Part 4
Then, fearing to be spied, I crept to bed; And lying in a weary trance, half sleep, Heard shouts and cries and noise of joyful stir Run through the palace, and quick echoing feet, And little Cosmo thundering at my door. “Wake, Dianora, here is glorious news! Ippolito, our foeman’s only son, Is caught red-handed on some midnight raid, Taken with a rope-ladder ’neath his cloak, Bound for some theft or felony, no doubt; And as he offers neither excuse nor plea, He is to suffer at the hour of noon, In spite of his proud father’s threats and cries. All that the criminal asks by way of boon Is he may pass our palace as he goes Unto the scaffold. A queer fancy that! But all the better sport it makes for us, And we need neither pity nor deny! So rise, sweet sister, don your bravest gear, For all the household on the balcony Will sit to jeer the fellow as he wends, And in the midst of us one Bardi Rose Must be to grace and enjoy the spectacle, The best that ever Florence saw!”
My boy, Look not so startled! Those were bitter days, I said, and blood had flowed and hearts grown hard, And hatred is contagious as disease. Cosmo, my brother, was but as the rest. He died at nine, ere ever thou wast born, And I have paid for masses for his soul,— For many, many masses have I paid; Heaven will not be hard with a babe like that, The Frate tells me so, and I am sure.
What was I saying? So I rose that day A traitor unsuspected mid his foes, Who were my friends, hiding ’neath feignèd smiles A purpose desperate as was my hope. I rose, and let them deck me as they would, Put on my jewels, star my hair with pearls, And all the while a voice like funeral dirge Sang in my half-crazed ears, or seemed to sing, The fragment and the cadence of a song. “Ah, death, the end of grief, what do I care?” Then I stood up among my tiring-maids, And saw myself in the long Venice glass A vision of pale splendor, as I moved To take my station on the balcony, In the mid place, the very front of all, Set like a bride in festival array, Among the laughing, chattering, peering throng, To see the hated foeman of our race Led past the palace on his way to die! My love, my husband, my Ippolito, Led past our palace on his way to die! Long time we waited, till the fear began To stir that some mischance had marred the plan, And the procession by another street Might pass, and so we miss the spectacle, This was their fear, and my fear was the same; And still I sat and smiled, and while the bells Tolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed. “How if he did not come? Saints, let him come! O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!”
They came at last, the Bargello and his troop, And in the midst my love with hands fast tied, And golden locks uncurled and face all wan, But still with gallant bearing, and his eyes Fixed upon mine,—me, for whose sake he died, For whose sweet honor’s sake he silent died. There was a little halt, and then a cry Of fierce joy rang from out our balcony. Now was my time; all sudden sprang I up, And while the astonished crowd kept silence deep, And they, my kin, amazed, sat silent too, I loudly told our tale, our woful tale, And made avowal that ’twas for my sake Ippolito his noble silence kept! Then, while my brother strove to stop my mouth, And fierce hands clutched my gown and seized my arms, I clung and pleaded: “Find the holy Friar, Good people, only send to find the Friar,— Find him, for pity’s sake! He will confirm All I have said, and prove my truth and his, And save my dear Love, slain for love of me.”
Then a great cry arose, some this way ran, Some that, and suddenly amid the press A cowl was seen, and Fra Domenico, Breathless with haste, just conscious of our need, Ran in the midst, and then, I know not what,— For all was tumult,—but my love stood free! Free and unbound! and all the populace Shouted our twofold names, “Ippolito And Dianora,” and the bells broke out, And with the bells the sun and all the air Seemed full of interlaced and tangled sounds,— Cries and glad pealings and our blended names On one side; on the other stormy words, Reproach, and curses.
Then the Podestá And many great lords came, and all passed in, And up the stairs, and filled the palace full; And high and low joined in an equal plea That the long feud be stanched, and as a pledge Of lasting peace we two be wedded straight. But still my father frowned and closed his ears, And still my brothers fumbled at their swords; But when Count Buondelmonti, aged and gray, And shattered with the horror just escaped Suspense and heavy sickness, hurried in, And kissed my hands, and knelt before my feet And blessèd me, the savior of his son, While with redoubled zeal the Podestá Urged, and the noble lords,—Heaven touched their hearts,— They gave consent; and so the feud was healed, And the next day my Love and I were wed.
And twenty glad years came and fleetly sped. Each like a separate rose which buds and falls Duly and fragrantly and is not missed. ’Twas then he carved as a memorial On the façade of the old Sta. Maria Sopr’ Arno, “_Fuccio mi fecé_” and the date— “I made myself a robber;” and he laughed, And said I was the treasure that he stole; Ah me! and then he sailed unto the wars, And all the years that have gone by since then Are as sad night shades steeped in deadly dews. Death hath been busy with us, as thou knowest; Thou art the youngest of my six fair sons, Thou art the only one to close my eyes When time shall come and puzzles be explained. How did the old song run? “My Rose is there.” If I shall wake in Paradise one day And find him safe, and safely still my own, Not won away from me by some new face, And see his eyes with the old steadfast look, Why, that will be enough, that will be heaven! But if, instead, I find another there Close to his side where once I used to rest, No matter who it be, angel or saint, I must cry “Shame!” whate’er the penalty. God will not need to send me down to fires, But only bid me stay in heaven and look!
HERE AND THERE.
WE sit beside the lower feast to-day; She at the higher. Our voices falter as we bend to pray; In the great choir Of happy saints she sings, and does not tire.
We break the bread of patience, and the wine Of tears we share; She tastes the vintage of that glorious vine Whose branches fair Set for the healing of all nations are.
I wonder is she sorry for our pain, Or if, grown wise, She wondering smiles, and counts them idle, vain,— These heavy sighs, These longings for her face and happy eyes.
Smile on, then, darling! As God wills, is best. We loose our hold, Content to leave thee to the deeper rest, The safer fold, To joy’s immortal youth while we grow old;
Content the cold and wintry day to bear, The icy wave, And know thee in immortal summer there, Beyond the grave; Content to give thee to the Love that gave.
FORWARD.
LET me stand still upon the height of life; Much has been won, though much there is to win. I am a little weary of the strife; Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin To cool my hot brow, ease the travel pain, And then address me to the road again.
Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb; Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest. Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time; Before me rises the steep mountain crest. Let me stand still; the journey is half done, And when less weary I will travel on.
There is no standing still! Even as I pause, The steep path shifts and I slip back apace. Movement was safety; by the journey-laws No help is given, no safe abiding-place, No idling in the pathway hard and slow: I must go forward, or must backward go!
I will go up then, though the limbs may tire, And though the path be doubtful and unseen; Better with the last effort to expire Than lose the toil and struggle that have been, And have the morning strength, the upward strain, The distance conquered, in the end made vain.
Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet, And we would all lie down if so we might; And few would struggle on with bleeding feet, And few would ever gain the higher height, Except for the stern law which bids us know We must go forward or must backward go.
IN HER GARDEN.
STILL swings the scarlet pentstemon Like threaded rubies on its stem, In the hid spot she loved so well; Still bloom wild roses brave and fair, And like a bubble borne in air Floats the shy Mariposa’s bell.
Like torches lit for carnival, The fiery lilies, straight and tall, Burn where the deepest shadow is; Still dance the columbines cliff-hung, And like a broidered veil outflung The mazy-blossomed clematis.
Her garden! All is silent now, Save bell-note from some wandering cow, Or rippling lark-song far away, Or whisper from the wind-stirred leaves, Or mourning dove which grieves and grieves, And “Lost! lost! lost!” still seems to say.
Where is the genius of the place,— The happy voice, the happy face, The feet whose light, unerring tread Needed no guide in wildwood ways, But trod the rough and tangled maze By natural instinct taught and led?
Upon the wind-blown mountain-spur Chosen and loved as best by her, Watched over by near sun and star, Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps, And not one jarring murmur creeps Up from the plain her rest to mar.
Sleep on, dear heart! we would not break Thy slumber for our sorrow’s sake: The cup of life, with all its zest, Thy ardent nature quaffed at full; Now, in the twilight long and cool, Take thou God’s final gift of rest.
And still below the grape-vine swings; The Mariposa’s fragile wings Flutter, red lilies light their flame, Larks float, the dove still plains and grieves; But while one heart that loved thee lives, Still shall thy garden bear thy name.
ON EASTER DAY.
WE light the Easter fire, and the Easter lamps we trim, And lilies rear their chaliced cups in churches rich and dim, And chapel low and Minster high the same triumphant strains In city and in village raise, and on the lonely plains.
“Life” is the strain, and “endless life” the chiming bells repeat,— A word of victory over death, a word of promise sweet; And as the great good clasps the less, the sun a myriad rays, So do a hundred thoughts of joy cling round our Easter days.
And one, which seems at times the best and dearest of them all, Is this: that all the many dead in ages past recall, With the friends who died so long ago that memory seeks in vain To call the vanished faces back, and make them live again;
And those so lately gone from us that still they seem to be Beside our path, beside our board, in viewless company,— A light for all our weary hours, a glory by the way,— All, all the dead, the near, the far, take part in Easter day!
They share the life we hope to share, as once they shared in this; They hold in fast possession our heritage of bliss. Theirs is the sure, near Presence toward which we reach and strain; On Easter day, on Easter day, we all are one again.
Oh, fairest of the fair, high thoughts that light the Easter dawn! Oh, sweet and true companionship which cannot be withdrawn! “The Lord is risen!” sealed lips repeat out of the shadows dim; “The Lord is risen,” we answer back, “and all shall rise in him!”
“DER ABEND IST DER BESTE.”
THE morning hours are joyful fair, With call of bird and scent of dew; And blent with shining gold and blue And glad the summer noontides are; The slow sun lingering seeks the west, As loath to leave and grieve so soon The long and fragrant afternoon; But still the evening is the best.
Day may be full as day may be,— Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyes Alight with joyful prophecies; But still we turn where wistfully The veilèd evening, dimly fair, Stands in the shadow without speech, And holds her one gift out to each,— Her gift of rest, for all to share.
Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glow On silver hairs, all peaceful bent To catch the last rays, and content To watch the twilight softly grow; Content to face the night and keep The peaceful vigil of the eve, And like a little child to breathe A “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day! Which thinks of morn without regret; Which thinks of busy noon, and yet Grieves not to put its toils away; Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest, Watches the sweet, still evening fade, Counting its hours all unafraid,— Surely the evening is the best.
OPTIMISM.
YOU tell me, with a little scorn, A pitying blame in look and touch, Of conscious worldly-wisdom born, That I am hopeful over much;
That all my swans are veriest geese, My cheerfulness an easy vent For animal spirits, and my peace A cheap, contemptible content;
That it is shallow to be glad, Idle to hope and vain to trust, Because all good is mixed with bad, And men are liars, and flesh is dust;
That wisdom grimly prophesies, And sits distrustful and alert, Peering with far, experienced eyes For what may cheat and what may hurt.
I do not know if you are right; But these I hold as certainties: That God made day as well as night, And joy as well as pain is his;
That if philosophy means doubt, And wisdom boding discontents, Men may do better far without These all-divine accomplishments!
That souls are stronger to endure The heavy woes which all may taste, If, holding to God’s promise sure, They wait his time, not making haste
To grieve, anticipating ill; How shall they know what sweet, hid thing He keeps in store for souls who still Follow his beck unquestioning?
Joy is the lesson set for some, For others pain best teacher is; We know not which for us shall come, But both are Heaven’s high ministries.
The swollen torrent rages high; The path ahead is steep and wet. What then? We still are safe and dry; We need not cross that torrent yet!
Perhaps the waters may subside; There may be paths which skirt the flood. God holds our hand. With him for guide We need not fear; for he is good.
Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky, And life the joy, and love the zest; And, spite of scorn and pity, I Will taste to-day, and trust the rest.
“HE SHALL DRINK OF THE BROOK BY THE WAY.”
THE way is hot, the way is long, ’Tis weary hours to even-song, And we must travel though we tire; But all the time beside the road Trickle the small, clear rills of God, At hand for our desire.
Quick mercies, small amenities, Brief moments of repose and ease,— We stoop, and drink, and so fare on, Unpausing, but re-nerved in strength From hour to hour, until at length Night falleth, and the day is done.
The birds sip of the wayside rill, And raise their heads in praises, still Upborne upon their flashing wings; So drinking thus along the way, Our little meed of thanks we pay To Him who fills the water-springs,
And deals with equal tenderness The larger mercies and the less: “O Lord, of good the fountain free, Close by our hard day’s journeying Be thou the all-sufficing spring, And hourly let us drink of thee.”
THREE PICTURES.
I.
LOVE AND DEATH.
UPON the threshold of his guarded home Stands Love the child. A thousand roses bloom above his head With rain of dewy petals white and red; All fair and joyous things themselves array To deck and soften for dear Love the way. He stands where often he has stood before; But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild, A strange and boding tread has caught his ear, An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view, And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear— What can Love do?
Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm, He grasps his bow; The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings. In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings, In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer; There is no pity or relenting there. No power has Love to deprecate or charm, Vain are his puny wiles against this foe; The roses wither in the icy breath Which eddies the defenceless portals through, And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death— What can Love do?
II.
LOVE AND LIFE.
THE way is steep, and hard to tread, and drear; Piercing and bleak the icy atmosphere. My feet are bruised and bleeding, and my eyes Can only with dim questionings seek the skies. How could I walk a step without thine aid? How face the awful silence unafraid? How bear the star-rays and the moon-glance cold? Loose not thine hold!
Earth and its kindly ways seem very far, And yet the shining skies no nearer are; Except for thee, dear Love, I could not go Over the hard rocks, the untrodden snow, But had sat down content with lower things, With scanty crumbs and waning water-springs,— A wingèd thing whose wings might not unfold: Loose not thine hold!
Loose not thine hold! let me feel all the while The quickening impulse of thy tender smile Luring me on, and catch, as if in trance, The lovely reverence of thy downward glance, The pity and the splendor of thy face, The recognition like a soft embrace: Until my feet shall tread the streets of gold, Loose not thy hold!
III.
PAOLO È FRANCESCA.
THE mighty blast which sweeps and girdles hell Drives us before it, whither none may tell. No pause, no goal, no time of respite,—well, We are together!
Circling forever in a dark abyss, Linked by a fate as wild as passionless, One only thing is left us,—it is this: We are together!
THE TWO SHORES.
UPON the river’s brink I stand Beside the rushing water’s flow, And look from off the shore I know, The safe and dear familiar land, Unto another shore, which lies Mist-veiled beneath the crimsoning skies. This is a shore, and that a shore. Does the earth cease, to rise once more Beyond the river’s span? Ah no! the shores are clasped in one; The same firm earth goes on, goes on, Though hidden for a little space From eye or tread of man.
Upon another shore we stand Beside a darker water’s flow, And catch beyond the earth we know Faint glimpses of another land Dreaming in sunshine, half descried Beyond the rushing river-tide. It is life here, and life is there: We look from fair things to most fair, The river rolls between; But held and bound and clasped in one, Immortal life goes on, goes on, Though only from the farther strand The union can be seen.
“ARISE, SHINE, FOR THY LIGHT HAS COME.”
LONG time in sloth, long time in sin, Contented with thy dark estate Hast thou abode, O soul of mine; Now dawns the morning, fair though late, Her sunny tides are sweeping in. Thy light has come; arise and shine!
The sheathèd bud which all night long Has folded close its purple up Upon the morning-glory vine; At the first rose-flush, the first song, Unrolls its petals, rears its cup, And, light being come, makes haste to shine.
It cannot clasp the whole bright day, Nor the wide-brimming sea of dew Within its curve exact and fine. Of countless beams a single ray, One little freshening sip or two, It takes, and so is glad to shine.
Make ready likewise, O my soul! God’s blessed day has dawned; partake! Anoint thy head with oil and wine; From the great sum, the mighty whole, Thy little crumb and portion break, And, giving thanks, arise and shine!
A WITHERED VIOLET.
I PLUCKED a purple violet, Its petals were all dewy wet, I held it tightly for an hour, And then I dropped the faded flower; Dropped it and lost unconsciously, Scarce thinking of the how or why. ’Twas hours since, but my fingers yet Are scented with the violet; The fragrant spell, invisible, Has caught and holds me in it’s sway. I would not flee if flight might be; The violet still rules my day.
I plucked a flower when life was young, I chose it all the flowers among. It was so fresh, it was so fair, Heaven’s very dew seemed cradled there; A little while it smiled in morn, And then it withered and was gone. ’Tis long years since, but every hour I taste the perfume of that flower. Still it endures, and all day pours A balm of fragrance on the way. I catch its breath high over death; A memory still rules my day.
DARKENED.
HIGH in the windy lighthouse tower The lamps are burning free, Each sending with good-will and power Its message o’er the sea, Where ships are sailing out of sight, Hidden in storm and cloud and night.
On the white waves that seethe and dash A ruddy gleam is shed; Above, the lighted windows flash Alternate gold and red, Save where one sad and blinded glass Forbids the happy light to pass.
The hungry sea entreats the light, The struggling light is fain, But obdurate and blank as night Rises the darkened pane, Casting a shadow long and black Along the weltering ocean track.
Ah, who shall say what drowning eyes Yearn for that absent ray; What unseen fleets and argosies, Ploughing a doubtful way, Seek through the night, and grope and strain For guidance from that darkened pane?
Ah, Light Divine, so full, so free! Ah, world that lies in night! Ah, guiding radiance! shine through me Brightly and still more bright, Nor ever be thy rays in vain Because I am a “darkened pane.”
THE KEYS OF GRANADA.
’TIS centuries since they were torn away, Those sad-faced Moors from their belovèd Spain; In long procession to the wind-swept bay, With sobs and muttered curses, fierce with pain, They took their woful road and never came again.
Behind them lay the homes of their delight, The marble courtyards and cool palaces, Where fountains flashed and shimmered day and night ’Neath dusk and silver blooms of blossoming trees. They closed the echoing doors, and bore away the keys.
Palace and pleasure-garden are forgot; The marble walls have crumbled long ago; Their site, their ownership, remembered not, And helpless wrath alike and hopeless woe Are cooled and comforted by Time’s all-healing flow.