The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth LongfellowPart 17 out of 32
Not as a knight, who on the listed field Of tourney touched his adversary's shield In token of defiance, but in sign Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, In English song; nor will I keep concealed, And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, My admiration for thy verse divine. Not of the howling dervishes of song, Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, To thee our love and our allegiance, For thy allegiance to the poet's art. THE BROKEN OAR Once upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. Then by the billows at his feet was tossed A broken oar; and carved thereon he read, "Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee"; And like a man, who findeth what was lost, He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, And flung his useless pen into the sea. THE CROSS OF SNOW In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face--the face of one long dead-- Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. ************** BIRDS OF PASSAGE FLIGHT THE FOURTH CHARLES SUMNER Garlands upon his grave, And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse. His was the troubled life, The conflict and the pain, The grief, the bitterness of strife, The honor without stain. Like Winkelried, he took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed. Then from the fatal field Upon a nation's heart Borne like a warrior on his shield!-- So should the brave depart. Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete. But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded in the stream. Alike are life and death, When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives. Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main, It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams, I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes. From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own. CADENABBIA LAKE OF COMO No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below. The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere? Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake. Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been. MONTE CASSINO TERRA DI LAVORO Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along;-- The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song. The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne; Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own? There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith, When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed Spurred on to Benevento and to death. There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made. And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky. Well I remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate; Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, Below, the darkening town grew desolate. Well I remember the low arch and dark, The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, the valley like a park Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between Darkened; the river in the meadowlands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. The silence of the place was like a sleep, So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead. For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer; The pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts, that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors? Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best! This the urbane librarian said, and smiled Incredulous, as at some idle jest. Upon such themes as these, with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night, Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. And then translated, in my convent cell, Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep; already it was day. From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,-- The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright sun,--and stood as one amazed. Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns; Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half-awakened towns. The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life, As on a field of battle held me fast, Where this world and the next world were at strife. For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. AMALFI Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. 'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil? Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he. Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves! This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these, From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep! Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea. THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again. St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire. Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. "O brother birds," St. Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. "Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me. "O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. "He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!" With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. BELISARIUS I am poor and old and blind; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust From the wheels of the august Justinian the Great. It was for him I chased The Persians o'er wild and waste, As General of the East; Night after night I lay In their camps of yesterday; Their forage was my feast. For him, with sails of red, And torches at mast-head, Piloting the great fleet, I swept the Afric coasts And scattered the Vandal hosts, Like dust in a windy street. For him I won again The Ausonian realm and reign, Rome and Parthenope; And all the land was mine From the summits of Apennine To the shores of either sea. For him, in my feeble age, I dared the battle's rage, To save Byzantium's state, When the tents of Zabergan, Like snow-drifts overran The road to the Golden Gate. And for this, for this, behold! Infirm and blind and old, With gray, uncovered head, Beneath the very arch Of my triumphal march, I stand and beg my bread! Methinks I still can hear, Sounding distinct and near, The Vandal monarch's cry, As, captive and disgraced, With majestic step he paced,-- "All, all is Vanity!" Ah! vainest of all things Is the gratitude of kings; The plaudits of the crowd Are but the clatter of feet At midnight in the street, Hollow and restless and loud. But the bitterest disgrace Is to see forever the face Of the Monk of Ephesus! The unconquerable will This, too, can bear;--I still Am Belisarius! SONGO RIVER Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake. Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow. Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude. Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about. In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene. Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies. Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown. But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise. Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:-- "Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste! "Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul" ************ KERAMOS Turn, turn, my wheel? Turn round and round Without a pause, without a sound: So spins the flying world away! This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, Follows the motion of my hand; Far some must follow, and some command, Though all are made of clay! Thus sang the Potter at his task Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, While o'er his features, like a mask, The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, And clothed him, till he seemed to be A figure woven in tapestry, So sumptuously was he arrayed In that magnificent attire Of sable tissue flaked with fire. Like a magician he appeared, A conjurer without book or beard; And while he plied his magic art-- For it was magical to me-- I stood in silence and apart, And wondered more and more to see That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay Rise up to meet the master's hand, And now contract and now expand, And even his slightest touch obey; While ever in a thoughtful mood He sang his ditty, and at times Whistled a tune between the rhymes, As a melodious interlude. Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change To something new, to something strange; Nothing that is can pause or stay; The moon will wax, the moon will wane, The mist and cloud will turn to rain, The rain to mist and cloud again, To-morrow be to-day. Thus still the Potter sang, and still, By some unconscious act of will, The melody and even the words Were intermingled with my thought As bits of colored thread are caught And woven into nests of birds. And thus to regions far remote, Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, This wizard in the motley coat Transported me on wings of song, And by the northern shores of France Bore me with restless speed along. What land is this that seems to be A mingling of the land and sea? This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes? This water-net, that tessellates The landscape? this unending maze Of gardens, through whose latticed gates The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze; Where in long summer afternoons The sunshine, softened by the haze, Comes streaming down as through a screen; Where over fields and pastures green The painted ships float high in air, And over all and everywhere The sails of windmills sink and soar Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore? What land is this? Yon pretty town Is Delft, with all its wares displayed; The pride, the market-place, the crown And centre of the Potter's trade. See! every house and room is bright With glimmers of reflected light From plates that on the dresser shine; Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, And ships upon a rolling sea, And tankards pewter topped, and queer With comic mask and musketeer! Each hospitable chimney smiles A welcome from its painted tiles; The parlor walls, the chamber floors, The stairways and the corridors, The borders of the garden walks, Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, That never droop in winds or showers, And never wither on their stalks. Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief; What now is bud wilt soon be leaf, What now is leaf will soon decay; The wind blows east, the wind blows west; The blue eyes in the robin's nest Will soon have wings and beak and breast, And flutter and fly away. Now southward through the air I glide, The song my only pursuivant, And see across the landscape wide The blue Charente, upon whose tide The belfries and the spires of Saintes Ripple and rock from side to side, As, when an earthquake rends its walls, A crumbling city reels and falls. Who is it in the suburbs here, This Potter, working with such cheer, In this mean house, this mean attire, His manly features bronzed with fire, Whose figulines and rustic wares Scarce find him bread from day to day? This madman, as the people say, Who breaks his tables and his chairs To feed his furnace fires, nor cares Who goes unfed if they are fed, Nor who may live if they are dead? This alchemist with hollow cheeks And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, By mingled earths and ores combined With potency of fire, to find Some new enamel, hard and bright, His dream, his passion, his delight? O Palissy! within thy breast Burned the hot fever of unrest; Thine was the prophets vision, thine The exultation, the divine Insanity of noble minds, That never falters nor abates, But labors and endures and waits, Till all that it foresees it finds, Or what it cannot find creates! Turn, turn, my wheel! This earthen jar A touch can make, a touch can mar; And shall it to the Potter say, What makest thou. Thou hast no hand? As men who think to understand A world by their Creator planned, Who wiser is than they. Still guided by the dreamy song, As in a trance I float along Above the Pyrenean chain, Above the fields and farms of Spain, Above the bright Majorcan isle, That lends its softened name to art,-- A spot, a dot upon the chart, Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile, Are ruby-lustred with the light Of blazing furnaces by night, And crowned by day with wreaths of smoke. Then eastward, wafted in my flight On my enchanter's magic cloak, I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea Into the land of Italy, And o'er the windy Apennines, Mantled and musical with pines. The palaces, the princely halls, The doors of houses and the walls Of churches and of belfry towers, Cloister and castle, street and mart, Are garlanded and gay with flowers That blossom in the fields of art. Here Gubbio's workshops gleam and glow With brilliant, iridescent dyes, The dazzling whiteness of the snow, The cobalt blue of summer skies; And vase and scutcheon, cup and plate, In perfect finish emulate Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. Forth from Urbino's gate there came A youth with the angelic name Of Raphael, in form and face Himself angelic, and divine In arts of color and design. From him Francesco Xanto caught Something of his transcendent grace, And into fictile fabrics wrought Suggestions of the master's thought. Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines With madre-perl and golden lines Of arabesques, and interweaves His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves About some landscape, shaded brown, With olive tints on rock and town. Behold this cup within whose bowl, Upon a ground of deepest blue With yellow-lustred stars o'erlaid, Colors of every tint and hue Mingle in one harmonious whole! With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, Her yellow hair in net and braid, Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze With golden lustre o'er the glaze, A woman's portrait; on the scroll, Cana, the Beautiful! A name Forgotten save for such brief fame As this memorial can bestow,-- A gift some lover long ago Gave with his heart to this fair dame. A nobler title to renown Is thine, O pleasant Tuscan town, Seated beside the Arno's stream; For Lucca della Robbia there Created forms so wondrous fair, They made thy sovereignty supreme. These choristers with lips of stone, Whose music is not heard, but seen, Still chant, as from their organ-screen, Their Maker's praise; nor these alone, But the more fragile forms of clay, Hardly less beautiful than they, These saints and angels that adorn The walls of hospitals, and tell The story of good deeds so well That poverty seems less forlorn, And life more like a holiday. Here in this old neglected church, That long eludes the traveller's search, Lies the dead bishop on his tomb; Earth upon earth he slumbering lies, Life-like and death-like in the gloom; Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloom And foliage deck his resting place; A shadow in the sightless eyes, A pallor on the patient face, Made perfect by the furnace heat; All earthly passions and desires Burnt out by purgatorial fires; Seeming to say, "Our years are fleet, And to the weary death is sweet." But the most wonderful of all The ornaments on tomb or wall That grace the fair Ausonian shores Are those the faithful earth restores, Near some Apulian town concealed, In vineyard or in harvest field,-- Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, Memorials of forgotten griefs, Or records of heroic deeds Of demigods and mighty chiefs: Figures that almost move and speak, And, buried amid mould and weeds, Still in their attitudes attest The presence of the graceful Greek,-- Achilles in his armor dressed, Alcides with the Cretan bull, And Aphrodite with her boy, Or lovely Helena of Troy, Still living and still beautiful. Turn, turn, my wheel! 'T is nature's plan The child should grow into the man, The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray; In youth the heart exults and sings, The pulses leap, the feet have wings; In age the cricket chirps, and brings The harvest home of day. And now the winds that southward blow, And cool the hot Sicilian isle, Bear me away. I see below The long line of the Libyan Nile, Flooding and feeding the parched land With annual ebb and overflow, A fallen palm whose branches lie Beneath the Abyssinian sky, Whose roots are in Egyptian sands, On either bank huge water-wheels, Belted with jars and dripping weeds, Send forth their melancholy moans, As if, in their gray mantles hid, Dead anchorites of the Thebaid Knelt on the shore and told their beads, Beating their breasts with loud appeals And penitential tears and groans. This city, walled and thickly set With glittering mosque and minaret, Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars The dreaming traveller first inhales The perfume of Arabian gales, And sees the fabulous earthen jars, Huge as were those wherein the maid Morgiana found the Forty Thieves Concealed in midnight ambuscade; And seeing, more than half believes The fascinating tales that run Through all the Thousand Nights and One, Told by the fair Scheherezade. More strange and wonderful than these Are the Egyptian deities, Ammonn, and Emeth, and the grand Osiris, holding in his hand The lotus; Isis, crowned and veiled; The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx; Bracelets with blue enamelled links; The Scarabee in emerald mailed, Or spreading wide his funeral wings; Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept O'er Cleopatra while she slept,-- All plundered from the tombs of kings. Turn, turn, my wheel! The human race, Of every tongue, of every place, Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, All that inhabit this great earth, Whatever be their rank or worth, Are kindred and allied by birth, And made of the same clay. O'er desert sands, o'er gulf and bay, O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay, Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, And bird-like poise on balanced wing Above the town of King-te-tching, A burning town, or seeming so,-- Three thousand furnaces that glow Incessantly, and fill the air With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre And painted by the lurid glare, Of jets and flashes of red fire. As leaves that in the autumn fall, Spotted and veined with various hues, Are swept along the avenues, And lie in heaps by hedge and wall, So from this grove of chimneys whirled To all the markets of the world, These porcelain leaves are wafted on,-- Light yellow leaves with spots and stains Of violet and of crimson dye, Or tender azure of a sky Just washed by gentle April rains, And beautiful with celadon. Nor less the coarser household wares,-- The willow pattern, that we knew In childhood, with its bridge of blue Leading to unknown thoroughfares; The solitary man who stares At the white river flowing through Its arches, the fantastic trees And wild perspective of the view; And intermingled among these The tiles that in our nurseries Filled us with wonder and delight, Or haunted us in dreams at night. And yonder by Nankin, behold! The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, Uplifting to the astonished skies Its ninefold painted balconies, With balustrades of twining leaves, And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves Hang porcelain bells that all the time Ring with a soft, melodious chime; While the whole fabric is ablaze With varied tints, all fused in one Great mass of color, like a maze Of flowers illumined by the sun. Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begun At daybreak must at dark be done, To-morrow will be another day; To-morrow the hot furnace flame Will search the heart and try the frame, And stamp with honor or with shame These vessels made of clay. Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas, The islands of the Japanese Beneath me lie; o'er lake and plain The stork, the heron, and the crane Through the clear realms of azure drift, And on the hillside I can see The villages of Imari, Whose thronged and flaming workshops lift Their twisted columns of smoke on high, Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, With sunshine streaming through each rift, And broken arches of blue sky. All the bright flowers that fill the land, Ripple of waves on rock or sand, The snow on Fusiyama's cone, The midnight heaven so thickly sown With constellations of bright stars, The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make A whisper by each stream and lake, The saffron dawn, the sunset red, Are painted on these lovely jars; Again the skylark sings, again The stork, the heron, and the crane Float through the azure overhead, The counterfeit and counterpart Of Nature reproduced in Art. Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature. Never man, As artist or as artisan, Pursuing his own fantasies, Can touch the human heart, or please, Or satisfy our nobler needs, As he who sets his willing feet In Nature's footprints, light and fleet, And follows fearless where she leads. Thus mused I on that morn in May, Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, Whose eyes behold not what is near, But only what is far away, When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, The church-bell from the neighboring town Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel, His apron on the grass threw down, Whistled his quiet little tune, Not overloud nor overlong, And ended thus his simple song: Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon The noon will be the afternoon, Too soon to-day be yesterday; Behind us in our path we cast The broken potsherds of the past, And all are ground to dust a last, And trodden into clay! ************* BIRDS OF PASSAGE FLIGHT THE FIFTH THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD Warm and still is the summer night, As here by the river's brink I wander; White overhead are the stars, and white The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. Silent are all the sounds of day; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass; And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you. Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting, Some one hath lingered to meditate, And send him unseen this friendly greeting; That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. A DUTCH PICTURE Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers. In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare. In his tulip-garden there by the town, Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream. A smile in his gray mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, And the listed tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast, With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maese. But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands. They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in color and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light. And they talk of ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame. Restless at times with heavy strides He paces his parlor to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides, And tugs at her anchor-tow. Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!" So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers. CASTLES IN SPAIN How much of my young heart, O Spain, Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my brain, And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne The Cid Campeador! And shapes more shadowy than these, In the dim twilight half revealed; Phoenician galleys on the seas, The Roman camps like hives of bees, The Goth uplifting from his knees Pelayo on his shield. It was these memories perchance, From annals of remotest eld, That lent the colors of romance To every trivial circumstance, And changed the form and countenance Of all that I beheld. Old towns, whose history lies hid In monkish chronicle or rhyme, Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, Zamora and Valladolid, Toledo, built and walled amid The wars of Wamba's time; The long, straight line of the high-way, The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray, When from the belfry at midday The Angelus they hear; White crosses in the mountain pass, Mules gay with tassels, the loud din Of muleteers, the tethered ass That crops the dusty wayside grass, And cavaliers with spurs of brass Alighting at the inn; White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, White cities slumbering by the sea, White sunshine flooding square and street, Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet The river-beds are dry with heat,-- All was a dream to me. Yet something sombre and severe O'er the enchanted landscape reigned; A terror in the atmosphere As if King Philip listened near, Or Torquemada, the austere, His ghostly sway maintained. The softer Andalusian skies Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; There Cadiz by the seaside lies, And Seville's orange-orchards rise, Making the land a paradise Of beauty and of bloom. There Cordova is hidden among The palm, the olive, and the vine; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Ahmanzor hung As lamps the bells that once had rung At Compostella's shrine. But over all the rest supreme, The star of stars, the cynosure, The artist's and the poet's theme, The young man's vision, the old man's dream,-- Granada by its winding stream, The city of the Moor! And there the Alhambra still recalls Aladdin's palace of delight; Allah il Allah! through its halls Whispers the fountain as it falls, The Darro darts beneath its walls, The hills with snow are white. Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond-trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chains the will; The traveller lingers on the hill, His parted lips are breathing still The last sigh of the Moor. How like a ruin overgrown With flower's that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known, Castles in Spain, not built of stone But of white summer clouds, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme! VITTORIA COLONNA. VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. Once more, once more, Inarime, I see thy purple hills!--once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna,--it is she Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom, The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The odor of the orange blooms, The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms; The respiration of the sea, The soft caresses of the air, All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair; Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist, Inarime! Inarime! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love. THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs And the menace of their wrath. "Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenue upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags re-echoed the cry Of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and riverside The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream, Save the rushing a of the stream And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds, In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves, Savage, unmerciful! Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand; But of that gallant band Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them like the breath And smoke of a furnace fire: By the river's bank, and between The rocks of the ravine, They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more, Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years. TO THE RIVER YVETTE O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, See and salute thee on thy way, And, with a blessing and a prayer, Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. The valley of Chevreuse in vain Would hold thee in its fond embrace; Thou glidest from its arms again And hurriest on with swifter pace. Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet Pursuing still thine onward flight, Thou goest as one in haste to meet Her sole desire, her head's delight. O lovely river of Yvette! O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings. THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE "Combien faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur?" A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent. On St. Baron's tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing Stood Duke Alva and his train. Like a print in books of fables, Or a model made for show, With its pointed roofs and gables, Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, Lay the city far below. Through its squares and streets and alleys Poured the populace of Ghent; As a routed army rallies, Or as rivers run through valleys, Hurrying to their homes they went "Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!" Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; "Haunt of traitors and deceivers, Stronghold of insurgent weavers, Let it to the ground be razed!" On the Emperor's cap the feather Nods, as laughing he replies: "How many skins of Spanish leather, Think you, would, if stitched together Make a glove of such a size?" A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET OCTOBER, 1746 MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A fleet with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly: "Let us pray! "O Lord! we would not advise; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be." This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed The answering tempest came; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!" The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these! Like a potter's vessel broke The great ships of the line; They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea! THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chestnut steed with four white feet, Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, Son of the road and bandit chief, Seeking refuge and relief, Up the mountain pathway flew. Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, Never yet could any steed Reach the dust-cloud in his course. More than maiden, more than wife, More than gold and next to life Roushan the Robber loved his horse. In the land that lies beyond Erzeroum and Trebizond, Garden-girt his fortress stood; Plundered khan, or caravan Journeying north from Koordistan, Gave him wealth and wine and food. Seven hundred and fourscore Men at arms his livery wore, Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way. Suddenly the pathway ends, Sheer the precipice descends, Loud the torrent roars unseen; Thirty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm; on air must ride He who crosses this ravine. Following close in his pursuit, At the precipice's foot, Reyhan the Arab of Orfah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, "La Illah illa Allah!" Gently Roushan Beg caressed Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast; Kissed him upon both his eyes; Sang to him in his wild way, As upon the topmost spray Sings a bird before it flies. "O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slender as a reed, Carry me this peril through! Satin housings shall be thine, Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kurroglou! "Soft thy skin as silken skein, Soft as woman's hair thy mane, Tender are thine eyes and true; All thy hoofs like ivory shine, Polished bright; O, life of mine, Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!" Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew together his four white feet, Paused a moment on the verge, Measured with his eye the space, And into the air's embrace Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. As the ocean surge o'er sand Bears a swimmer safe to land, Kyrat safe his rider bore; Rattling down the deep abyss Fragments of the precipice Rolled like pebbles on a shore. Roushan's tasselled cap of red Trembled not upon his head, Careless sat he and upright; Neither hand nor bridle shook, Nor his head he turned to look, As he galloped out of sight. Flash of harness in the air, Seen a moment like the glare Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast Leaped the cataract underneath. Reyhan the Arab held his breath While this vision of life and death Passed above him. "Allahu!" Cried he. "In all Koordistan Lives there not so brave a man As this Robber Kurroglou!" HAROUN AL RASCHID One day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said:-- "Where are the kings, and where the rest Of those who once the world possessed? "They're gone with all their pomp and show, They're gone the way that thou shalt go. "O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, "Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end!" Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read. KING TRISANKU Viswamitra the Magician, By his spells and incantations, Up to Indra's realms elysian Raised Trisanku, king of nations. Indra and the gods offended Hurled him downward, and descending In the air he hung suspended, With these equal powers contending. Thus by aspirations lifted, By misgivings downward driven, Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven. A WRAITH IN THE MIST "Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here." --BOSWELL'S Johnson. On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, So brave with his targe and claymore? His form is the form of a giant, But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Allan McLean? Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, He would wall himself round with a fort. THE THREE KINGS Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. "Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews." And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine. His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body's burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way. SONG Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best. THE WHITE CZAR The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs. Dost thou see on the rampart's height That wreath of mist, in the light Of the midnight moon? O, hist! It is not a wreath of mist; It is the Czar, the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He has heard, among the dead, The artillery roll o'erhead; The drums and the tramp of feet Of his soldiery in the street; He is awake! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He has heard in the grave the cries Of his people: "Awake! arise!" He has rent the gold brocade Whereof his shroud was made; He is risen! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! From the Volga and the Don He has led his armies on, Over river and morass, Over desert and mountain pass; The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He looks from the mountain-chain Toward the seas, that cleave in twain The continents; his hand Points southward o'er the land Of Roumili! O Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas To the Pillars of Hercules! I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! "The Bosphorus shall be free; It shall make room for me; And the gates of its water-streets Be unbarred before my fleets. I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! "And the Christian shall no more Be crushed, as heretofore, Beneath thine iron rule, O Sultan of Istamboul! I swear it; I the Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! DELIA Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best. ULTIMA THULE DEDICATION TO G.W.G. With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago. How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth! Whither, oh, whither? Are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest. POEMS BAYARD TAYLOR Dead he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves. Ah! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o'er; Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet. Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its guest; Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve. Traveller! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star, In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face? In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night? Poet! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse; Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion's life, thine own; On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last. Friend! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells; And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea; Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks! THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate, Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more? O Absalom, my son!
Back to Full Books |