LETTER XII.

VICTORY.

I.

Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire, For thou hast sworn--as sweetly as a bell Makes out its chime--the oath I love to tell, The fealty-oath of which I never tire. The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre, And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell.

II.

The air is fill'd with voices. I have found Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy Past all belief; a peace without alloy. There is a splendour all about the ground As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd, Something had come which death could not destroy.

III.

It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent A smile from Heaven--as if to-day the clods Were lined with silk--the trees divining rods, And roses gems for some high tournament. I should not be so proud, or so content, If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods.

IV.

A shrinèd saint would change his place with me If he but knew the worth of what I feel. He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal Hath much concern; but how forlorn is he! How pale his pomp! He cannot sue to thee, But I am sainted every time I kneel.

V.

I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark Had left the hills, and down the beaten road I saunter'd forth a mile from mine abode. I heard, afar, the watchdog's sudden bark, And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark, Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode.

VI.

The moon was pacing up the sky serene, Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known; And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between, And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone.

VII.

The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind To warn or comfort; or to make amends For hope delay'd,--for ecstasy that ends At dawn's approach. The firmament was blind Of all its eyes; and, wanton up the wind, There came the shuddering that the twilight sends.

VIII.

The hills exulted at the Morning's birth,-- And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run Before a king to say the fight is won. The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth, To celebrate the rising of the sun.

IX.

And when the soaring lark had done its prayer, The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two, To pause and think, and then did clip the air And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there. "Thank God!" I cried, "My dearest dream is true!"

X.

I was too happy, then, to leap and dance; But I could ponder; I could gaze and gaze From earth to sky and back to woodland ways. The bird had thrill'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance, For he had found to-day his nest-romance, And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her with his praise.

XI.

O Love! my Love! I would not for a throne, I would not for the thrones of all the kings Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings, Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown, Consent to rule an empire all alone. No! I must have the grace of our two rings.

XII.

I must possess thee from the crowning curl Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye Down to the bosom where my treasures lie. From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl, And be thy lord and master till I die.

XIII.

This, and no less: the keeper of thy fame, The proud controller of each silken tress, And each dear item of thy loveliness, And every oath, and every dainty name Known to a bride: a picture in a frame Of golden hair, to turn to and caress.

XIV.

And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours, To laugh and talk with those who circumvent And make mad speeches; though I know the bent Of some such men, and though in ladies' bowers They brag of swords--I know my proven powers; I know myself and thee, and am content.

XV.

I know myself; and why should I demur? The lily, bowing to the breeze's play, Is not forgetful of the sun in May. She is his nymph, and with a servitor She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her, And knows her true, and loves her day by day.

XVI.

E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart! O Lady white as lilies on the lea, And fair as foam upon the ocean free Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart! E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art, And with my soul's desire I compass thee.

XVII.

For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense Of true endowment, and a bride indeed Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need: To be a beacon when the air is dense, A bower of peace, a life-long recompense-- This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed.

XVIII.

And what is Man the while? And what his will? And what the furtherance of his earthly hope? To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope A drowning sailor; all his blood to spill For One he loves, to keep her out of ill-- This is the will of Man, and this his scope.

XIX.

'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon It can be wild, and keep away from home A thousand ships--and lash itself to foam-- And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon-- And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome.

XX.

This is the will of Man, and this is mine. But lo! I love thee more than wealth or fame, More than myself, and more than those who came With Christ's commission from the goal divine. Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine, I cling to thee, my Life! as fire to flame.

Miscellaneous Poems.

ANTEROS.

I.

This is the feast-day of my soul and me, For I am half a god and half a man. These are the hours in which are heard by sea, By land and wave, and in the realms of space, The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span, And give me power to sway the human race.

II.

I am the king whom men call Lucifer, I am the genius of the nether spheres. Give me my Christian name, and I demur. Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice. Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice.

III.

I am old Anteros; a young, old god; A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch. But I can turn my crutch into a rod, And change my rod into a crown of wood. Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch, And plays with poisons till he makes them good.

IV.

The sun, uprising with his golden hair, Is mine apostle; and he serves me well. Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare, Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought, Has pined for love; and wanderers out of hell, And saints from heaven, have known what I have taught.

V.

Great are my griefs; my joys are multiplex; And beasts and birds and men my subjects are; Yea, all created things that have a sex, And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere; All these, and more, proclaim me from afar, And sing my marriage songs from year to year.

VI.

There are no bridals but the ones I make; For men are quicken'd when they turn to me. The soul obeys me for its body's sake, And each is form'd for each, as day for night. 'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee To win the wisdom of a fool's delight.

VII.

Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down, And birds have blabbed it to the winds of heaven. The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town, Lovers have sung the songs that I have made. Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven, Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade.

VIII.

O men! O maidens! O ye listless ones! Ye who desert my temples in the East, Ye who reject the rays of summer suns, And cling to shadows in the wilderness; Why are ye sad? Why frown ye at the feast, Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press?

IX.

Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove, A joy that crushes and a love that stings, A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove, A thing of nothing born of less than nought-- Why in your hearts do ye desire these things, Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought?

X.

See, see! I weep, but I can jest at times; Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away. The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown. I am the God for whom all maidens pray, But none shall have me for herself alone.

XI.

No; I have love enough, here where I stand, To marry fifty maids in their degree; Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band, And every bride the proxy of a score. Want ye a mate for millions? I am he. Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore.

XII.

O men! O masters! O ye kings of grief! Ye who control the world but not the grave, What have ye done to make delight so brief, Ye who have spurn'd the minstrel and the lyre? I will not say: "Be patient." Ye are brave; And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire.

XIII.

There shall be traitors in the court of love, And tears and torture and the bliss of pain. The maids of men shall seek the gods above, And drink the nectar of the golden lake. Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain; They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake.

XIV.

They shall be taught the songs the syrens know, The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry, The secrets of the south and of the snow, The wherewithal of day, and death, and night. O men! O maidens! pray no prayer for me, But sing to me the songs of my delight.

XV.

Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear, And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven. And let the singers, with a voice of cheer, Announce my name to all the ends of earth; And let my servants, seventy times and seven, Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth!

XVI.

Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame, Seize all the souls of men for sake of me. For I will have Contention put to shame, And all the hearts of all things comforted. There are no laws but mine on land and sea, And men shall crown me when their kings are dead.

THE WAKING OF THE LARK.

I.

O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee-- As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee-- Oh! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred? Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows?

II.

Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow, And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow; But thou art not a prophet, thou, If naught but joy can touch thee now; If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.

III.

Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted, The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited. But thou art still the slave of dawn, And canst not sing till night be gone, Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver.

IV.

Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendour, And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her. The moon, so sad and silver-pale, Is mistress of the nightingale; And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness.

V.

For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring; Thou art as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring. The daisy, with its hood undone, The grass, the sunlight, and the sun-- These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing.

VI.

Oh, hush! Oh, hush! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance,-- A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assistance; A sound that wells from happy throats, A flood of song where beauty floats, And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river.

VII.

This is the advent of the lark--the priest in gray apparel-- Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer carol; This is the prelude to the lay The birds did sing in Cæsar's day, And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation.

VIII.

O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated, Oh! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be consecrated; Till from the gateways of the morn, The sun, with all his light unshorn, His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens!

A BALLAD OF KISSES.

I.

There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing their secrets as I go. The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know; As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.

II.

The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet, And evermore my soul will loathe the same. The toys and joys of fate I may forget, But not the touch of that divided shame: It clove my lips; it burnt me like a flame.

III.

The third, the final kiss, is one I use Morning and noon and night; and not amiss. Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse! And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss, Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss.

MARY ARDEN.

I.

O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze, Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme, Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, To solemnize the feast-day of thy son.

II.

And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles Of thy fair face? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles, Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone Of all the seas and all the lands of earth.

III.

He was un-famous when he came to thee, But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, A week before the wondrous month of May; And God therein was gracious to us all.

IV.

He lov'd thee, Lady! and he lov'd the world; And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd; And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn, In all the far-off cycles yet to come.

V.

He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, A hundred mottoes from immortal lips; And, year by year, we smile to keep away The generous tears that mind us of the sway Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof.

VI.

His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece Of grand endeavour; and the thunder-roll Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, Have borne the tidings of our English tongue.

VII.

He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us more Than schools have taught us; and his fairy-lore Was fraught with science; and he called from death Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath Of their great passion that has filled the spheres.

VIII.

He made us know Cordelia, and the man Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban; And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd Maidens and men and myths who were revered In olden days, before the earth was sad.

IX.

Aye! this is true. It was ordainèd so; He was thine own, three hundred years ago; But ours to-day; and ours till earth be red With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead, And days and nights are scattered like the leaves.

X.

It was for this he lived, for this he died; To raise to Heaven the face that never lied, To lean to earth the lips that should become Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb, And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay.

XI.

He lived to seal, and sanctify the lives Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives, And gave them each a space wherein to dwell; And for his mother's sake he loved them well, And made them types, undying, of all truth.

XII.

O fair and fond young mother of the boy Who wrought all this--O Mary!--in thy joy Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best Of all men's chanting since the world began?

XIII.

Did'st thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, And all the pride therein that should be won By toilsome men, content to be his slaves?

XIV.

Did'st thou, good mother! in the tender ways That women find to fill the fleeting days, Behold afar the Giant who should rise With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, To write his name, and thine, among the stars?

XV.

I love to think it; and, in dreams at night I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, As if to draw him back from out the storm,-- A child again, and thine to nurse withal.

XVI.

I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time, I see the child advance to thee, and climb, And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones.

XVII.

Yet, if my thought be vain--if, by a touch Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch-- Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow My heart with fervour while to thee I bow Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.

XVIII.

For, though so seeming-bold in this my song, I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar, The famed effulgence of that eastern star Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens.

XIX.

In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Endow'd with life, but with the look of one Who knows the nearest way to some new grave.

XX.

And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hush!" Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith!

XXI.

Oh! by the June-tide splendour of thy face When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace Did leap and laugh, O Mary! by the same, I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, And call thee England's Pride for evermore!

SACHAL.

A WAIF OF BATTLE.

I.

Lo! at my feet, A something pale of hue; A something sad to view; Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.

II.

Not white as snow; Not transient as a tear! A warrior left it here, It was his passport ere he met the foe.

III.

Here is a name, A word upon the book; If ye but kneel to look, Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.

IV.

His Land to cherish, He died at twenty-seven. There are no wars in Heaven, But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.

V.

Where was he born? In France, at Puy le Dôme. A wanderer from his home, He found a Fatherland beyond the morn.

VI.

'Twas France's plan; The cause he did not ask. His life was but a mask, And he upraised it, martyr'd at Sedan.

VII.

And prone in death, Beyond the name of France, Beyond his hero-glance,-- He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath.

VIII.

O thou dead son! O Sachal! far away, But not forgot to-day, I had a mother, too, but now have none.

IX.

Our hopes are brave. Our faiths are braver still. The soul shall no man kill; For God will find us, each one in his grave.

X.

A land more vast Than Europe's kingdoms are,-- A brighter, nobler star Than victory's fearful light,--is thine at last.

XI.

And should'st thou meet Yon Germans up on high,-- Thy foes when death was nigh,-- Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat.

XII.

For all are just, Yea, all are patriots there, And thou, O Fils de Pierre! Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust.

XIII.

Oh, farewell, friend; My friend, albeit unknown, Save in thy death alone, Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end.

XIV.

In realms of joy We'll meet; aye, every one: Mother and sire and son,-- And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy.

XV.

Death leads to God. Death is the Sword of Fate, Death is the Golden Gate That opens up to glory, through the sod.

XVI.

And thou that road, O Sachal! thou hast found; A king is not so crown'd As thou art, soldier! in thy blest abode.

XVII.

Deathless in death, Exalted, not destroy'd, Thou art in Heaven employ'd To swell the songs of angels with thy breath.

THE LADY OF THE MAY.

I.

O stars that fade in amber skies Because ye dread the light of day, O moon so lonely and so wise, Look down, and love my Love alwày; Salute the Lady of the May.

II.

O lark that soarest in the light To hail thy lord in his array, Look down; be just; and sing aright. A lover claims thy song to-day To greet his Lady of the May.

III.

"O lady! lady!" sings the lark, "Thy lover's hest I do obey; For thou art splendid after dark, And where thou smilest, there is day; And thou'rt the Lady of the May.

IV.

"The nightingale's a friend of mine, And yesternight she flew my way. 'Awake,' she cried, 'at morning shine And sing for me thy blythest lay To greet the Lady of the May.'

V.

"'And tell her, tell her, gentle one, While thou attun'st thy morning lay, That I will sing at set of sun Another song for thy sweet fay, Because she's Lady of the May.'

VI.

"And lo I come," the lark in air, Self-pois'd and free, did seem to say, "I come to greet thy lady's hair And call its beams the light of day Which decks thy Lady of the May."

VII.

Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well! For all thou say'st and still would'st say And for the thoughts which Philomel Intends to trill, in roundelay, To greet my Lady of the May.

VIII.

We two (my Love and I) are one, And so shall be, for aye and aye. Go, take my homage to the sun, And bid him shine his best to-day, To crown my Lady of the May!

AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN.

I.

I who have sung of love and lady bright And mirth and music and the world's delight, Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note To move the minds of foemen when they fight.

II.

Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing, And none diviner than the wedding-ring? And, all intent to make my meaning plain, Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?

III.

Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums; And I must parley with the men of toil Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.

IV.

I must arraign each man; yea, all the host; And each true soul shall learn the least and most Of all his wrongs,--if wrongs indeed they be; And he shall face the flag that guards the coast.

V.

He shall salute it! He shall find therein Salve for his wounds and solace for his sin. Brother and guide is he who loves his Land; But he is kinless who denies his kin.

VI.

Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend, And will not trust his country to the end? If this be so, God help him to a tear! He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend.

VII.

Bears he a sword? I care not. He is base; Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place Than tongue can tell of, in the Senate House; And he shall find no balm for his disgrace.

VIII.

O men! I charge ye, in the name of Him Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim, I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim.

IX.

Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns, And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea? Your country! through her lov'd, her chosen ones.

X.

Oh, ye are dastards if ye lift a hand, Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a band, Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm. Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand.

XI.

I have a sword, I also, and I swear By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair, That I will strike the first of ye that moves, If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear.

XII.

In Freedom's name, in her's to whom we bow, In her great name, I charge ye, palter now With no traducer of your country's cause. Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow!

ZULALIE.

I.

I am the sprite That reigns at night, My body is fair for man's delight. I leap and laugh As the wine I quaff, And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

II.

I curse and swear In my demon-lair; I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair. I madden the old, I gladden the bold, And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

III.

Of churchyard stone I have made my throne; My locks are looped with a dead man's bone. Mine eyes are red With the tears I shed, And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

IV.

In cities and camps I have lighted my lamps, My kisses are caught by kings and tramps. With rant and revel My hair I dishevel, And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

V.

My kisses are stains, Mine arms are chains, My forehead is fair and false like Cain's. My gain is loss, Mine honour is dross,-- And I am the queen of Astrofelle!

BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO.

I.

See where Beethoven sits alone--a dream of days elysian, A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision-- The man who strikes the potent chords which make the world, in wonder, Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouthpiece of the thunder.

II.

He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is breaking; He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no forsaking. And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a token, He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever spoken.

III.

He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his seclusion, Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad confusion; But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a declamation That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of their nation.

IV.

He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him, And, Romeo-like, he sought to die that she might then adore him; But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not been proven, And would not change her name for his--Guiciardi for Beethoven.

V.

O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a world has treasured! O sovereign of a greater realm than man has ever measured! Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd, in glory, The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal story.

VI.

Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all men discover To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover; A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring ocean, And bid the stars discourse to trees in words of man's emotion.

VII.

A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the seasons, Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's immortal reasons; A bard who knows no life but this: to love and be rejected, And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the elected.

VIII.

O poet heart! O seraph soul! by men and maids adorèd! O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid forehead! We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our gladness, To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown thee in thy sadness.

IX.

An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance, Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made Despair a science. Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large vibration, It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubilation.

X.

O Sire of Song! Sonata-King! Sublime and loving master; The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in disaster; In thee were found the fires of thought--the splendours of endeavour,-- And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and for ever!

A RHAPSODY OF DEATH.

I.

That phantoms fair, with radiant hair, May seek at midnight hour The sons of men, belov'd again, And give them holy power; That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go, Is true as death, the prophet saith; and God will have it so.

II.

For who be ye who doubt and prate? O sages! make it clear If ye be more than men of fate, Or less than men of cheer; If ye be less than bird or beast? O brothers! make it plain If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain.

III.

You say there is no future state; The clue ye fail to find. The flesh is here, and bones appear When graves are undermined. But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame-- Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the same.

IV.

Ah! facts are good, and reason's good, But fancy's stronger far; In weal or woe we only know We know not what we are. The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid; The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd.

V.

But these, ye urge, are outward signs. Such signs are not for you. The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd By diamonds of the dew. The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete; He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet!

VI.

The sage can kill a thousand things, And tell the names of all; And wrench away the wearied wings Of eagles when they fall; And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree, And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea.

VII.

But can he set, by day or night, The clock-work of the skies? Or bring the dead man back to sight With soul-invested eyes? Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death, And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath?

VIII.

If he could do such deeds as these, He might, though poor and low, Explain the cause of Nature's laws, Which none shall ever know; He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand, And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd.

IX.

But God is just. He burdens not The shoulders of the sage; He pities him whose sight is dim; He turns no second page. There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one; The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun.

X.

The other needs a poet's eye, Like that of Milton blind; The light of Faith which cannot die, Though doubts perplex the mind; The eyesight of a little child; a martyr's eye in dole, Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul!

A PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

I.

Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die,-- The light of love, the love-light of the sky,-- That I, at length, may see my darling's face One minute's space.

II.

Have I not wept to know myself so weak That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold Her locks of gold?

III.

Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed? The soul can see,--for souls are seraphim,-- When eyes are dim.

IV.

Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh. She brings me death, true heart, and I will die. She brings me love, for love and life are one Beyond the sun.

V.

This is the measure, this, of all my joys: Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise. Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know Which path I go.

VI.

I cannot die if thou be not a-near, To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere. O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath Kiss me to death!

MIRAGE.

I.

'Tis a legend of a lover, 'Tis a ballad to be sung, In the gloaming,--under cover,-- By a minstrel who is young; By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue.

II.

I, who know it, think upon it, Not unhappy, tho' in tears, And I gather in a sonnet All the glory of the years; And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.

III.

Ah! I see her as she faced me, In the sinless summer days, When her little hands embraced me, And I saddened at her gaze, Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?

IV.

Will she cling to me as kindly When the childish faith is lost? Will she pray for me as blindly, Or but weigh the wish and cost, Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd?

V.

Oh! I swear by all I honour, By the graves that I endow, By the grace I set upon her, That I meant the early vow,-- Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now.

VI.

But her maiden troth is broken, And her mind is ill at ease, And she sends me back no token From her home beyond the seas; And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees.

VII.

Yes, for pardon freely granted; For she wrong'd me, understand. And my life is disenchanted, As I wander through the land With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band.

VIII.

Hers was sweetest of sweet faces, Hers the tenderest eyes of all! In her hair she had the traces Of a heavenly coronal, Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall.

IX.

She was fairer than a vision; Like a vision, too, has flown. I who flushed at her decision, Lo! I languish here alone; And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own.

X.

Not for her, sweet sainted creature! Could I curse her to her face? Could I look on form and feature, And deny the inner grace? Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place.

XI.

And I told her, in mad fashion, That I loved her,--would incline All my life to this one passion, And would kneel as at a shrine; And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine.

XII.

Now in dreams alone I meet her With my lowly human praise; She is sweeter and completer, And she smiles on me always; But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days.

A MOTHER'S NAME.

I.

I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven, That name of mother,--and the proudest, too. As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue, We still repeat the word, with tender steven. Dearest of friends! dear mother! what we do This side the grave, in purity of aim, Is glorified at last by thy good name.

II.

But how forlorn the word, how full of woe, When she who bears it lies beneath the clod. In vain the orphan child would call her so,-- She comes not back: her place is up with God. The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow; The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod. Ah, lose not heart! Some flowers may fade in gloom, But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb!

A SONG OF SERVITUDE.

I.

This is a song of serfs that I have made, A song of sympathy for grief and joy:-- The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed, All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed.

II.

There are no tyrants but the serving ones, There are no servants but the ruling men. The Captain conquers with his army's guns, But he himself is conquered by his sons.

III.

What is a parent but a daughter's slave, A son's retainer when the lad is ill? The great Creator loves the good and brave, And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave.

IV.

The son is servant in his father's halls, The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work. The welkin wonders when the ocean calls, And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls.

V.

There are no "ups" in life, there are no "downs," For "high" and "low" are words of like degree; He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns, He is a king though nameless in the towns.

VI.

None is so lofty as the sage who prays, None so unhigh as he who will not kneel. The breeze is servant to the summer days, And he is bowed-to most who most obeys.

VII.

These are the maxims that I take to heart, Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own; Love well thy work; be truthful in the mart, And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart.

VIII.

None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate, Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth. Make friends with death; and God who is so great, He will assist thee to a nobler fate.

IX.

None are unfit to serve upon their knees The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear. The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees, And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees.

X.

All things are good; all things incur a debt, And all must pay the same, or soon or late The sun will rise betimes, but he must set; And Man must seek the laws he would forget.

XI.

There are no mockeries in the universe, No false accounts, no errors that will thrive. The work we do, the good things we rehearse, Are boons of Nature basely named a curse.

XII.

"Give us our daily bread!" the children pray, And mothers plead for them while thus they speak. But "Give us work, O God!" we men should say, That we may gain our bread from day to day.

XIII.

'Tis not alone the crown that makes the king; 'Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind. The lark that soars so high is quick to sing, And proud to yield allegiance to the spring.

XIV.

And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall Athwart the dangers of the day's behests, Oh, let's not shirk, at joy or sorrow's call, The service due to God who serves us all!

SYLVIA IN THE WEST.

I.

What shall be done? I cannot pray; And none shall know the pangs I feel. If prayers could alter night to day,-- Or black to white,--I might appeal; I might attempt to sway thy heart, And prove it mine, or claim a part.

II.

I might attempt to urge on thee At least the chance of some redress:-- An hour's revoke,--a moment's plea,-- A smile to make my sorrows less. I might indeed be taught in time To blush for hope, as for a crime!

III.

But thou art stone, though soft and fleet,-- A statue, not a maiden, thou! A man may hear thy bosom beat When thou hast sworn some idle vow. But not for love, no! not for this; For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss.

IV.

I mean, thy friends will sell thy love, As loves are sold in England, here. A man will buy my golden dove,-- I doubt he'll find his bargain dear! He'll lose the wine; he'll buy the bowl, The life, the limbs, but not the soul.

V.

So, take thy mate and all his wealth, And all the joys that wait on fame. Thou'lt weep,--poor martyr'd one!--by stealth, And think of me, and shriek my name; Yes, in his arms! And wake, too late, To coax and kiss the man you hate.

VI.

By slow degrees, from year to year, From week to week, from night to night, He will be taught how dark and drear Is barter'd love,--how sad to sight A perjured face! He will be driven To compass Hell,--and dream of Heaven.

VII.

But stand at God's high altar there, With saints around thee tall and sweet, I'll match thy pride with my despair, And drag thee down from glory's seat. Yea, thou shalt kneel! Thy head shall bow As mine is bent in anguish now.

VIII.

What! for thy sake have I forsworn My just ambition,--all my joy, And all my hope from morn to morn, That seem'd a prize without alloy? Have I done this? I have; and see! I weep wild tears for thine and thee.

IX.

But I can school my soul to strength, And weep and wail as children do; Be hard as stone, yet melt at length, And curb my pride as thou can'st, too! But I have faith, and thou hast none; And I have joy, but thine is done.

X.

No marriage-bells? No songs, you say? No flowers to grace our bridal morn? No wine? No kiss? No wedding-day? I care not! Oaths are all forsworn; And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white, I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night.

XI.

And so I shall,--Oh! doubt not that. At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice. When screams the owl, when swoops the bat, When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice. And thou shalt hear!--Aye, by my troth, One song will suit the souls of both.

XII.

I curse thy face; I curse thy hair; I curse thy lips that smile so well, Thy life, thy love, and my despair, My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell; My soul and thine!--Ah, see! though black, I take one half my curses back.

XIII.

For thou and I were form'd for hate, For love, for scorn; no matter what. I am thy Fere and thou my Fate, And fire and flood shall harm us not. Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken, And fiends will sing thy requiem then.

XIV.

Yet think not Death will serve thy stead; I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone. I'll move thy mould to make my bed, And lie with thee long hours alone:-- Long, lifeless hours! Ah God, how free, How pale, how cold, thy lips will be!

XV.

But graves are cells of truth and love, And men may talk no treason there. A corpse will wear no wedding-glove, A ghost will make no sign in air. But ghosts can pray? Well, let them kneel; They, too, must loathe the love they feel.

* * * * *

XVI.

Ah me! to sleep and yet to wake, To live so long, and yet to die; To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake, And yet no peace to gain thereby! What have I done? What left unsaid? Nay, I will count my tears instead.

XVII.

Here is a word of wild design. Here is a threat; 'twas meant to warn. Here is a fierce and freezing line, As hot as hate, as cold as scorn. Ah, friend! forgive; forbear my rhymes, But pray for me, sweet soul! sometimes.

XVIII.

Had I a curse to spare to-day, (Which I have not) I'd use it now. I'd curse my hair to turn it gray, I'd teach my back to bend and bow; I'd make myself so old and thin That I should seem too sad to sin.

XIX.

And then we'd meet, we two, at night; And I should know what saints have known. Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright, Or shriek to meet me there alone. I should not then be spurned for this, Or want a smile, or need a kiss.

XX.

I should not then be fierce as fire, Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife; My heart would throb with no desire, For care would cool the flush of life; And I should love thee, spotless one, As pilgrims love some holy nun.

XXI.

Ah, queen-like creature! smile on me; Be kind, be good; I lov'd thee much. I thank thee, see! on bended knee. I seek salvation in thy touch. And when I sleep I watch thee come, And both are wild, and one is dumb.

XXII.

I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart; I kiss thy lips and call thee mine. Of thy sweet soul I form a part, And my poor soul is part of thine. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou! But let me be thy servant now.

XXIII.

What! did I curse thy golden hair? Well, then, the sun will set at noon; The face that keeps the world so fair Is thine, not his; he darkens soon. Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn, And day departs when thou art gone.

XXIV.

Oh! had I groves in some sweet star That shines in Heaven the whole night through,-- A steed with wings,--a golden car,-- A something wild and strange and true:-- A fairy's wand,--an angel's crown,-- I'd merge them all in thy renown.

XXV.

I'd give thee queens to wait on thee, And kings to kneel to thee in prayer, And seraph-boys by land and sea To do thy bidding,--earth and air To pay thee homage,--all the flowers,-- And all the nymphs in all the bowers.

XXVI.

And this our love should last for aye, And we should live these thousand years. We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day, And make the tour of all the spheres. We'd do strange things! Sweet stars would shine, And Death would spare my love and thine.

XXVII.

But these are dreams; and dreams are vain; Mine most of all,--so heed them not. Brave thoughts will die, though men complain, And mine was bold! 'Tis now forgot. Well; let me bless thee, ere I sleep, And give thee all my joys to keep.

XXVIII.

I bless the house where thou wast born, I bless the hours of every night, And every hour from flush of morn Till death of day, for thy delight; I bless the sunbeams as they shine,-- So like those golden locks of thine.

XXIX.

I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes, Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair, The light that shines in summer skies,-- In garden walks when thou art there,-- And all the grass beneath thy feet, And all the songs thou singest, Sweet!

XXX.

But blessing thus,--ah, woe's the day!-- I know what tears I shall not shed, What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they, What bells will ring when I am dead. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou! But let me be thy minstrel now.

ELËANORE.

I.

The forest flowers are faded all, The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, Elëanore! I turn to thee, as to a bower:-- Thou breathest beauty like a flower, Thou smilest like a happy hour, Elëanore!

II.

I turn to thee. I bless afar Thy name, which is my guiding-star, Elëanore! And yet, ah God! when thou art here I faint, I hold my breath for fear. Art thou some phantom wandering near, Elëanore?

III.

Oh, take me to thy bosom fair; Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, Elëanore! There let me lie when I am dead, Those morning beams about me spread, The glory of thy face o'erhead, Elëanore!

THE STATUE.

I.

See where my lady stands, Lifting her lustrous hands,-- Here let me bow. Image of truth and grace! Maid with the angel-face! Earth was no dwelling-place For such as thou.

II.

Ah, thou unhappy stone, Make now thy sorrows known; Make known thy longing. Thou art the form of one Whom I, with hopes undone, Buried at set of sun,-- All the friends thronging.

III.

Thou art some Vision bright Lost out of Heaven at night, Far from thy race. Oft when the others dance, Come I, with wistful glance, Fearful lest thou, perchance, Leave the dark place.

IV.

No! thou wilt never flee, Earth has a charm for thee;-- Why should we sever? Years have I seen thee so, Making pretence to go, Lifting thine arms of snow,-- Voiceless for ever!

V.

Here bring I all my cares, Here dream and say my prayers While the bells toll. O thou belovèd saint! Let not my courage faint, Let not a shame, or taint, Injure my soul!

PABLO DE SARASATE.

I.

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, But are not sad with sadness of the years, Or hints of tears?

II.

He is a king, or I mistake the sign, A king of song,--a comrade of the Nine,-- The Muses' brother, and their youngest one, This side the sun.

III.

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, His violin, which trembles like a lyre, And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, Belov'd so much!

IV.

He stands full height; he draws it to his breast, Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest,-- A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end,-- To be his friend.

V.

And who can doubt the right it has to lie So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, And there to shake its octaves into notes With bird-like throats.

VI.

Ah! see how deftly, with his lifted bow, He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe, And wakes the wailing of the sprite within That knows not sin.

VII.

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands, A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north, A shout breaks forth.

VIII.

It is the welcome that of old was given To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven The angel-choirs of those who serve aright The God of Light.

IX.

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng That loves a faith-employ'd, impassion'd song; A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,-- Yet keeps us glad.

X.

For look! how bearded men and women fair Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer And half are shamed in their so mean estate, And he so great!

XI.

This is the young Endymion out of Spain Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again To re-intone the songs of other times In far-off climes.

XII.

To prove again that Music, by the plea Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea All shores of earth in one serene and grand Symphonic land.

XIII.

Oh! hush the while! Oh! hush! A bird has sung A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue, And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight For sheer delight.

XIV.

A phantom bird! 'Tis gone where all things go-- The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd-- All dreams at last.

XV.

The towers of light, the castles in the air, The queenly things with diamonds in their hair, The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art-- All these depart.

XVI.

They seem'd to live; and lo! beyond recall, They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall, And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd, Though glory-kiss'd.

XVII.

O pride of Spain! O wizard with a wand More fraught with fervours of the life beyond Than books have taught us in these tawdry days, Take thou my praise.

XVIII.

Aye, take it, Pablo! Though so poor a thing, 'Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all, Obey'd thy thrall.

XIX.

The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud Is God-inspired and glad,--but is not proud,-- And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze, As thou dost these.

XX.

The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim, That men have brought to magnify thy name, Affect thee barely as an idle cheer Affects a seer.

XXI.

But thou art ours, O Pablo! ours to-day, Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway; And we must urge it by the right that brings Honour to kings.

XXII.

Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line! Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high, Good-night! Good-bye!

MY AMAZON.

I.

My Love is a lady fair and free, A lady fair from over the sea, And she hath eyes that pierce my breast And rob my spirit of peace and rest.

II.

A youthful warrior, warm and young, She takes me prisoner with her tongue, Aye! and she keeps me,--on parole,-- Till paid the ransom of my soul.

III.

I swear the foeman, arm'd for war From _cap-à-pie_, with many a scar, More mercy finds for prostrate foe Than she who deals me never a blow.

IV.

And so 'twill be, this many a day; She comes to wound, if not to slay. But in my dreams,--in honied sleep,-- 'Tis I to smile, and she to weep!

PRO PATRIA.

AN ODE TO SWINBURNE.

["We have not, alack! an ally to befriend us, And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. Let the German touch hands with the Gaul, And the fortress of England must fall.

* * * * *

Louder and louder the noise of defiance Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance, And bids us beware, and be warn'd, As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd."

_A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Swinburne._]

I.

Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again, And curb the tumults that are born in thee, That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain.

II.

Are we not Britons born, when all is said, And thou the offspring of the knightly souls Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested, And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head?

III.

O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath Did'st find the way to flout thy fathers' flag! Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith, To seem to triumph in thy country's death?

IV.

If none will speak for us, if none will say How far thy muse has wrong'd us in its thought, 'Tis I will do it; I will say thee nay, And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay.

V.

We own thy prowess; for we've learnt by rote Song after song of thine; and thou art great. But why this malice? Why this wanton note Which seems to come like lava from thy throat?

VI.

When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell; We knew he feared us more than he contemned. He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell, And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell.

VII.

And we were proud of him, as France was proud. Ay! call'd him brother,--though he lov'd us not; And we were thrill'd when, ruthless from a cloud, The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud.

VIII.

Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, But less than he as spokesman of his Land. For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong, And call'd it coward though its faith is strong.

IX.

England a coward! O thou five foot five Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest! Is she not girt with glory and alive To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive?

X.

Thou art a bee,--a bright, a golden thing With too much honey; and the taste thereof Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.

XI.

Oh, thou hast wrong'd us; thou hast said of late More than is good for listeners to repeat. Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate, For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great.

XII.

We are not vile. We, too, have hearts to feel; And not in vain have men remember'd this. Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel, And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal.

XIII.

The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assail'd By wave and wind; for bluster kills itself, But rocks endure. And England has prevail'd Times out of number, when her foes have failed.

XIV.

And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found, Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun. And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round, And he was king of men, though never crown'd.

XV.

He lov'd the gracious earth from east to west, And all the seas thereof and all its shores. But most he lov'd the home that he possess'd, And, right or wrong, his country seem'd the best.

XVI.

He was content with Albion's classic land. He lov'd its flag. He veil'd its every fault. Yes! he was proud to let its honour stand, And bring to light the wonders it had plann'd.

XVII.

Do thou thus much; and deal no further pain; But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth, And sooner let the life in thee be slain, Than strike at One who strikes thee not again.

XVIII.

Thy land and mine, our England, is erect, And like a lordly thing she looks on thee, And sees thee number'd with her bards elect, And will not harm the brow that she has deck'd.

XIX.

She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird May make much music in the summer air, And how a curse may turn into a prayer.

XX.

Take back thy taunt, I say; and with the same Accept our pardon; or, if this offend, Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name. We have our country still, and thou thy fame!

THE LITTLE GRAVE.

I.

A little mound of earth Is all the land I own: Death gave it me,--five feet by three, And mark'd it with a stone.

II.

My home, my garden-grave, Where most I long to go! The ground is mine by right divine, And Heaven will have it so.

III.

For here my darling sleeps, Unseen,--arrayed in white,-- And o'er the grass the breezes pass, And stars look down at night.

IV.

Here Beauty, Love, and Joy, With her in silence dwell, As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves Of kings remember'd well.

V.

But here let no man come, My mourning rights to sever. Who lieth here is cold and dumb. Her dust is mine for ever!

A DIRGE.

I.

Art thou lonely in thy tomb? Art thou cold in such a gloom? Rouse thee, then, and make me room,-- Miserere Domine!

II.

Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep, Nameless things around thee creep, Yet be patient, do not weep,-- Miserere Domine!

III.

O be faithful! O be brave! Naught shall harm thee in thy grave; Let the restless spirits rave,-- Miserere Domine!

IV.

When my pilgrimage is done, When the grace of God is won, I will come to thee, my nun,-- Miserere Domine!

V.

Like a priest in flowing vest, Like a pale, unbidden guest, I will come to thee and rest,-- Miserere Domine!

DAISIES OUT AT SEA.

I.

These are the buds we bear beyond the surf,-- Enshrined in mould and turf,-- To take to fields far off, a land's salute Of high and vast repute,-- The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire, Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire, But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire.

II.

O bright and gracious things that seem to glow With frills of winter snow, And little golden heads that know the sun, And seasons half begun, How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair, In this their prison on the seaward air, On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.

III.

Have they no memory of the inland grass,-- The fields where breezes pass, And where the full-eyed children, out at play, Make all the land so gay? Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear, Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier, In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here?

IV.

O gems of earth! O trinkets of the spring! The sun, your gentle king, Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace, In many a sacred place, The godlike summer sun will miss ye all, For he has foster'd all things, great and small, Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball.

V.

But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene The kirtles, tender-green, And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers, How will he throb for hours, And wish the lark, the laureate of the light, Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight, And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.

VI.

Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told, And deem'd it fairy-gold,-- And fairy-silver,--that ye bear withal; Ye are so soft and small, I weep for joy to find ye here to-day So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.

VII.

Ye are the cynosure of many eyes Bright-blue as English skies,-- The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row, As if intent to show That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower, Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.

VIII.

She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, As one may send a toy To children's children, bred in other lands By love-abiding hands. And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.

IX.

In England's name, in Shakespeare's,--and in ours, Who bear these trusted flowers,-- There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, A rush and roar of notes, As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds; And they who till the ground and tend the herds Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.

X.

For England's sake, for England once again, In pride and power and pain, For England, aye! for England in the girth Of all her joy and worth, A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined, And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind, Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!

Sonnets.

I.

ECSTASY.

I cannot sing to thee as I would sing If I were quickened like the holy lark With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. A thing of splendour do I deem him then, A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. He fills me with such wonder and despair! I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright!

II.

VISIONS.

The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, And infant naïads bathing in the rill, And dryad maids that dance upon the green, And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen They wear in summer, when the air is still. He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, And sees Creation through its mask terrene. The dead are wise, for they alone can see As see the bards,--as see, beyond the dust, The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just. There is no comfort in the bitter fee That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust.

III.

THE DAISY.

See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon,-- A mimic sun to light a true-love bower For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon, Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon. It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour, As if endowed with nympholeptic power,-- Then shuts its petals like a folding tune! I love it more than words of mine can say, And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer. Methinks the lark has made it still his care To brag of daisies to the lord of day. Well! I will follow suit, as best I may, Launching my love-songs on the summer air.

IV.

PROBATION.

Could I, O Love! obtain a charter clear To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days, I would consult the stars, from year to year, And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways, And why the nymphs so seldom now appear In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze; And I would learn of thee why joy decays, And why the Fauns have ceas'd to flourish here. I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas!" Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight; I would peruse the writing on the grass Which flowers have traced in blue and red and white; And, reading these, I would, as from a pen, Read thoughts of thine unguess'd by other men!

V.

DANTE.

He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor; But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven, And those of all the week-days that are seven, And those of all the centuries that endure. He bow'd to none; he kept his honour sure. He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven[A] To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure. He knew the secrets of the singing-time; He track'd the sun; he ate the luscious fruit Of grief and joy; and with his wonder-lute He made himself a name in every clime. The minds of men were madly stricken mute And all the world lay subject to his rhyme!

[A] Steven, a voice; old word revived.

VI.

DIFFIDENCE.

I cannot deck my thought in proud attire, Or make it fit for thee in any dress, Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire, In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire, Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless. For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness And well I know the weakness of the lyre Which I have striven to sway to thy caress. Yet must I quell my tears and calm the smart Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's surge. I must control the beating of my heart, And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art, Has press'd, too long, a suit I dare not urge.

VII.

FAIRIES.

Glory endures when calumny hath fled; And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise, To all who hold a trust beyond the dead, And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise, With cheerful hearts or wildly-weeping eyes. They come and go when children are in bed To gladden them with dreams from out the skies And sanctify all tears that they have shed! Fairies are wing'd for wandering to and fro. They live in legends; they survive the Greeks. Wisdom is theirs; they live for us and grow, Like things ambrosial, fairer than the freaks Of signs and seasons which the poets know, Or fires of sunset on the mountain-peaks.

VIII.

SPIRIT LOVE.

How great my joy! How grand my recompense! I bow to thee; I keep thee in my sight. I call thee mine, in love though not in sense I share with thee the hermitage immense Of holy dreams which come to us at night, When, through the medium of the spirit-lens We see the soul, in its primeval light, And Reason spares the hopes it cannot blight. It is the soul of thee, and not the form, And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep. It is thyself. The body is the storm, The soul the star beyond it in the deep Of Nature's calm. And yonder on the steep The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm!

IX.

AFTER TWO DAYS.

Another night has turned itself to day, Another day has melted into eve, And lo! again I tread the measured way Of word and thought, the twain to interweave, As flowers absorb the rays that they receive. And, all along the woodland where I stray, I think of thee, and Nature keeps me gay, And sorrow soothes the soul it would bereave. Nor will I fear that thou, so far apart, So dear to me, so fair, and so benign, Wilt un-desire the fealty of a heart Which evermore is pledg'd to thee and thine, And turns to thee, in regions where thou art, To hymn the praises of thy face divine!

X.

BYRON.

He was a god descended from the skies To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave, And consecrate a hope he could not save; For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise. Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies, And oftentimes his life he did deprave. But all do pity him, though none despise. He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave. He ask'd for tears,--and they were tinged with fire; He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him. He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim, And found it not; then wept upon his lyre. He sang the songs of all the world's desire,-- He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!

XI.

LOVE'S AMBITION.

I must invoke thee for my spirit's good, And prove myself un-guilty of the crime Of mere self-seeking, though with this imbued. I sing as sings the mavis in a wood, Content to be alive at harvest time. Had I its wings I should not be withstood! But I will weave my fancies into rhyme, And greet afar the heights I cannot climb. I will invoke thee, Love! though far away, And pay thee homage, as becomes a knight Who longs to keep his true-love in his sight. Yea, I will soar to thee, in roundelay, In shine and shower, and make a bold assay Of each fond hope, to compass thee aright.

XII.

LOVE'S DEFEAT.

Do what I will, I cannot chant so well As other men; and yet my soul is true. My hopes are bold; my thoughts are hard to tell, But thou can'st read them, and accept them, too, Though, half-abash'd, they seem to hide from view. I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell; And why? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, And when I count the woes that must ensue. But for this reason, and no other one, I dare to look thy way, and bow my head To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!

XIII.

A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT.

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos; and I read the same As one may read the writing of a name,-- As one in Hell may see the sudden form Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame. How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm With hints of death; and in their vault enorme The reeling stars coagulate in flame. And now the torrents from their mountain-beds Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads; And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, And shake the air like Titians that have kiss'd!

XIV.

IN TUSCANY.

Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days, How in the golden land of love and song, We met in April in the crowded ways Of that fair city where the soul is strong, Aye! strong as fate, for good or evil praise? And how the lord whom all the world obeys,-- The lord of light to whom the stars belong,-- Illumed the track that led thee through the throng? Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, How all the air was flooded as with wine? And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, Peal'd out sweet notes? I live to tell the tale. But thou? Oblivion signs thee with a sign!

XV.

A HERO.

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight,-- How sad to live,--how sweet perchance to die. Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height, And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry; His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry. Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, When he survives to serve his Land aright And make his fame the watchword of the sky. In all our hopes his love is with us still; He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve. His acts are just; his word we must believe, And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill.-- Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!

XVI.

REMORSE.

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, My doom is this: my joy was quick to die. The chain of custom in the drowsy lair Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, And both abhorr'd it,--thou as well as I. Ah, God! 'tis tearful true; and I repent; And like a dead, live man I live for this:-- To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, And be my own most piteous monument. What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss? There, take it back; and frown; and be content!

XVII.

THE MISSION OF THE BARD.

He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold. He should be quicker than the birds to sing, And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old Who sang their songs for country and for king. Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told By fiends from Hell! He should be swift to hold And swift to part with truth, as from a spring. He should discourse of war and war's alarm, And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, And warlike men subdued by tender thought, And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought, And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm!

XVIII.

DEATH.

It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, And not a serpent with a look of guile, But one who greets us with a seraph's smile,-- An angel--guest to tend us after strife, And keep us true to God when fears are rife, And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile. He walks the world as one empower'd to fill The fields of space for Father and for Son. He is our friend, though morbidly we shun His tender touch,--a cure for every ill. He is the king of peace, when all is done. Earth and the air are moulded to his will.

XIX.

TO ONE I LOVE.

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, A garden nook, not far from thy domain, That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book, I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain, Rehearse the songs of nature once again:-- The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain, And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook! I die to serve thee, and for this alone,-- To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,-- I would forego the right to fill a throne. I would consent to be the famine-prey Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.

XX.

EX TENEBRA.

The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod, And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips. The very silence has appeal'd to God. In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod, 'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse Had dull'd the skies,--as if, on mountain tips, The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene, And clouds were foundering like benighted ships. But what is this, exultant, unforseen, Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing! Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring Hurl'd into space? It is the tempest-sun! It is the advent of the Phoeban king Which tells the valleys that the storm is done!

XXI.

VICTOR HUGO.

Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead! Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, But all unfit to deck so grand a head. It is the outcome of a neighbour land Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years. It is the token of a nation's tears Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again. Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain,-- These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse. We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse; We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign. Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!

XXII.

CYNTHIA.

O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, I charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, And by thy face, the oracle of brides, Why evermore Remorse with thee abides? Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer With ghosts and shades? Perchance thou dost aspire To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be? Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns? Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter Hath many moons--his daughters and his sons-- And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee?

XXIII.

PHILOMEL.

Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, Thrills into rapture; and the stars above Look down, affrighted, as they would reply. There is contagion, and I know not why, In all this clamour, all this fierce delight, As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, Had drawn some wild confession from the moon. Have wrongs been done? Have crimes enacted been To shame the weird retirement of the night? O clamourous bird! O sad; sweet nightingale! Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen. She may be pure, though dumb: and she is pale, And wears a radiance on her brow serene.

XXIV.

THE SONNET KING.

O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee, Great king of sonnets, thronèd long ago And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me, And miser-like, enamoured of my woe, I reckon up my teardrops as they flow. I would not lose the power to shed a tear For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign. I would not be so base as not complain When she I love is absent from my sight. No, not for all the marvels of the night, And all the varying splendours of the year. Do thou assist me, thou! that art the light Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere, To make a May-time of my sorrows slain.

XXV.

TOKEN FLOWERS.

Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God! Take not the daisy; let it bloom apace Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod; And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod. It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face, And everywhere doth fill a lowly place, Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod. 'Tis said the primrose is a party flower, And means coercion, and the coy renown Of one who toil'd for country and for crown. This may be so! But, in my Lady's bower, It means content,--a hope,--a golden hour. Primroses smile; and daisies cannot frown!

XXVI.

A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND.

Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call,-- By whom we live,--on whom our hopes are built,-- Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt, Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall! Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt, When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt, And keep it strong when traitors would appal. Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen And sword and buckler of our England's might, That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene, May fade away, as fades a winter's night. Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen. Wilt Thou not help us, Lord! to find the Light?

XXVII.

A VETERAN POET.

I knew thee first as one may know the fame Of some apostle, as a man may know The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow. I hail'd thee prince of poets! I became Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show, And all the splendours, Master! of thy name. But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men, I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand; And though the Muses in thy presence stand, There's room for me to loiter in thy ken. O lordly soul! O wizard of the pen! What news from God? What word from Fairyland?

A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY.

A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY.

I.

O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, man's delight! Fairest and first art thou in name and fame And none shall rob thee of thy vested right. Where is the man, though fifty times a king, Shall stay the tide, or countermand the spring? And where is he, though fifty times a knave, Shall track thy steps to cast thee in a grave?

II.

Old as the sun art thou, and young as morn, And fresh as April when the breezes blow, And girt with glory like the growing corn, And undefiled like mountains made of snow. Oh, thou'rt the summer of the souls of men, And poor men's rights, approved by sword and pen, Are made self-certain as the day at noon, And fair to view as flowers that grow in June.

III.

Look, where erect and tall thy Symbol waits,[B] The gift of France to friends beyond the deep, A lofty presence at the ocean-gates With lips of peace and eyes that cannot weep; A new-born Tellus with uplifted arm To light the seas, and keep the land from harm-- To light the coast at downfall of the day, And dower with dawn the darkening water-way.

[B] Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty in New York harbour.

IV.

_O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,_ _Mother and maid, immortal, stern of vow!_ _Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,_ _And thou shall wear the lightning on thy brow!_

V.

Who dares condemn thee with the puny breath Of one poor life, O thou untouched of Fate! Who seeks to lure thee to a felon's death, And thou so splendid and so love-elate? Who dares do this and live? Who dares assail Thy star-kissed forehead, pure and marble-pale; And thou so self-possessed 'mid all the stir, And like to Pallas born of Mulciber?

VI.

Oh, I've beheld the sun, at setting time, Peep o'er the hills as if to say good-bye; And I have hailed it with the sudden rhyme Of some new thought, full-freighted with a sigh. And I have mused:--E'en thus may Freedom fall, And darkness shroud it like a wintry pall, And night o'erwhelm it, and the shades thereof Engulf the glories born of perfect love.

VII.

But there's no fall for thee; there is no tomb; And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand. Thy face is fair with love's eternal bloom, And thou shalt have all things at thy command. A tomb for thee? Ay, when the sun is slain And lamps and fires make daylight on the plain, Then may'st thou die, O Freedom! and for thee A tomb be found where fears and dangers be.

VIII.

_O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,_ _Mother and maid, immortal, keen of sight!_ _Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,_ _And thou shall tread the tempest in the night!_

IX.

There shall be feasting and a sound of song In thy great cities; and a voice divine Shall tell of freedom all the winter long, And fill the air with rapture as with wine. The spring shall hear it, spring shall hear the sound, And summer waft it o'er the flowerful ground; And autumn pale shall shake her withered leaves On festal morns and star-bespangled eves.

X.

For thou'rt the smile of Heaven when earth is dim-- The face of God reflected in the sea-- The land's acclaim uplifted by the hymn Of some glad lark triumphant on the lea. Thou art all this and more! Thou art the goal Of earth's elected ones from pole to pole, The lute-string's voice, the world's primeval fire, And each man's hope, and every man's desire.

XI.

O proud and pure! O gentle and sublime! For thee and thine, O Freedom! O my Joy! For thee, Celestial! on the shores of time A throne is built which no man shall destroy. Thou shalt be seen for miles and miles around And wield a sceptre, though of none be crowned. The waves shall know thee, and the winds of Heaven Shall sing thee songs with mixed and mighty steven.

XII.

_O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,_ _Mother and maid, immortal, unconfined!_ _Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,_ _And thou shalt speed more swiftly than the wind!_

XIII.

Who loves thee not is traitor to himself, Traitor is he to God and to the grave, Poor as a miser with his load of pelf, And more unstable than a leeward wave. Cursèd is he for aye, and his shall be A name of shame from sea to furthest sea, A name of scorn to all men under sun Whose upright souls have learnt to loathe this one.

XIV.

A thousand times, O Freedom! have I turned To thy rapt face, and wished that martyr-wise I might achieve some glory, such as burned Within the depths of Gordon's azure eyes. Ah God! how sweet it were to give thee life, To aid thy cause, self-sinking in the strife, Loving thee best, O Freedom! and in tears Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years.

XV.

For thou art fearful, though so grand of soul, Fearful and fearless and the friend of men. The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control, And rich and poor shall take thy guidance then. Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar The fading lamp of some night-weary star, Which prophet-like, has heard amid the dark The first faint prelude of the nested lark?

XVI.

_O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,_ _Mother and maid, immortal, prompt of thought!_ _Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,_ _And thou shalt lash the storm till it be nought!_

XVII.

O thou desired of men! O thou supreme And true-toned spirit whom the bards revere! At times thou com'st in likeness of a dream To urge rebellion, with a face austere; And by that power thou hast--e'en by that power Which is the outcome of thy sovereign-dower-- Thou teachest slaves, down-trodden, how to stand Lords of themselves in each chivalrous Land.

XVIII.

The hosts of death, the squadrons of the law, The arm'd appeal to pageantry and hate, Shall serve, a space, to keep thy name in awe, And then collapse, as old and out of date. Yea! this shall be; for God has willed it so. And none shall touch thy flag, to lay it low; And none shall rend thy robe, that is to thee As dawn to day, as sunlight to the sea.

XIX.

For love of thee, thou grand, thou gracious thing! For love of thee all seas, and every shore, And all domains whereof the poets sing, Shall merge in Man's requirements evermore. And there shall be, full soon, from north to south, From east to west, by Wisdom's word of mouth One code of laws that all shall understand, And all the world shall be one Fatherland.

XX.

_O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,_ _Mother and maid, immortal, sweet of breath!_ _Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,_ _And thou shalt pluck Redemption out of Death!_

Italian Poems

BY ERIC MACKAY

LA ZINGARELLA.

IL PONTE D'AVIGLIO.

I MIEI SALUTI.

LA ZINGARELLA.

I.

Dimmi, dimmi, o trovatore, Tu che canti sul lïuto, Bello e bruno e pien d'amore Dalla valle in su venuto, Non ti fermi sull' altura Per mostrar la tua bravura? Non mi canti sul burrone Qualche lieta tua canzone?

II.

--Zingarella, in sulla sera Canta bene il rosignolo, Piange e canta in sua preghiera Salutando un dolce suolo. Ma il lïuto al mio toccare Pianger sa, non sa pregare ... Deh! che vuoi col tuo sorriso, Tu che sai di paradiso?

III.

--Vò sentire in tuo linguaggio Come è fatto un uom fedele, Se l'amor lo fa selvaggio, Se il destin lo fa crudele. Parla schietto; son profana Ma ben leggo l'alma umana. Parla pur dei tuoi vïaggi Nei deserti e nei villaggi.

IV.

--Canterotti, o zingarella, Qualche allegra mia ballata, Qualche estatica novella D' una dama innamorata ... --Dimmi tutto!--Canterotti D' Ungheria le meste notti. D' Ungheria?--Del Bosco Santo Dove nacque il gran Sorranto.

V.

Sappi in breve, son marchese Castellano e cantatore, Cattivai con questo arnese D'una maga un dì l'amore. --D' una maga?--Si, di quelle Che san legger nelle stelle. --E fu bella?--Non v' è guari Dama, oh no, che le sia pari.

VI.

Come parca in fra le dita Essa tenne il mio destino, Fu la sfinge di mia vita Col sorriso suo divino. Avea biondi i suoi capelli, Occhi neri e molto belli, Braccia e collo in puritade Come neve quando cade.

VII.

--Taci, taci, o castellano; Qui convien pregar per essa. --Io l'amai d'amor sovrano! Pronta fu la sua promessa. L' aspettai; mi fu cortese, Ma fuggì dal mio paëse, Travestita un dì di Maggio Come biondo e giovin paggio.

VIII.

Oh, giammai non fu sognata Cosa uguale per bellezza Chi la vide incoronata Sorridea per tenerezza. Chi la vide di mattina La credeva una regina, Qualche sogno di poeta, Qualche incanto di profeta!

IX.

--Traditor! col tuo lïuto Tu l' hai fatto innamorare! --Io giurai per San Bernuto E pel Cristo in sull' altare, Per Giuseppe e per Maria Che farei la vita pia. --E il facesti?--I sacri voti Ricantai dei sacredoti.

X.

--Or m'ascolta, o trovatore, Or rispondi, e dimmi il vero: Hai veduto il mesto fiore Che si coglie in cimitero? Hai veduto i fior di rose Che s'intreccian per le spose, Quando cantan desolati Gli usignoli abbandonati?

XI.

Crolli il capo; impallidisci; Stendi a me la bianca mano; Non rispondi; e forse ambisci Della sposa ormai l'arcano? Qui morì la Gilda, maga Sotto il nome di Menzaga; Quì morì, nel suo pallore, Per l'amor d'un trovatore!

* * * * *

XII.

Stravolto l'amante s'inchina; Ei mira la mesta donzella. Velata è la maga, ma bella, Coll'occhio che pianger non sa. --O donna, l'amor t'indovina ... Tu, Gilda, t'ascondi colà!

XIII.

Nel mondo non v' è la sembianza Di tale e di tanta beltade! Non cresce per queste contrade Nè giglio nè spirto d'amor. Tu sola tu sei la Speranza Che tenni qua stretta sul cor.

XIV.

Tu sola tu sei la mia dama, La gioja e l'onor della vita; Tu sola, donzella romita, Del mondo la diva sei tu. L'amor ti conosce, e la fama; Nè manca l'antica virtù.

XV.

Ma dove è la fé del passato Che tanto brillò nella festa? L'amore, l'onore, le gesta D'un tempo che presto fuggì? Fu vero? L'ho forse sognato? Tu pur l'hai sognato così!

* * * * * * * * * *

XVI.

La maga intenta ascolta il suo galante; Ride, si scioglie il velo e guarda il Sire. Rossa diventa e bianca in uno istante, E poi s' asconde il viso e vuol fuggire. Corre nei bracci suoi lo fido amante; E favellar vorria nel suo gioïre...

XVII.

--Deh! taci, oh taci! Al mondo ovunque è doglia. Gilda son io. Ti bacio e son contenta. Pianger non so se non per pazza voglia Come la strega allor che si lamenta ...

XVIII.

Cosa vuoi tu? Che vuoi che si mi guardi? Diva non son, ma donna; e fui crudele. --Baciami in bocca. O Dio! mi stringi ed ardi Tanto d' amore e piangi e sei fedele?

XIX.

--Ugo! M' ascolta, io son la tua meschina, Forte ben si, ma doma in questi agoni; Sono la schiava tua, la tua regina, Quel che tu vuoi purché non m'abbandoni!

XX.

--O cara, o casta, o bella, o tu che bramo, Dammi la morte unita a un tuo sorriso. Eva sarai per me. Son io l'Adamo; E quivi in terra avrassi il paradiso!

IL PONTE D'AVIGLIO.

I.

O mesto bambino col capo chinato, Rispondi; rispondi. Che fece Renato? Fu vinto Morello? Fu salvo Lindoro? Rispondi; rispondi!--Son padre di loro.

II.

Non veggo tornare dal Ponte d'Aviglio Renato superbo del vinto periglio. L' han forse promosso? Risorge la guerra? Rispondi; rispondi!--L' han messo sotterra.

III.

O ciel! tu lo senti, tu vedi l'oltraggio; Renato fu prence del nostro villaggio! ... Ma dimmi, piccino. Che fece Morello? Rispondi; rispondi!--Lo chiude l' avello.

IV.

Ahi, crudo destino! Si grande, si forte, Morello nasceva per vincer la morte. Ma l' altro? Che fece sul campo serrato? Rispondi; rispondi!--Morì da soldato.

V.

Gran Dio! che mi narri! Pur desso m' é tolto? Renato m' é morto? Morello sepolto? E piangi, ... tu pure? Gentile bambino! Che dici? Rispondi!--Vi resta Giannino.

VI.

Oh si, del figliuolo l'ignoto tesoro, L'incognito figlio del biondo Lindoro. Ma dove trovarlo nel nome di Dio? Rispondi; rispondi!--Buon padre, son io.

I MIEI SALUTI.

I.

Ti saluto, Margherita Fior di vita, ... ti saluto! Sei la speme del mattino, Sei la gioja del giardino.

II.

Ti saluto, Rosignolo Nel tuo duolo, ... ti saluto! Sei l' amante della rosa Che morendo si fa sposa.

III.

Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio Col tuo raggio, ... ti saluto! Sei l' Apollo del passato, Sei l' amore incoronato.

IV.

Ti saluto, Donna mia, Casta e pia, ... ti saluto! Sei la diva dei desiri, Sei la Santa dei Sospiri.

Transcriber's Notes

Words enclosed in round brackets, (thus), may be used to search for the affected text.

Words used interchangeably in this book:

anear a-near seaward sea-ward

Page xvi

(influence felt.)

Changed iufluence to influence.

Page xxvii

*** equates to an asterism in text file.

Page 99

(Where Neptune dwelt,)

Changed Nepture to Neptune.