Part 5

Behold, I close thine eyes With the first touch of my benignant hands. With consecrated brands I light thy pyre and loose thy spirit's bands. The eternal gods receive thy sacrifice, The changeless bless thy embers. May there arise from thence no wailing ghost That shivers and remembers The haunts he loved, where he hath suffered most. The life that lived by change Is dead, nor changeth more. No eager, dull, oblivious senses pore On portents dark and strange. Thy first life was not life, Nor was thy first death death. Thy children took thy heritage of strife, And thy transmutable breath Passed to another heart that travaileth. Now thou hast truly died; Escaped, renounced, defied The insensate fervour and the fret of being; And thy own master, freed From shame of murderous need, Pure, just, all-seeing, Now thou shalt live indeed.

THE SOUL

I pay the price of birth. My earth returns to earth. Hurry my ashes, thou avenging wind, Into the vortex of the whirling spheres! I die, for I have sinned, Yea, I have loved, and drained my heart of tears. And thou within whose womb, Mother of nations, labouring Universe, My life grew, be its tomb. Thou brought'st me forth, take now my vital seed. Receive thy wage, thou iron-hearted nurse, Thy blessing I requite thee and thy curse. Now shall my ashes breed Within thy flesh for every thought a thought, For every deed a deed, For every pang I bore An everlasting need, For every wrong a wrong, and endless war. All earthly hopes resigned And all thy battle's spoils I lay upon thine altar and restore; But the inviolate mind Is loosened from thy toils By thy own fatal fires. I mount, I soar, Glad Phoenix, from the flame Into the placid heaven whence I came, Floating upon the smoke's slow lurid wings Into my native sky To bear report of all this vanity And sad offence of things, Where with knowledge I may lie, Veiled in the shadow of eternal wings.

THE ANGEL

If in the secret sessions of our love Above the heavenly spheres, Some stain upon the page of wisdom prove Her earthly price of tears, Cling closer, my beloved, that the beat Of my unruffled heart May tune thy own, its tenderer counterpart, To noble courage, and from this high seat Of our divine repose Large consolation flow to mortal woes. For 'neath the sun's fierce heat, In midst of madness and inscrutable throes, His heart is strong who knows That o'er the mountains come the silent feet Of Patience, leading Peace, And his complainings cease To see the starlight shining on the snows.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM MICHAEL ANGELO

I

"_Non so se s'è la desiata luce_"

I know not if from uncreated spheres Some longed-for ray it be that warms my breast, Or lesser light, in memory expressed, Of some once lovely face, that reappears, Or passing rumour ringing in my ears, Or dreamy vision, once my bosom's guest, That left behind I know not what unrest, Haply the reason of these wayward tears. But what I feel and seek, what leads me on, Comes not of me; nor can I tell aright Where shines the hidden star that sheds this light. Since I beheld thee, sweet and bitter fight Within me. Resolution have I none. Can this be, Master, what thine eyes have done?

II

"_Il mio refugio_"

The haven and last refuge of my pain (A strong and safe defence) Are tears and supplications, but in vain. Love sets upon me banded with Disdain, One armed with pity and one armed with death, And as death smites me, pity lends me breath. Else had my soul long since departed thence. She pineth to remove Whither her hopes of endless peace abide And beauty dwelleth without beauty's pride, There her last bliss to prove. But still the living fountain of my tears Wells in the heart when all thy truth appears, Lest death should vanquish love.

III

"_Gli occhi miei vaghi delle cose belle_"

Ravished by all that to the eyes is fair, Yet hungry for the joys that truly bless, My soul can find no stair To mount to heaven, save earth's loveliness. For from the stars above Descends a glorious light That lifts our longing to their highest height And bears the name of love. Nor is there aught can move A gentle heart, or purge or make it wise, But beauty and the starlight of her eyes.

FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET

SOUVENIR

I weep, but with no bitterness I weep, To look again upon thee, hallowed spot, O dearest grave, and most of men forgot, Where buried love doth sleep.

What witchcraft think you that this desert hath, Dear friends, who take my hand and bid me stay, Now that the gentle wont of many a day Would lead me down this path?

Here are the wooded slopes, the flowering heath, The silver footprints on the silent sand, The loitering lanes, alive with lovers' breath, Where first I kissed her hand.

I know these fir-trees, and this mossy stone, And this deep gorge, and all its winding ways; These friendly giants, whose primeval moan Hath rocked my happy days.

My footsteps' echo in this tangled tree Gives back youth's music, like a singing bird; Dear haunts, fair wilderness her presence stirred, Did you not watch for me?

I will not dry these tear-drops: let them flow, And soothe a bitterness that yet might last, And o'er my waking-weary eyelids throw The shadow of the past.

My useless plainings shall not make to cease The happy echoes of the vows we vowed: Proud is this forest in its noble peace, And my heart too is proud.

Give o'er to hopeless grief the bitter hours You kneel to pray upon a brother's tomb: Here blows the breath of love, and graveyard flowers Not in this garden bloom.

See! The moon rides athwart a bank of cloud. Thy veils, fair Queen of Night, still cling to thee, But soon thou loosenest thy virgin shroud And smilest to be free.

As the rich earth, still dank with April rain, Beneath thy rays exhales day's captive balm, So from my purged soul, as pure, as calm, The old love breathes again.

Where are they gone, those ghosts of sorrow pale, Where fled the passion that my heart defiled? Once in the bosom of this friendly vale I am again a child.

O might of time, O changes of the year, Ye undo sorrow and the tears we shed, But, touched with pity, on our blossoms sere Your light feet never tread.

Heavenly solace, be for ever blest! I had not thought a sword could pierce so far Into the heart, and leave upon the breast So sweet and dear a scar.

Far from me the sharp word, the thankless mind, Of vulgar sorrow customary weed, Shroud that about the corse of love they wind Who never loved indeed.

Why, Dante, dost thou say the saddest curse Is joy remembered in unhappy days? What grief compelled thee to this bitter verse In sorrow's harsh dispraise?

O'er all the worlds is light bereft of gladness When sad eclipses cast their blight on us? Did thy great soul, in its immortal sadness, Speak to thee, Dante, thus?

No, by this sacred light upon me cast! Not in thy heart this blasphemy had birth. It is the truest happiness on earth To have a happy past.

What! When the soul forlorn finds yet a spark Mid the hot ashes of her stifled sighs, And doth that flame, her only treasure, mark With captivated eyes,

Bathing her wounds in the delicious past That mirrors brokenly her loves again, Thy cruel word her feeble joy would blast And turn to bitter pain?

And couldst thou wrong thine own Francesca so, Wrong thy bright angel with a word like this, Her whose lips, parting to rehearse her woe, Broke an eternal kiss?

What, righteous Heaven, is our human thought, And to the love of truth who yet will cling, If every pain or joy e'er shunned or sought Turns to a doubtful thing?

How can you live, strange souls that nothing awes? In midst of haste and passion, song and mirth, Nor all the stars of heaven give you pause, Nor all the sins of earth;

But when upon your fated way you meet Some dumb memorial of a passion dead, That little pebble stops you, and you dread To bruise your tender feet.

You cry aloud that life is but a dream, And, to the truth awaking, wring your hands, And grieve your bubble but a moment stands Upon time's foaming stream.

Poor fools! That moment when your soul could shake The numbing fetters off that it enthrall, That fleeting moment was your all in all-- Oh, mourn not for its sake!

But rather mourn your weight of earthly dross, Your joyless toil, your stains of blood and mire, Your sunless days, your nights without desire; In these was utter loss.

What profit have you of your late lament, And what from heaven do your murmurs crave, The plaints you sow upon the barren grave Of every pleasure spent?

Life is a dream, and all things pass, I know: If some fair splendour we be charmed withal, We pluck the flower, and at the breath we blow Its withered petals fall.

Ay, the first kiss and the first virgin vow That ever mortals upon earth did swear, That whirlwind caught which strips the frozen bough And stones to sand doth wear.

A witness to the lovers' troth was night, With changeful skies, o'ercast with mystery, And stars unnumbered, that an inward light Devours unceasingly.

They saw death hush the song bird in the glade, Blast the pale flower, and freeze the torpid worm, And choke the fountain where the image played Of their forgotten form.

Yet they joined hands above the mouldering clod, Blind with love's light that flashed across the sky, Nor felt the cold eye of the changeless God Who watches all things die.

Fools! says the sage: thrice blest! the poet says. What wretched joy is to the faint heart dear Whom noise of torrents fills with weak amaze And the wind fills with fear?

I have seen beneath the sun more beauties fail Than white sea foam or leaves of forest sere; More than the swallows and the roses frail Desert the widowed year.

Mine eyes have gazed on sights of deeper woe Than Juliet dead within the gorged tomb, And deadlier than the cup that Romeo Drank to his love and doom.

I have seen my love, when all I loved had perished, Who to a whited sepulchre is turned; Seen the thin dust of all I ever cherished In her cold heart inurned,--

Dust of that faith which, in our bosoms furled, The gentle night had warded well from doubt. More than a single life, alas! a world Was that day blotted out.

Still young I found her, and, men said, more fair; In heaven's light her eyes could still rejoice, And her lips opened, and a smile was there, And sound as of a voice.

But not that gentle voice, that tender grace, Those eyes I worshipped when they looked their prayer: My heart, still full of her, searched, searched her face And could not find her there.

And still I could have gone to her, and cast My arms about that chill and lifeless stone, And cried, Where hast thou left it, faithless one, Where hast thou left the past?

But no: it rather seemed as if by chance Some unknown woman had that voice and eye_;_ I looked up into heaven; with cold glance I passed that statue by.

Not without pangs of shame and bitterness I watched her smiling shadow glide away; But what of that? Immortal nature, say, Have I loved therefore less?

On me the gods may now their lightnings fling, They cannot undo truth, nor kill the past. Like a wrecked sailor to a broken mast To my dead love I cling.

I make no question of what flowers may bloom, What virtue from the seasons man may borrow, What heavenly lamp may flood with light to-morrow The vault of this great tomb.

I only say: Here at this hour, one day, I loved, and I was loved, and she was fair. This treasure which no death can filch away My soul to God shall bear.

FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER

ART

All things are doubly fair If patience fashion them And care-- Verse, enamel, marble, gem.

No idle chains endure: Yet, Muse, to walk aright, Lace tight Thy buskin proud and sure.

Fie on a facile measure, A shoe where every lout At pleasure Slips his foot in and out!

Sculptor, lay by the clay On which thy nerveless finger May linger, Thy thoughts flown far away.

Keep to Carrara rare, Struggle with Paros cold, That hold The subtle line and fair.

Lest haply nature lose That proud, that perfect line, Make thine The bronze of Syracuse.

And with a tender dread Upon an agate's face Retrace Apollo's golden head.

Despise a watery hue And tints that soon expire. With fire Burn thine enamel true.

Twine, twine in artful wise The blue-green mermaid's arms, Mid charms Of thousand heraldries.

Show in their triple lobe Virgin and Child, that hold Their globe, Cross-crowned and aureoled.

All things return to dust Save beauties fashioned well. The bust Outlasts the citadel.

Oft doth the ploughman's heel, Breaking an ancient clod, Reveal A Cæsar or a god.

The gods, too, die, alas! But deathless and more strong Than brass Remains the sovereign song.

Chisel and carve and file, Till thy vague dream imprint Its smile On the unyielding flint.

CONVIVIAL AND OCCASIONAL VERSES

_PROSIT NEUJAHR_

Be the new year sweet and short As the days of girl and boy are, Full of friendship, full of sport-- _Prosit Neujahr!_

Be it beautiful and great As the days of grief and joy are, Full of wonder and of fate-- _Prosit Neujahr!_

FAIR HARVARD

Fair Harvard, the winter of Puritan snows That enshrouded thy tremulous birth Melts slowly to spring, now the south wind blows O'er the face of this generous earth.

Thy elms are outspreading their flexible arms Over meadows more fruitful and broad, And soft ivy is veiling with negligent charms The gaunt walls of the castle of God.

With freedom for heritage, reason for star, And friendship for sojourner here, Shall music long tremblingly sound from afar Or genius be smothered in fear?

Where the ages may meet and the spirit may climb To a truth that is builded on doubt, The eternal may dwell mid the currents of time And peace above barbarous rout,

And the just voice unlearn to be strident and sharp, And, attuned to life's happier choir, Join the stress of all David might shout to his harp With all Lysis might lisp to his lyre,

And Olympia again call the strong and the fleet To glory and art and control, And a deathless Academy build a retreat To ponder the things of the soul.

If to glory, young Mother, thy destiny tend, If thy labours have honour in store, Our loves shall not die, though their chronicle end Nor mortals remember us more.

For once from their dreaming the man and the boy, Fair Harvard, awoke at thy name, And our happiest years were a part of thy joy, And our light was a spark of thy flame.

COLLEGE DRINKING SONG

As we say good-bye at the parting ways, Let us sing together a song of praise, Let us drink a toast to our college days, To the walks through a world made for you and me, To the boisterous farce and the echoing glee, To the wonderful A and the dreadful E, Drink, boys, drink!

To the games we won and the games we lost, For we could n't tell which before we tossed, And who cares now who paid the cost? To the woman's love that came and went, To the good wine drunk and the money spent, To the night-long foolish argument, Drink, boys, drink!

To the times when men were men indeed, To our fathers' youth and our mothers' creed, And to every faith that may succeed, To the after age and the later tongue That will ring the changes we have rung And sing the songs we have left unsung, Drink, boys, drink!

When the eye is dull and the hand is cold, Then should the pocket be full of gold, For no one will love us when we 're old. So to vulgar gold and what it gets And an honest end to all our debts, For an old wine softens old regrets, Drink, boys, drink!

When we are asleep beneath grey stone, Our children's lives shall repeat our own, For the light remains though the days be flown. To the opening buds of this ended May, And to all sweet things that will not stay, And to every dog that has had his day, Drink, boys, drink!

SIX WISE FOOLS

Twelve had struck. Our talk subsided. We were comrades in the schools By the world awhile divided-- Six sententious merry fools. And I said, "We 've talked of college, Resurrecting callow youth. But you since have lived; what knowledge Have you gathered of the Truth? And you first, most learned scholar, Whom I 'm proud to sit beside, Speak: does wisdom sans a dollar Leave you wholly satisfied? You have walked, and never wavered, In the paths the sages took And three publishers have favoured With a yet unpublished book. The soul's garden you have weeded Which we mortals trample through, You love much we leave unheeded. Speak, and let us learn of you." And the student thus proceeded, As a gentle sigh he drew:

THE SCHOLAR

I'm thankful that as matters go I neither toil nor spin, But read the good old wits, heigh ho! And live with elder kin;

That I need neither reap nor sow Nor gather into barns, But dwell among my books, heigh ho! Repeating ancient yarns.

Dead things are not my science, no, Nor fossil parts of speech, But the great human heart, heigh ho! That pedants never reach.

The record of man's joy and woe Upon his sculptured face I read by my heart's light, heigh ho! And vanquish time and space.

I find no vice so foul and low But nature lurks therein, Nor any thought so high, heigh ho! But pays the price of sin.

I feel the pity and the glow Of truth's sublime communion, And learn to smile at fate, heigh ho! In friendship's happy union.

Let this but last till death's wind blow And till my bones are rotten, Then let the world sail on, heigh ho! And be ray name forgotten.

"Now you, votary of pleasure," Turning to the next, I said, "Count the profit of your leisure And the cost of unearned bread. Tell us what civilisation Merits your impartial praise, In what climate, in what nation You have spent most joyous days." Quoth he, as if in admiration That such questions I should raise:

THE SPORT

All things are nice when they are new, When they are old, all things are horrid. After the storm I like the blue, After the arctic zone the torrid. My loves are many, brief, and true, By mutual jealousy unworried.

I like to leave my house and home And cross the mountains and the sea; With one small bag on earth to roam, That is the height of bliss for me. To roam on earth without my bag, That is the depth of misery.

That freedom cheats us with a word Which sets up knaves and murders kings. What soul is free that never stirred? Go cut your mother's apron-strings, And putting money in your purse, Fly off on the express-train's wings.

I'll stay at home when I am lame, And build a church when stuffed with gold, I will be grave when known to fame, I will be chaste when I am old. Then all the angels will rejoice That I, lost lamb, regain the fold.

"Without some evil, nothing good," Your subtle theologians say. I glorify their rectitude By straying in my artless way. My needful sins make possible The higher morals of the day.

This is our only chance to taste The sweet and bitter fruits of earth. To pluck them all, we've need of haste; We cannot ask what each is worth. Up, up, wise virgin; do not waste The little time 'twixt death and birth.

Come feel the joy of changing skies, Of rushing streams and windy weather. Though we be bound by fortune's ties, We' 11 to the utmost stretch the tether, And be they gay or be they sad, We'll go and see the sights together.

THE CRITIC

"Shall men agree?" the next man said, "Each mind is shut within some head (_Pace_ the minds of all the dead) With two eyes, seldom of a size, And spectacles before the eyes. Then, if men differ, what surprise?

"See the wight who wrapped in sadness Grieves how soon this life is done, And, disgusted with the madness Of the way the world is run, Scorns the hollowness of gladness And the idiocy of fun: Why, the spots upon the sun Can be seen, when the ray passes Blue eye-glasses.

"And what makes the moonlight shimmer With the dancing of the sea And the little stars cold glimmer Twinkle with an inward glee While this working-world grows dimmer If my Mary looks with me? Not the moon or stars or sea, But the fickle cause, alas, is Love's eye-glasses.

"Oh, how sad a world to cough in Is a world once warm and fair, And how many fallings off in Old men's world of falling hair, Till they think within the coffin That there's no world anywhere. For I fancy dead men wear (Take your look now, lads and lasses!) No eye-glasses."

He stopped, and with a civil look Said to his neighbour, "You come next," Who had been looking at a book And seemed a trifle bored and vexed. He laid the book down, stretched his legs And yawned, and, emptying his glass, Made a grimace as if the dregs Were bitter, and replied, "I pass." When pressed, he shook his languid head Until at last he hemmed and said:

THE PESSIMIST

I set my heart on being good, Believed the Bible to the letter, Yes, joined a Christian brotherhood When I was young and knew no better; And, if I sometimes sinned, I wept That God's commandments were not kept. As time went on, I understood That it was wrong to be so good.

My heart I set on being wise And passing for a clever fellow: Reading o' nights I spoilt my eyes, And lack of fresh air turned me yellow. Each book I read said t' other lied, I saw the less the more I pried, And so I found, to my surprise, I was a fool to be so wise.