Part 12

You think my spirit rose to flights, Aspiring past all present sights, Invoking from the grave of time The heroes of that city’s prime,— The great Gonsalvo[6] marching on, Or Ferdinand[7] of Aragon?— You think I saw, by camp-fires bright, The turban bow beneath the sight Of chieftains marshall’d, far and near, With drifting plume and flashing spear, Like cloud and lightning sent to sweep Abdillah’s[7] Moors across the deep?— You think I trod these lanes in days When Califs vied to sound their praise, And term’d the town that seem’d so blest “The grander Bagdad of the west”[8]; Or trod them, when it gave the Goth His “Home of holiness and troth”[8]; Or, long ere through its children’s veins Flow’d Roman[9] blood to richen Spain’s, Beheld it named by every mouth, “The matchless gem of all the south”?[8]— Nay, nay, I dreamt with joy intense, But did not heed a hint from thence.

V.

It must have been Spain’s year-long spring That gave my winter’d fancies wing; And brought to life a long-lost love That these had come to brood above. How throbb’d my heart to see once more That face, that form, that friend of yore! Again my arms were round that neck; And cheek to cheek without a check Our souls had met. O Love, long cold, What frame could hope to feel, when old And numb from long bound loads of pain, Such warmth and life thrill every vein! The gone delight was all too dear. With heart aglow, as dawn drew near, To him who slept amid the past, A Spanish sky seem’d overcast.

VI.

Bright Sun, I sigh’d, no light can gleam Beside true love and shine supreme! Fair Spain, no realm so fair may be; But love recall’d unsexes thee. Nay, no land shows one sunlit scene That rose-like bursts from earth’s wide green, But brings an image swept away When eyelids close at close of day. ’Tis but the impress mind receives, That, sunn’d or sombre, never leaves. Ah, if the past must always cope With future joys for which we hope, How vain the aims that make their quest A life that merely shall be blest, And slight earth’s meed of lowly sweets For purple heights and golden streets! Faith fails that merely waits below. Dreams after death would bring but woe Without remember’d love that blest The soul before it found its rest.

VII.

Keep, Cordova, thy rare renown. The veils of twilight, falling down, Could fold around no fairer town; Yet many a sight, where came the night, To this, my soul, had seem’d as bright. I left thee sad; but bore away, With light to linger night and day, And charms divine as thine to me, The dream that came to rival thee.

FOOTNOTES

[1] “A thoroughly national hotel ... I look down from my window through marble colonnades ... perfumed with the scent of ... trees, which bend ... over a richly sculptured fountain.”—_Hare’s Wanderings in Spain_, pp. 93, 94.

[2] Instruments found everywhere in Spain.

[3] “The bridge over the Guadalquivir ... composed of sixteen arches ... very picturesque ... built by Octavius Cæsar.”—_O’Shea’s Guide to Spain._

[4] “What spot can be more delightful than the grand old court, surrounded by flame-shaped battlements ... beneath huge orange trees planted some three hundred years ago.”—_Hare’s Wanderings in Spain_, p. 88.

[5] “From the court you step with bewilderment into a roofed-in forest of pillars ... amid the thousand still remaining columns of varied color, thickness, and material, which divide the building into twenty-nine naves one way and nineteen the other. Into the midst of all a cathedral was engrafted in 1547.” (It was built originally for a mosk.)—_Idem_, p. 89.

[6] Gonsalvo de Cordova, called “the great captain,” born 1443.

[7] Ferdinand of Aragon, whose forces, setting out from Cordova, drove Abu-Abdillah, or Boabdil, the king of the Moors, from Granada in 1492.

[8] Titles applied to the city in different periods of its history,—when inhabited by the Moors, the Goths, and before the Romans conquered it.

[9] Referring to the “blue blood” of the Spanish aristocracy, supposed to be indicative of Roman ancestry.

THE FLOWER PLUCKED.

“You say you leave forever? Our walks and talks have had their day? You say this flower blooms not to stay, Nor friendship;—we must sever?— Alas, to think my favorite flower, That so delay’d its blooming hour Through all the stormy weather, Through March and April, May and June Has open’d now to shut so soon! Nay, nay; it shall not fail me so. It yet shall feel—though but my blow.” She spoke, and smote with all her might The fragile stem and blossom bright; And both flew off together.

“Not so,” he cried; “nay, never. Forgive it! Spare the flower! alas!” And knelt and pick’d it from the grass. “What, did she love thee ever? If so the blow she gave to thee Has made thee doubly dear to me. Ah, Flower, in sunny weather, And not in March, nay, nay, in June Thy leaves in opening brought this boon; Nor so shall close! There waits for thee One mission more, thy best, I see!” He spoke, and placed the fallen flower Against his heart—and so that hour The maid and flower together.

THE ARTIST’S AIM.

In candor, my friend, you seem too much at home With nymphs of Olympus and gods of old Rome. The world has advanced, and the artist, if sage, Will seek to give form to the thoughts of his age. The curve of a limb and the pose of a head May be all the same in the living as dead; But she that you woo, must have life and be young And speak, ere you love her, and speak your own tongue.

Truth only is lasting, and only the face Transfigured by it has a lasting grace. And truth is in nature, nor dealt second-hand Through art, though most artful to fill the demand. So think of the present, its deeds and its dreams, As Raphael thought, but not Raphael’s themes; Nor be a Venetian to picture like Titian A woman to worship or goddess to kiss. You are a new-world’s man: model from this.

Ay, let the dead bury their dead, and pursue The aims of a people that push for the new. The proudest ambition, the readiest hand, Might wisely embody ideals less grand; No sweeter Murillo’s divine designs, Whose purity rivals each thought it refines, While the dreamy intent of a life-brooding haze Throngs thick with the beauty of immature praise. Conceptions immaculate still may be In the pure white light that he could see, Inspired to incarnate a soul in each plan, The life of a picture as well as of man.

The wants of the present, one never can gauge By the heathenish tastes of a heathenish age. The mummy lived once, and spoke as it ought. We moderns, forgetting its life and its thought, For lost art sighing, too oft re-array What is only a corpse, and ought to decay. E’en if it were living, long centuries fraught With progress in action and feeling and thought Outgrow the old charms, and make the world crave New phases of art that the past never gave.

So I fear, when I see men striving to mold The forms of the new after those that are old, While all true life grows better and better, That classical models a modern may fetter. Small virtue has one with no hope in his heart, And little of merit, if none in his art. While only the light of a coming ideal Lures those to the good who imagine it real, No work can ever inspire the earth That embodies no promise of unfulfill’d worth, And naught that the world accounts worthy of fame, In art as in act, but is rank’d by its aim.

MUSICIAN AND MORALIZER.

What am I “doing,” night and day, Loitering here with the flute?— Doing?—why blowing my plaints away, Off, till I blow them mute.

“Foolish” am I?—It may be so. Who, forsooth, are the wise? I to the wind my sorrows blow: Others hoard up their sighs.

“Useless” am I?—The while I play, Many another one’s heart Throbs to my melody, till, they say, All of his woes depart.

Nothing of sweetness can fill the air, Nothing of beauty bloom, Save as visions of life more fair Over the spirit loom.

Listen to this now—mine and thine. How could I show more worth, Than as a reed for a breath divine, Blowing from heaven to earth?

“Music-mad” am I?—Have your say, Whether you blame or applaud, I the behest of my soul obey, Just as it came from God.

WHAT THE BOUQUET SAID.

For one who would himself be here, And for ourselves who hold you dear, We come, fair maid, to welcome you. For sun-bright eyes like yours we grew, For cheeks like yours, with ardor meet, Would flush, aglow their glow to greet; And up to you, our fragrance rare Is breathed from lips that burst in prayer. Our goddess dear, our sister sweet, This meeting leaves our lives complete. Now dew may fail, or frost may sear, We fade, we die; but have been here.

WITH THE YOUNG.

Our struggles with the world, I know, Are blessings in disguise. No honors that elsewhere earth can show Outshine its victor’s prize. Yet, when, with naught their course to guide, My feelings freely well, My thoughts will turn to souls untried, And with the young I dwell.

Why ask a feeling the reason why?— One’s lot may have been too hard. Those loved in youth, as years go by, May rouse no more regard. Who knows how many in age may fall Whose feet all deem’d secure? Who knows how many can trip at all And ever again be pure?

Perchance through each fair childish face I seem to see, as of yore, A form whose young and tender grace Beside me moves no more; And yet a form that waits for me, Where still, as hope maintains, What has been, is, or is to be, In a state unchanged remains

Perchance, I share in heaven’s delight Whose hosts recall the past, And guide, at times, in robes of white, Earth’s young through gloom and blast. But leave the cause yet undivined, When feelings freely well, The young have claims no others find, And with the young I dwell.

A TRANSLATION.

In 1864, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin was celebrated with unusual splendor in the Church de la Companiè of Santiago, Chili. In the midst of the ceremonies the draped image of the Virgin caught fire. Almost instantly the flames were communicated to ropes suspending along the ceiling upward of twenty thousand colored lamps. These fell in a rain of fire upon the audience below, burning with the church itself as many as two thousand persons, chiefly young ladies from the higher grades of society.

O’er Santiago’s happy homes The parting sun delay’d, And brightly o’er its roofs and domes In gleams of sunset play’d; And toward the dome most bright came throngs Of maidens hastening there; And from them words more sweet than songs Went pulsing through the air. They sought that dome because the home Of God where sins were shriven; Now under it with splendor fit Should prayer to Him be given.

Within, a thousand banners bright Would wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise. Within, the organ’s ardent strains Would rise with incense rare; Ah, then, how sweet would be their gains Who breathed that sweeter air! Sent upward so their prayers would flow Like fountains heavenward driven, That far away would break in spray, And fall in blessings given.

And soon those thousand banners bright Did wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise— When up there flared a flame that glared Athwart the lamp-strung dome; And hot as hell its red lights fell To fright their victims home; And, o’er and o’er, was heard: “The door!” And cries where fright had striven. But oh, no more would swing that door, On throngs against it driven.

Red lips of fire flew to and fro, And kiss’d each maiden’s cheek; They blush’d, but oh, too deep the glow! They kneel’d, but oh, too meek! Death wrapt them round in robes of flame, Let loose their streaming hair, And, when their souls were won, became, Ash-white, their couch-mate fair. Anon, the fire was raging higher. But these to rest were given, Long ere the bells had wail’d farewells When out the belfry driven.

To Santiago’s mourning homes At morn a stranger stray’d, And found, where once of all those domes The brightest sunn’d the shade, Four hundred carts of corpses charr’d, Two thousand nameless dead, And scores of thousands weeping hard For life so sadly fled. And all around the smoking ground, Whence all hope else was driven, With lifted eye, their dome the sky, Their prayers to God were given.

FARMER LAD.

Farmer lad, in the morning gray, Blest may seem the town, and they, Slumbering late, who, void of blame, Seek at their leisure wealth and fame; But how many there, thy race would run To know thy rest when the day is done!

Farmer lad, when the herd’s faint bells Clink far off o’er the sunburnt fells, Better may seem the coin that calls Ringing and bright from the town’s cool halls; But how many there, would give all its gleams For the golden light of thy guileless dreams!

Farmer lad, where the herd will drink Waits a maid that bathes by the brink Bare brown feet; and the rill, made sweet, Thrills to touch her who thee would greet. There is more for thee in the blue of her eye Than in all the towns that are under the sky.

THE WIFE.

About her fair sweet face, all bright, Is a constant halo of calm delight; And her smile attracts To genial acts All those who live in the sunny sight.

She moves in a sphere not wholly obscure, With ways that are not wholly mature, But ready to go Where friend or foe May point the way to the wise or pure.

Her mien by every grace refined With a welcome bends to all things kind; But something true To duty too Remains unbent in her inner mind.

Her soul seeks not the name of wife, To sit by a plume, or the prize of a strife. She longs to share Not the outward glare, But the inward glow of her husband’s life.

Ah, like the sky encircling the sea, Embracing his thoughts wherever they be, She rests above His life with a love That binds him fast, yet leaves him free.

Toward her his thoughts in fancies rise, Like mists aglow in the sunset skies, And like nights here When the stars appear, His gloom gives way at the glance of her eyes.

Through her his hope like a morning dream Attains a day of love supreme, Suffused with a light That makes earth bright, And life what it otherwise could but seem.

Would God her heart could ever abide, A heaven for his heart’s heaving tide, Still calm above His restless love, And all the storms that over it glide!

NOTHING TO KEEP UNDER.

You envy those whom all men greet With favors never ceasing, The men whose ways are so discreet Their friends go on increasing, Whose moods get more than they deserve, Because not oft they blunder; But, even when unkind, have nerve To keep unkindness under.

You envy those whose lips imply A smile for every neighbor, Though all his deeds may give the lie To truth for which they labor,— Good, easy souls, who never need To fret in wrath or wonder, To feel how hard is life, indeed, With so much to keep under.

You envy those whose calm consent, Amid all earth’s mutations, Can sail the sea of life content With others’ observations; Who entertain no wish for strife Near shores where breakers thunder; But hold a cautious helm to life, And keep ambition under.

Hold friend—the good for which men yearn Makes ill to them provoking; And zeal it is, on fire to burn, That fills its air with smoking. If this be so, some day, your soul A worth world-wide may sunder From those who have—their self-control, But nothing to keep under.

OUR DAY AT PISA.

We took the train at Florence,[1] we,— The day was warm and pleasant. The town of Pisa would we see. No time was like the present. Anon we climb’d the Leaning Tower,[2] Dropt something down, and sat an hour; And then the grand Baptistry[2] door They swung for us; and, o’er and o’er, We made its domed rotunda roar, To echo back our joking.

We set our pockets jingling, we, To make our guide a crony, Saw the cathedral, paid a fee, And ate some macaroni, Then feasted on an outside view Of all three buildings,[2] yet so new; Then bought, in alabaster[3] wrought, Some models of them; then we sought The Campo Santo,[4] where we thought About the dead, while smoking.

We took the train at sunset, we, And while we left the station, Extoll’d the land, “How much to see! How grand this Roman nation! Our own, how mean!—no works of art!” We strove to sigh, but check’d a start And cried, “How home-like!” o’er and o’er.— What thrill’d us thus?—alas, it bore No hint from art; we heard once more A frog, near by us, croaking.

FOOTNOTES

[1] The poem is supposed to be written by an American “doing” Italy.

[2] The Leaning Tower, the Baptistry (under the dome of which may be heard, by those who care for it, an echo, repeating itself many times), and the Cathedral are all found in one square.

[3] Alabaster worked into articles suitable for gifts is one of the chief commodities of Pisa. Great quantities of it are purchased for presents.

[4] Campo Santo or cemetery, the most famous in Italy.

THE HIGHEST CLAIMS.

I woke and found my dream withdrawn, And, with it, each weird guest, Whose urgency, from eve to dawn, Had robb’d me of my rest. One call’d me ruler of the land; One chief of hosts enroll’d; One brought me wealth; one bade my hand A pen immortal hold; But none spake aught of aims I thought More blest than theirs could be; And, leading on to all I sought, Still claim’d the most from me.

“To hold a sceptre in the state, Like Moses o’er the sea, Controlling thus a rival’s fate, Who overwhelm’d will be; To wield a sword in dangerous times, Till foes yield up each aim, While hope with firmer footstep climbs The crumbling ledge of fame,— All this I know were well, but though Each foe should bend the knee, An homage grander still, I trow, Would claim the most from me.

“To join the throngs whose efforts prove How dear the wealth they earn; Or those whose thought the world can move To deeds for which they yearn; All this were well; but gold is mined In depths that lure below, And thought more lasting forms can find Than lip and line bestow. When gem and scroll a living soul With all its powers may be, Naught else that might my deeds control Can claim the most from me.

“Ah, why through all life’s little day Should drum and trumpet call, And cluster’d smoke from many a fray Hang o’er earth like a pall? How small a space above each fight Its rising thunder jars! The echo sleeps in paths of light Where shine unmoved the stars. To draw toward love like heaven’s above One’s earthly work may be; And nothing less than perfect love Can claim the most from me.”

I spoke, and, ere the beams of day Could bar him out, each guest That I had thought had gone for aye, Return’d and term’d me blest. One call’d me ruler of the land; One chief of hosts enroll’d; One brought me wealth; one bade my hand A pen immortal hold; And every voice breath’d forth: “Rejoice; O soul, thy wisdom see:— While love rules all, thy ruling choice Must claim the most from me.”

NOTES FROM THE VICTORY.

Ah me, who is ringing those bells? Right merry for funeral knells! If the winds of hell could ring them as well, What woe would the demons lack? My light blew out in the gust of the rout: My boy will never come back.

And drums!—How lightly they roll! Coarse drums, can they call the soul? Folks, out of breath, do you shout at death? Can you rend the tomb?—Alack, Vain echoes around, pale under the ground, My boy will never come back.

Guns too! O why do they roar? Alas, I thought it was o’er. Though why care I, though a million die, And all of us wear but black? I, too, with the proud have my blood-stain’d shroud: My boy will never come back.

Our land!—Who wants it to last! Its future is doom’d by the past. And the tears that rise to its mourners’ eyes Will ever dim all they track. Chill, shivering breast, freeze, freeze into rest: My boy will never come back.

THE POET’S LESSON.

“O poet vain, put by thy pen, Put by this dreamy mood, Move outward through the walks of men; And do the world some good.”

These words I heard, and waived my will, And left my rhymes behind, And past the sill and down the hill Went forth my work to find.

And first I spied a romping child. “My child,” I stopt and said, “The sun is bright; the air is mild; Your cheeks with health are red.

“It does you good to leap and run, And chase your mates about”— But ah, my talk had scarce begun Before the child cried out:

“O please, man, please keep back, I say! O but you spoil my sport! O but they all will flee away,— My prisoners, from my fort!”

I saw no foe, nor fortress wall, My coming had attack’d. This child, I thought, knows not at all A fancy from a fact.

Too young is he; nor yet has learn’d The laws of health, like me; Nor cares to know them; so I turn’d And left his fancy free.

A man approach’d with bending frame, His eyes by searching task’d; A chance, I thought, to help one came; So, “What is lost?” I ask’d.

“Lost?—every thing!” he said, and frown’d; “Ay, every thing I sought. All day and night, the whole week round, My mind had track’d the thought;

“And just had found it, but for you!” I blush’d at this; and he, He craved my pardon, said, he too, Had done a wrong to me.

“Nay, I,” said I, “should make amend. Your search was on the ground; And I dreamt not, who saw you bend, That thought could there be found.”

He answer’d not; but, passing then, With shadows paved the way; The while I vow’d that not again Would I such help essay.

With this I turn’d my footsteps where A man long ill abode, Assured it would do good to share This weary sufferer’s load.

“My friend,” I said, “your smile is bright; Your pains are lessening then; Erelong they all will take their flight, Your health be sound again.”

“Be sound?” he ask’d; “and can it be That you misjudge me too? Ah, not the thing you deem, set free The smile that welcomed you.