Chapter 4

And we set sail in the noon not caring. Whither the prow of the dark ship came, No more over the old ways faring; For the sea was cold, but the land was flame:

And the keen ship sped, and a deadly coma Blotted away from our eyes forever, Tower on tower, the great city Roma, Palace and temple and yellow river.

THE COMING OF WINTER.

Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; A shadow falleth southward day by day; Sad summer's arms grow cold; his fire is falling; His feet draw back to give the stern one way.

It is the voice and shadow of the slayer, Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams; Make sad thy voice with sober plaint and prayer; Make gray thy woods, and darken all thy streams.

Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy: The sky is grey; the woods are cold below: Oh make thy bosom, and thy sad lips ready, For the cold kisses of the folding snow.

EASTER EVE.

Hear me, Brother, gently met; Just a little, turn not yet, Thou shalt laugh, and soon forget: Now the midnight draweth near. I have little more to tell; Soon with hollow stroke and knell, Thou shalt count the palace bell, Calling that the hour is here.

Burdens black and strange to bear, I must tell, and thou must share, Listening with that stony stare, Even as many a man before. Years have lightly come and gone In their jocund unison. But the tides of life roll on---- They remember now no more.

Once upon a night of glee, In an hour of revelry, As I wandered restlessly, I beheld with burning eye, How a pale procession rolled Through a quarter quaint and old, With its banners and its gold, And the crucifix went by.

Well I knew that body brave That was pierced and hung to save, But my flesh was now a grave For the soul that gnashed within. He that they were bearing by, With their banners white and high, He was pure, and foul was I, And his whiteness mocked my sin.

Ah, meseemed that even he, Would not wait to look on me, In my years and misery, Things that he alone could heal. In mine eyes I felt the flame Of a rage that nought could tame, And I cried and cursed his name, Till my brain began to reel.

In a moment I was 'ware, How that many watching there, Fearfully with blanch and stare, Crossed themselves, and shrank away; Then upon my reeling mind, Like a sharp blow from behind, Fell the truth, and left me blind, Hopeless now, and all astray.

O'er the city wandering wide, Seeking but some place to hide, Where the sounds of mirth had died, Through the shaken night I stole; From the ever-eddying stream Of the crowds that did but seem Like processions in a dream To my empty echoing soul.

Till I came at last alone To a hidden street of stone, Where the city's monotone On the silence fell no more. Then I saw how one in white With a footstep mute and light, Through the shadow of the night Like a spirit paced before.

And a sudden stillness came Through my spirit and my frame, And a spell without a name Held me in his mystic track. Though his presence seemed so mild, Yet he led me like a child, With a yearning strange and wild, That I dared not turn me back.

Oh, I could not see his face, Nor behold his utmost grace, Yet I might not change my pace Fastened by a strange belief; For his steps were sad and slow, And his hands hung straight below, And his head was bowed, as though Pressed by some immortal grief.

So I followed, yet not I Held alone that company: Every silent passer-by Paled and turned and joined with me; So we followed still and fleet, While the city street by street, Fell behind our rustling feet Like a deadened memory.

Where the sound of sin and riot Broke upon the night's dim quiet, And the solemn bells hung nigh it Echoed from their looming towers; Where the mourners wept alway, Watching for the morning grey; Where the weary toiler lay, Husbanding the niggard hours;

By the gates where all night long Guests in many a joyous throng, With the sound of dance and song, Dreamed in golden palaces; Still he passed, and door by door Opened with a pale outpour, And the revel rose no more Hushed in deeper phantasies.

As we passed, the talk and stir Of the quiet wayfarer And the noisy banqueter Died upon the midnight dim. They that reeled in drunken glee Shrank upon the trembling knee, And their jests died pallidly, As they rose and followed him.

From the street and from the hall, From the flare of festival None that saw him stayed, but all Followed where his wonder would: And our feet at first so few Gathered as those white feet drew, Till at last our number grew To a pallid multitude;

And the hushed and awful beat Of our pale unnumbered feet Made a murmur strange and sweet, As we followed evermore. Now the night was almost passed, And the dawn was overcast, When the stranger stayed at last At a great cathedral door.

Never word the stranger said, But he slowly raised his head, And the vast doors openèd By an unseen hand withdrawn; And in silence wave on wave, Like an army from the grave, Up the aisles and up the nave, All that spectral crowd rolled on.

As I followed close behind, Knowledge like an awful wind Seemed to blow my naked mind Into darkness black and bare; Yet with longing wild and dim, And a terror vast and grim, Nearer still I pressed to him, Till I almost touched his hair.

From the gloom so strange and eery, From the organ low and dreary, Rose the wailing miserere, By mysterious voices sung; And a dim light shone, none knew, How it came, or whence it grew, From the dusky roof and through All the solemn spaces flung.

But the stranger still passed on, Till he reached the altar stone, And with body white and prone Sunk his forehead to the floor; And I saw in my despair, Standing like a spirit there, How his head was bruised and bare, And his hands were clenched before,

How his hair was fouled and knit With the blood that clotted it, Where the prickled thorns had bit In his crownèd agony; In his hands so wan and blue, Leaning out, I saw the two Marks of where the nails pierced through, Once on gloomy Calvary.

Then with trembling throat I owned All my dark sin unatoned, Telling it with lips that moaned, And methought an echo came From the bended crowd below, Each one breathing faint and low, Sins that none but he might know: "Master I did curse thy name."

And I saw him slowly rise With his sad unearthly eyes, Meeting mine with meek surprise, And a voice came solemnly. "Never more on mortal ground For thy soul shall rest be found, But when bells at midnight sound Thou must rise and come with me."

Then my forehead smote the floor, Swooning, and I knew no more, Till I heard the chancel door Open for the choristers: But the stranger's form was gone, And the church was dim and lone: Through the silence, one by one Stole the early worshippers.

I am ageing now I know; That was many years ago, Yet or I shall rest below In the grave where none intrude, Night by night I roam the street, And that awful form I meet, And I follow pale and fleet, With a ghostly multitude.

Every night I see his face, With its sad and burdened grace, And the torn and bloody trace, That in hands and feet he has. Once my life was dark and bad; Now its days are strange and sad, And the people call me mad: See, they whisper as they pass.

Even now the echoes roll From the swinging bells that toll; It is midnight, now my soul Hasten; for he glideth by. Stranger, 'tis no phantasie: Look! my master waits for me Mutely, but thou canst not see With thy mortal blinded eye.

THE ORGANIST.

In his dim chapel day by day The organist was wont to play, And please himself with fluted reveries; And all the spirit's joy and strife, The longing of a tender life, Took sound and form upon the ivory keys; And though he seldom spoke a word, The simple hearts that loved him heard His glowing soul in these.

One day as he was wrapped, a sound Of feet stole near; he turned and found A little maid that stood beside him there. She started, and in shrinking-wise Besought him with her liquid eyes And little features, very sweet and spare. "You love the music, child," he said, And laid his hand upon her head, And smoothed her matted hair.

She answered, "At the door one day I sat and heard the organ play; I did not dare to come inside for fear; But yesterday, a little while, I crept half up the empty aisle And heard the music sounding sweet and clear; To-day I thought you would not mind, For, master dear, your face was kind, And so I came up here."

"You love the music then," he said, And still he stroked her golden head, And followed out some winding reverie; "And you are poor?" said he at last; The maiden nodded, and he passed His hand across his forehead dreamingly; "And will you be my friend?" he spake, "And on the organ learn to make Grand music here with me?"

And all the little maiden's face Was kindled with a grateful grace; "Oh, master, teach me; I will slave for thee!" She cried; and so the child grew dear To him, and slowly year by year He taught her all the organ's majesty; And gave her from his slender store Bread and warm clothing, that no more Her cheeks were pinched to see.

And year by year the maiden grew Taller and lovelier, and the hue Deepened upon her tender cheeks untried. Rounder, and queenlier, and more fair Her form grew, and her golden hair Fell yearly richer at the master's side. In speech and bearing, form and face, Sweeter and graver, grace by grace, Her beauties multiplied.

And sometimes at his work a glow Would touch him, and he murmured low, "How beautiful she is?" and bent his head; And sometimes when the day went by And brought no maiden he would sigh, And lean and listen for her velvet tread; And he would drop his hands and say, "My music cometh not to-day; Pray God she be not dead!"

So the sweet maiden filled his heart, And with her growing grew his art, For day by day more wondrously he played. Such heavenly things the master wrought, That in his happy dreams he thought The organ's self did love the gold-haired maid: But she, the maiden, never guessed What prayers for her in hours of rest The sombre organ prayed.

At last, one summer morning fair, The maiden came with braided hair And took his hands, and held them eagerly. "To-morrow is my wedding day; Dear master, bless me that the way Of life be smooth, not bitter unto me." He stirred not; but the light did go Out of his shrunken cheeks, and oh! His head hung heavily.

"You love him, then?" "I love him well," She answered, and a numbness fell Upon his eyes and all his heart that bled. A glory, half a smile, abode Within the maiden's eyes and glowed Upon her parted lips. The master said, "God bless and bless thee, little maid, With peace and long delight," and laid His hands upon her head.

And she was gone; and all that day The hours crept up and slipped away, And he sat still, as moveless as a stone. The night came down, with quiet stars, And darkened him: in colored bars Along the shadowy aisle the moonlight shone. And then the master woke and passed His hands across the keys at last, And made the organ moan.

The organ shook, the music wept; For sometimes like a wail it crept In broken moanings down the shadows drear; And otherwhiles the sound did swell, And like a sudden tempest fell Through all the windows wonderful and clear. The people gathered from the street, And filled the chapel seat by seat-- They could not choose but hear.

And there they sat till dawning light, Nor ever stirred for awe. "To-night, The master hath a noble mood," they said. But on a sudden ceased the sound: Like ghosts the people gathered round, And on the keys they found his fallen head. The silent organ had received The master's broken heart relieved, And he was white and dead.

THE MONK.

I.

In Nino's chamber not a sound intrudes Upon the midnight's tingling silentness, Where Nino sits before his book and broods, Thin and brow-burdened with some fine distress, Some gloom that hangs about his mournful moods His weary bearing and neglected dress: So sad he sits, nor ever turns a leaf-- Sorrow's pale miser o'er his hoard of grief.

II.

Young Nino and Leonora, they had met Once at a revel by some lover's chance, And they were young with hearts already set To tender thoughts, attunèd to romance; Wherefore it seemed they never could forget That winning touch, that one bewildering glance: But found at last a shelter safe and sweet, Where trembling hearts and longing hands might meet.

III.

Ah, sweet their dreams, and sweet the life they led With that great love that was their bosoms' all, Yet ever shadowed by some circling dread It gloomed at moments deep and tragical, And so for many a month they seemed to tread With fluttering hearts, whatever might befall, Half glad, half sad, their sweet and secret way To the soft tune of some old lover's lay.

IV.

But she is gone, alas he knows not where, Or how his life that tender gift should lose: Indeed his love was ever full of care, The hasty joys and griefs of him who woos, Where sweet success is neighbour to despair, With stolen looks and dangerous interviews: But one long week she came not, nor the next, And so he wandered here and there perplext;

V.

Nor evermore she came. Full many days He sought her at their trysts, devised deep schemes To lure her back, and fell on subtle ways To win some word of her; but all his dreams Vanished like smoke, and then in sore amaze From town to town, as one that crazèd seems, He wandered, following in unhappy quest Uncertain clues that ended like the rest.

VI.

And now this midnight, as he sits forlorn, The printed page for him no meaning bears; With every word some torturing dream is born; And every thought is like a step that scares Old memories up to make him weep and mourn. He cannot turn but from their latchless lairs, The weary shadows of his lost delight Rise up like dusk birds through the lonely night.

VII.

And still with questions vain he probes his grief, Till thought is wearied out, and dreams grow dim. What bitter chance, what woe beyond belief Could keep his lady's heart so hid from him? Or was her love indeed but light and brief, A passing thought, a moment's dreamy whim? Aye there it stings, the woe that never sleeps: Poor Nino leans upon his book, and weeps.

VIII.

Until at length the sudden grief that shook His piercèd bosom like a gust is past, And laid full weary on the wide-spread book, His eyes grow dim with slumber light and fast; But scarcely have his dreams had time to look On lands of kindlier promise, when aghast He starts up softly, and in wondering wise Listens atremble with wide open eyes.

IX.

What sound was that? Who knocks like one in dread With such swift hands upon his outer door? Perhaps some beggar driven from his bed By gnawing hunger he can bear no more, Or questing traveller with confusèd tread, Straying, bewildered in the midnight hoar. Nino uprises, scared, he knows not how, The dreams still pale about his burdened brow.

X.

The heavy bolt he draws, and unawares A stranger enters with slow steps, unsought, A long robed monk, and in his hand he bears A jewelled goblet curiously wrought; But of his face beneath the cowl he wears For all his searching Nino seeth nought; And slowly past him with long stride he hies, While Nino follows with bewildered eyes.

XI.

Straight on he goes with dusky rustling gown. His steps are soft, his hands are white and fine; And still he bears the goblet on whose crown A hundred jewels in the lamplight shine; And ever from its edges dripping down Falls with dark stain the rich and lustrous wine, Wherefrom through all the chamber's shadowy deeps A deadly perfume like a vapour creeps.

XII.

And now he sets it down with careful hands On the slim table's polished ebony; And for a space as if in dreams he stands, Close hidden in his sombre drapery. "Oh lover, by thy lady's last commands, I bid thee hearken, for I bear with me A gift to give thee and a tale to tell From her who loved thee, while she lived, too well."

XIII.

The stranger's voice falls slow and solemnly. Tis soft, and rich, and wondrous deep of tone; And Nino's face grows white as ivory, Listening fast-rooted like a shape of stone. Ah, blessed saints, can such a dark thing be? And was it death, and is Leonora gone? Oh, love is harsh, and life is frail indeed, That gives men joy, and then so makes them bleed.

XIV.

"There is the gift I bring"; the stranger's head Turns to the cup that glitters at his side: "And now my tongue draws back for very dread, Unhappy youth, from what it must not hide. The saddest tale that ever lips have said; Yet thou must know how sweet Leonora died, A broken martyr for love's weary sake, And left this gift for thee to leave or take."

XV.

Poor Nino listens with that marble face, And eyes that move not, strangely wide and set. The monk continues with his mournful grace: "She told me, Nino, how you often met In secret, and your plighted loves kept pace Together, tangled in the self-same net; Your dream's dark danger and its dread you knew, And still you met, and still your passion grew.

XVI.

"And aye with that luxurious fire you fed Your dangerous longing daily, crumb by crumb; Nor ever cared that still above your head The shadow grew; for that your lips were dumb. You knew full keenly you could never wed: 'Twas all a dream: the end must surely come; For not on thee her father's eyes were turned To find a son, when mighty lords were spurned.

XVII.

"Thou knowest that new-sprung prince, that proud up-start, Pisa's new tyrant with his armèd thralls, Who bends of late to take the people's part, Yet plays the king among his marble halls, Whose gloomy palace in our city's heart Frowns like a fortress with its loop-holed walls. 'Twas him he sought for fair Leonora's hand, That so his own declining house might stand.

XVIII.

"The end came soon; 'twas never known to thee; But, when your love was scarce a six months old, She sat one day beside her father's knee, And in her ears the dreadful thing was told. Within one month her bridal hour should be With Messer Gianni for his power and gold; And as she sat with whitened lips the while, The old man kissed her, with his crafty smile.

XIX.

"Poor pallid lady, all the woe she felt Thou, wretched Nino, thou alone canst know. Down at his feet with many a moan she knelt, And prayed that he would never wound her so. Ah, tender saints! it was a sight to melt The flintiest heart; but his could never glow. He sat with clenchèd hands and straightened head, And frowned, and glared, and turned from white to red.

XX.

"And still with cries about his knees she clung, Her tender bosom broken with her care. His words were brief, with bitter fury flung: 'The father's will the child must meekly bear; I am thy father, thou a girl and young.' Then to her feet she rose in her despair, And cried with tightened lips and eyes aglow, One daring word, a straight and simple, "No"!

XXI.

"Her father left her with wild words, and sent Rough men, who dragged her to a dungeon deep, Where many a weary soul in darkness pent For many a year had watched the slow days creep, And there he left her for his dark intent, Where madness breeds and sorrows never sleep. Coarse robes he gave her, and her lips he fed With bitter water and a crust of bread.

XXII.

"And day by day still following out his plan, He came to her, and with determined spite Strove with soft words and then with curse and ban To bend her heart so wearied to his might, And aye she bode his bitter pleasure's span, As one that hears, but hath not sense or sight. Ah, Nino, still her breaking heart held true: Poor lady sad, she had no thought but you.

XXIII.

"The father tired at last and came no more, But in his settled anger bade prepare The marriage feast with all luxurious store, With pomps, and shows and splendors rich and rare; And so in toil another fortnight wore, Nor knew she aught what things were in the air, Till came the old lord's message brief and coarse: Within three days she should be wed by force.

XXIV.

"And all that noon and weary night she lay, Poor child, like death upon her prison stone, And none that came to her but crept away, Sickened at heart to see her lips so moan, Her eyes so dim within their sockets grey, Her tender cheeks so thin and ghastly grown; But when the next morn's light began to stir, She sent and prayed that I might be with her.

XXV.

"This boon he gave: perchance he deemed that I, The chaplain of his house, her childhood's friend, With patient tones and holy words, might try To soothe her purpose to his gainful end. I bowed full low before his crafty eye, But knew my heart had no base help to lend. That night with many a silent prayer I came To poor Leonora in her grief and shame.

XXVI.

"But she was strange to me: I could not speak For glad amazement, mixed with some dark fear; I saw her stand no longer pale and weak, But a proud maiden, queenly and most clear, With flashing eyes and vermeil in her cheek: And on the little table, set anear, I marked two goblets of rare workmanship With some strange liquor crownèd to the lip.

XXVII.