth of steel, the mountaineers
Have torn to shreds his chivalry;
And all day long she waits in tears,
For the great Duke of Burgundy.

All the long day for him she waits,
And many a woful tale hears she,
Till hark! at nightfall to her gates,
Rides the great Duke of Burgundy.

So sadly meet the Prince and Lady,
So sadly part, for she must fly,
And he for his last fight make ready,
The last, great Duke of Burgundy!

She needs must fly, she must not waver,
For throne and children's sake must fly,
He tried to save, he cannot save her,—
Adieu, great Duke of Burgundy!

By Nancy walls, in winter-tide,—
Our starving town was glad to see—
Deep in despair, and lost through pride,
Fell the great Duke of Burgundy.

321

And all the noblest of his knights—
None nobler shall you live to see—
Died in that woefulest of fights
For the great Duke of Burgundy.

Lo, torn by fang of wolf and dog,
Trod in the mire,—can this be he?
This frozen corpse, this lifeless log,—
This the great Duke of Burgundy?

Now in a dimly lighted hall—
Come, friend and foe, his face to see!
Asleep beneath a princely pall,
Lies the great Duke of Burgundy!

Comes our young lord, while thus he sleeps,
Bare-headed, drops upon his knee,
Takes by the hand his foe, and weeps
For the great Duke of Burgundy.

322

THE PIRATE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Oh, once I was a queen's husband, she was the fairest queen
That ever looked into a glass, or rode upon the green.
Now, up and down, to spoil and slay, I sail upon the sea,
For I have lost, I have lost my queen, that loved and married me.

Oft, oft, when the wind blows loud, and the waves are roaring high,
I can hear her talk and laugh with her lords and ladies by;
For gay and good I found her, though I left her bold in sin,
And black was the white name she once had gloried in.

Yet never was so fair a queen, nor ever more will be.
So, up and down, to spoil and slay, I sail upon the sea,
For I have lost, I have lost my queen, that loved and married me.

323

WHO COMES SO SOFTLY?
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Who comes so softly o'er the sea,
Veiled in pearly light,
Mournfully, mysteriously,
Through the moonlit night?

Now a pillar of sea foam,
Now a skiff in sail,
With changing form, I see it come—
Now a maiden pale.

Yes, a face, a sad fair face,
Seen 'twixt moon and shore,
Floating on with even pace,
Wistful looks before.

Crowned with flowers of misty white,
Robed in shadowy pride,
Now she shines in the gold light,—
Like a phantom bride!

324

Long and long ago, they say,
Once that radiant thing,
From her own land far away,
Came to wed a king.

Ah, the hopes that waited there,
Such a bride to greet!
Never, never did that pair
At the altar meet.

She will not land, she cannot land—
Yet her shipwrecked ghost
Still haunts the fair forbidden strand
Where her ship was lost.

325

THE OLD CHURCHYARD.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

She sleeps in the old churchyard, down in yonder dell,
All along the brink of Greta's murmuring bed;
Name nor history can the idle torrent tell,
But it talks on idly ever, to the long forgotten dead.

The sound of bells long since, that ruin has forgot,
Nor ever more shall echo to the chanted psalm.
Thickly now the dockweed overspreads the spot,
And it seems accurst to me, so dreadful is its calm.

Name and date on every grey old tombstone are effaced—
Date and name that now no more in any heart are kept.
The sun shines brightly, but it cannot cheer the waste,
Where those deserted ones so deep and long have slept.

In silence she has slept there, for these thirty years,
Whilst you were living happy in the light of day,
Nor ever gave a thought, I ween, to all the tears
Which wasted so much love to lifeless, “loveless clay.”

326

For that which once you said, now you remember not,
There was no one by to witness what your eyes professed,
Only she remembered all that you forgot,
Till her heart had broken, and all memory was at rest.

Long since, you brought your bride in triumph to her door,
Long since, she bade you for evermore farewell;
And she has been asleep these thirty years and more,
In the old churchyard yonder, down in the lonely dell.

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

FRA DOLCINO.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INTRODUCTION.

I. ITALY.

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