Chapter 2

Has thou forgotten those days illumined with glory and honor, When the far isles of the sea thrilled to the tread of Castile? When every land under Heaven was flecked by the shade of thy banner,-- When every beam of the sun flashed on thy conquering steel?

IV.

Then through red fields of slaughter, through death and defeat and disaster, Still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but free from a stain, Now to the upstart Savoyard thou bendest to beg for a master! How the red flush of her shame mars the proud beauty of Spain!

V.

Has the red blood run cold that boiled by the Xenil and Darro? Are the high deeds of the sires sung to the children no more? On the dun hills of the North hast thou heard of no plough-boy Pizarro? Roams no young swine-herd Cortés hid by the Tagus' wild shore?

VI.

Once again does Hispania bend low to the yoke of the stranger! Once again will she rise, flinging her gyves in the sea! Princeling of Piedmont! unwitting thou weddest with doubt and with danger, King over men who have learned all that it costs to be free.

The Prayer of The Romans

Not done, but near its ending, Is the work that our eyes desired; Not yet fulfilled, but near the goal, Is the hope that our worn hearts fired. And on the Alban Mountains, Where the blushes of dawn increase, We see the flash of the beautiful feet Of Freedom and of Peace!

How long were our fond dreams baffled!-- Novara's sad mischance, The Kaiser's sword and fetter-lock, And the traitor stab of France; Till at last came glorious Venice, In storm and tempest home; And now God maddens the greedy kings, And gives to her people Rome.

Lame Lion of Caprera! Red-shirts of the lost campaigns! Not idly shed was the costly blood You poured from generous veins. For the shame of Aspromonte, And the stain of Mentana's sod, But forged the curse of kings that sprang From your breaking hearts to God!

We lift our souls to thee, O Lord Of Liberty and of Light! Let not earth's kings pollute the work That was done in their despite; Let not thy light be darkened In the shade of a sordid crown, Nor pampered swine devour the fruit Thou shook'st with an earthquake down!

Let the People come to their birthright, And crosier and crown pass away Like phantasms that flit o'er the marshes At the glance of the clean, white day. And then from the lava of Aetna To the ice of the Alps let there be One freedom, one faith without fetters, One republic in Italy free!

The Curse of Hungary

Saloman looked from his donjon bars, Where the Danube clamors through sedge and sand, And he cursed with a curse his revolting land,-- With a king's deep curse of treason and wars.

He said: "May this false land know no truth! May the good hearts die and the bad ones flourish, And a greed of glory but live to nourish Envy and hate in its restless youth.

"In the barren soil may the ploughshare rust, While the sword grows bright with its fatal labor, And blackens between each man and neighbor-- The perilous cloud of a vague distrust!

"Be the noble idle, the peasant in thrall, And each to the other as unknown things, That with links of hatred and pride the kings May forge firm fetters through each for all!

"May a king wrong them as they wronged their king! May he wring their hearts as they wrung mine, Till they pour their blood for his revels like wine, And to women and monks their birthright fling!"

The mad king died; but the rushing river Still brawls by the spot where his donjon stands, And its swift waves sigh to the conscious sands That the curse of King Saloman works forever.

For flowing by Pressbourg they heard the cheers Ring out from the leal and cheated hearts That were caught and chained by Theresa's arts,-- A man's cool head and a girl's hot tears!

And a star, scarce risen, they saw decline, Where Orsova's hills looked coldly down, As Kossuth buried the Iron Crown And fled in the dark to the Turkish line.

And latest they saw in the summer glare The Magyar nobles in pomp arrayed, To shout as they saw, with his unfleshed blade, A Hapsburg beating the harmless air.

But ever the same sad play they saw, The same weak worship of sword and crown, The noble crushing the humble down, And moulding Wrong to a monstrous Law.

The donjon stands by the turbid river, But Time is crumbling its battered towers; And the slow light withers a despot's powers, And a mad king's curse is not forever!

The Monks of Basle

I tore this weed from the rank, dark soil Where it grew in the monkish time, I trimmed it close and set it again In a border of modern rhyme.

I.

Long years ago, when the Devil was loose And faith was sorely tried, Three monks of Basle went out to walk In the quiet eventide.

A breeze as pure as the breath of Heaven Blew fresh through the cloister-shades, A sky as glad as the smile of Heaven Blushed rose o'er the minster-glades.

But scorning the lures of summer and sense, The monks passed on in their walk; Their eyes were abased, their senses slept, Their souls were in their talk.

In the tough grim talk of the monkish days They hammered and slashed about,-- Dry husks of logic,--old scraps of creed,-- And the cold gray dreams of doubt,--

And whether Just or Justified Was the Church's mystic Head,-- And whether the Bread was changed to God, Or God became the Bread

But of human hearts outside their walls They never paused to dream, And they never thought of the love of God That smiled in the twilight gleam.

II.

As these three monks went bickering on By the foot of a spreading tree, Out from its heart of verdurous gloom A song burst wild and free,--

A wordless carol of life and love, Of nature free and wild; And the three monks paused in the evening shade Looked up at each other and smiled.

And tender and gay the bird sang on, And cooed and whistled and trilled, And the wasteful wealth of life and love From his happy heart was spilled.

The song had power on the grim old monks In the light of the rosy skies; And as they listened the years rolled back, And tears came into their eyes.

The years rolled back and they were young, With the hearts and hopes of men, They plucked the daisies and kissed the girls Of dear dead summers again.

III.

But the eldest monk soon broke the spell; "'Tis sin and shame," quoth he, "To be turned from talk of holy things By a bird's cry from a tree.

"Perchance the Enemy of Souls Hath come to tempt us so. Let us try by the power of the Awful Word If it be he, or no!"

To Heaven the three monks raised their hands "We charge thee, speak!" they said, "By His dread Name who shall one day come To judge the quick and the dead,--

"Who art thou? Speak!" The bird laughed loud "I am the Devil," he said. The monks on their faces fell, the bird Away through the twilight sped.

A horror fell on those holy men, (The faithful legends say,) And one by one from the face of earth They pined and vanished away.

IV.

So goes the tale of the monkish books, The moral who runs may read,-- He has no ears for Nature's voice Whose soul is the slave of creed.

Not all in vain with beauty and love Has God the world adorned; And he who Nature scorns and mocks, By Nature is mocked and scorned.

The Enchanted Shirt

Fytte the First: _wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty a Drug for such as he of feeble temper_.

The King was sick. His cheek was red And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score. They did not cure him. He cut off their heads And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat, He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble, If they recovered they paid him well, If they died their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale,-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran,-- _King will be well, if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.

Fytte the Second: _tells of the search for the Shirt and how it was nigh found but was not, for reasons which are said or sung_.

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waists in stays, And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last as they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed and rolled On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed And his voice rang free and glad, "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. "I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

Fytte the Third: _shewing how His Majesty the King came at last to sleep in a Happy Man his Shirt_.

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

A Woman's Love

A sentinel angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved,--and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again; And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upward, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,-- She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

On Pitz Languard

I stood on the top of Pitz Languard, And heard three voices whispering low, Where the Alpine birds in their circling ward Made swift dark shadows upon the snow.

_First voice_.

I loved a girl with truth and pain, She loved me not. When she said good by She gave me a kiss to sting and stain My broken life to a rosy dye.

_Second voice_.

I loved a woman with love well tried,-- And I swear I believe she loves me still. But it was not I who stood by her side When she answered the priest and said "I will."

_Third voice._

I loved two girls, one fond, one shy, And I never divined which one loved me. One married, and now, though I can't tell why. Of the four in the story I count but three.

The three weird voices whispered low Where the eagles swept in their circling ward; But only one shadow scarred the snow As I clambered down from Pitz Languard.

Boudoir Prophecies

One day in the Tuileries, When a southwest Spanish breeze Brought scandalous news of the Queen, The fair proud Empress said, "My good friend loses her head; If matters go on this way, I shall see her shopping, some day, In the Boulevard des Capucines."

The saying swiftly went To the Place of the Orient, And the stout Queen sneered, "Ah, well! You are proud and prude, ma belle! But I think I will hazard a guess I shall see you one day playing chess With the Curé of Carabanchel."

Both ladies, though not over-wise, Were lucky in prophecies. For the Boulevard shopmen well Know the form of stout Isabel As she buys her modes de Paris; And after Sedan in despair The Empress prude and fair Went to visit Madame sa Mère In her villa at Carabanchel-- But the Queen was not there to see.

A Triumph of Order

A Squad of regular infantry In the Commune's closing days, Had captured a crowd of rebels By the wall of Père-la-Chaise.

There were desperate men, wild women, And dark-eyed Amazon girls, And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek And yellow clustering curls.

The captain seized the little waif, And said, "What dost thou here?" "Sapristi, Citizen captain! I'm a Communist, my dear!"

"Very well! Then you die with the others!" --"Very well! That's my affair; But first let me take to my mother, Who lives by the wine-shop there,

"My father's watch. You see it; A gay old thing, is it not? It would please the old lady to have it, Then I'll come back here, and be shot.

"That is the last we shall see of him," The grizzled captain grinned, As the little man skimmed down the hill, Like a swallow down the wind.

For the joy of killing had lost its zest In the glut of those awful days, And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, From the Arch to Père-la-Chaise.

But before the last platoon had fired, The child's shrill voice was heard; "Houp-là! the old girl made such a row I feared I should break my word."

Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest, A button was lost from his ragged blouse, Which showed his soft white breast.

"Now blaze away, my children! With your little one-two-three!" The Chassepots tore the stout young heart, And saved Society.

Ernst of Edelsheim

I'll tell the story, kissing This white hand for my pains: No sweeter heart, nor falser E'er filled such fine, blue veins.

I'll sing a song of true love, My Lilith dear! to you; _Contraria contrariis_-- The rule is old and true.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim; And why he was the happiest, I'll tell you in my rhyme.

One summer night he wandered Within a lonely glade, And, couched in moss and moonlight, He found a sleeping maid.

The stars of midnight sifted Above her sands of gold; She seemed a slumbering statue, So fair and white and cold.

Fair and white and cold she lay Beneath the starry skies; Rosy was her waking Beneath the Ritter's eyes.

He won her drowsy fancy, He bore her to his towers, And swift with love and laughter Flew morning's purpled hours.

But when the thickening sunbeams Had drunk the gleaming dew, A misty cloud of sorrow Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue.

She hung upon the Ritter's neck, S he wept with love and pain, She showered her sweet, warm kisses Like fragrant summer rain.

"I am no Christian soul," she sobbed, As in his arms she lay; "I'm half the day a woman, A serpent half the day.

"And when from yonder bell-tower Rings out the noonday chime, Farewell! farewell forever, Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!"

"Ah! not farewell forever!" The Ritter wildly cried, "I will be saved or lost with thee, My lovely Wili-Bride!"

Loud from the lordly bell-tower Rang out the noon of day, And from the bower of roses A serpent slid away.

But when the mid-watch moonlight Was shimmering through the grove, He clasped his bride thrice dowered With beauty and with love.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim-- His true love was a serpent Only half the time!

My Castle in Spain

There was never a castle seen So fair as mine in Spain: It stands embowered in green, Crowning the gentle slope Of a hill by the Xenil's shore, And at eve its shade flaunts o'er The storied Vega plain, And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope; And I toil through years of pain Its glimmering gates to gain.

In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet: Sometimes in joy its shining halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day Were blest with its ivied walls, Where the marble white and the granite gray Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, When the soft day dimly falls.

I know in its dusky rooms Are treasures rich and rare; The spoil of Eastern looms, And whatever of bright and fair Painters divine have caught and won From the vault of Italy's air: White gods in Phidian stone People the haunted glooms; And the song of immortal singers Like a fragrant memory lingers, I know, in the echoing rooms.

But nothing of these, my soul! Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, Nor the waves of the river that roll With a cadence faint and sweet In peace by its marble feet-- Nothing of these is the goal For which my whole heart sighs. 'Tis the pearl gives worth to the shell-- The pearl I would die to gain; For there does my lady dwell, My love that I love so well-- The Queen whose gracious reign Makes glad my Castle in Spain.

Her face so pure and fair Sheds light in the shady places, And the spell of her girlish graces Holds charmed the happy air. A breath of purity Forever before her flies, And ill things cease to be In the glance of her honest eyes. Around her pathway flutter, Where her dear feet wander free In youth's pure majesty, The wings of the vague desires; But the thought that love would utter In reverence expires.

Not yet! not yet shall I see That face which shines like a star O'er my storm-swept life afar, Transfigured with love for me. Toiling, forgetting, and learning With labor and vigils and prayers, Pure heart and resolute will, At last I shall climb the hill And breathe the enchanted airs Where the light of my life is burning Most lovely and fair and free, Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty, Unconscious she waits for me.

Sister Saint Luke

She lived shut in by flowers and trees And shade of gentle bigotries. On this side lay the trackless sea, On that the great world's mystery; But all unseen and all unguessed They could not break upon her rest. The world's far splendors gleamed and flashed, Afar the wild seas foamed and dashed; But in her small, dull Paradise, Safe housed from rapture or surprise, Nor day nor night had power to fright The peace of God that filled her eyes.

New and Old.

Miles Keogh's Horse

On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, At the close of a woful day, Custer and his Three Hundred In death and silence lay.

Three Hundred to three Thousand! They had bravely fought and bled; For such is the will of Congress When the White man meets the Red.

The White men are ten millions, The thriftiest under the sun; The Reds are fifty thousand, And warriors every one.

So Custer and all his fighting men Lay under the evening skies, Staring up at the tranquil heaven With wide, accusing eyes.

And of all that stood at noonday In that fiery scorpion ring, Miles Keogh's horse at evening Was the only living thing.

Alone from that field of slaughter, Where lay the three hundred slain, The horse Comanche wandered, With Keogh's blood on his mane.

And Sturgis issued this order, Which future times shall read, While the love and honor of comrades Are the soul of the soldier's creed.

He said-- _Let the horse Comanche Henceforth till he shall die, Be kindly cherished and cared for By the Seventh Cavalry

He shall do no labor; he never shall know The touch of spur or rein; Nor shall his back be ever crossed By living rider again

And at regimental formation Of the Seventh Cavalry_, _Comanche draped in mourning and led By a trooper of Company

Shall parade with the Regiment!_

Thus it was Commanded and thus done, By order of General Sturgis, signed By Adjutant Garlington.

Even as the sword of Custer, In his disastrous fall, Flashed out a blaze that charmed the world And glorified his pall,

This order, issued amid the gloom That shrouds our army's name, When all foul beasts are free to rend And tear its honest fame,

Shall prove to a callous people That the sense of a soldier's worth, That the love of comrades, the honor of arms, Have not yet perished from earth.

The Advance Guard

In the dream of the Northern poets, The brave who in battle die Fight on in shadowy phalanx In the field of the upper sky; And as we read the sounding rhyme, The reverent fancy hears The ghostly ring of the viewless swords And the clash of the spectral spears.

We think with imperious questionings Of the brothers whom we have lost, And we strive to track in death's mystery The flight of each valiant ghost. The Northern myth comes back to us, And we feel, through our sorrow's night, That those young souls are striving still Somewhere for the truth and light.

It was not their time for rest and sleep; Their hearts beat high and strong; In their fresh veins the blood of youth Was singing its hot, sweet song. The open heaven bent over them, Mid flowers their lithe feet trod, Their lives lay vivid in light, and blest By the smiles of women and God.

Again they come! Again I hear The tread of that goodly band; I know the flash of Ellsworth's eye And the grasp of his hard, warm hand; And Putnam, and Shaw, of the lion-heart, And an eye like a Boston girl's; And I see the light of heaven which lay On Ulric Dahlgren's curls.

There is no power in the gloom of hell To quench those spirits' fire; There is no power in the bliss of heaven To bid them not aspire; But somewhere in the eternal plan That strength, that life survive, And like the files on Lookout's crest, Above death's clouds they strive.

A chosen corps, they are marching on In a wider field than ours; Those bright battalions still fulfill The scheme of the heavenly powers; And high brave thoughts float down to us, The echoes of that far fight, Like the flash of a distant picket's gun Through the shades of the severing night.

No fear for them! In our lower field Let us keep our arms unstained, That at last we be worthy to stand with them On the shining heights they've gained. We shall meet and greet in closing ranks In Time's declining sun, When the bugles of God shall sound recall And the battle of life be won.

Love's Prayer

If Heaven would hear my prayer, My dearest wish would be, Thy sorrows not to share But take them all on me; If Heaven would hear my prayer.

I'd beg with prayers and sighs That never a tear might flow From out thy lovely eyes, If Heaven might grant it so; Mine be the tears and sighs.

No cloud thy brow should cover, But smiles each other chase From lips to eyes all over Thy sweet and sunny face; The clouds my heart should cover.