Chapter 2

Their solid bastions,--towering high Though rooted in earth's primal plan,-- Proclaim to every passer by The cradle of the Corsican.

What martial soul there found rebirth, When on those cliffs, then scarcely known, There once more visited the earth The spirit called Napoleon?

Three islands, like the sister Fates, His life-thread wove upon their loom From fair Ajaccio's silvered gates To Saint Helena's mournful tomb;--

The first, his birthplace; whence appeared His baleful star with lurid glow; Next, Elba, where the world still feared The fugitive from Fontainebleau;

Last, England's lonely prison-block, Grim fragment 'neath a tropic sky, Where, like Prometheus on his rock, The captive Caesar came to die,

O Corsica, sublimely wild And riven by the winds and waves, Thy fame is deathless from thy child, Whose glory filled a million graves.

TO THE VENUS OF MELOS

O goddess of that Grecian isle Whose shores the blue Aegean laves, Whose cliffs repeat with answering smile Their features in its sun-kissed waves!

An exile from thy native place, We view thee in a northern clime; Yet mark on thy majestic face A glory still undimmed by Time.

Through those calm lips, proud goddess, speak! Portray to us thy gorgeous fane, Where Melian lovers thronged to seek Thine aid, Love's paradise to gain;

And where, as in the saffron east, Day's jewelled gates were open flung, With stately pomp the attendant priest Drew back the veil before thee hung;

And when the daring kiss of morn, Empurpling, made thy charms more fair, Sweet strains from unseen minstrels borne Awoke from dreams the perfumed air.

Vouchsafe at last our minds to free From doubts pertaining to thy charms,-- The meaning of thy bended knee, The secret of thy vanished arms.

Wast thou in truth conjoined with Mars? Did thy fair hands his shield embrace, The surface of whose golden bars Grew lovely from thy mirrored face?

Or was it some bright scroll of fame Thus poised on thine extended knee, Upon which thou didst trace the name Of that fierce god so dear to thee?

Whate'er thou hadst, no mere delight Was thine the glittering prize to hold; Not thine the form that met thy sight, Replying from the burnished gold;

Unmindful what thy hands retained, Thy gaze is fixed beyond, above; Some dearer object held enchained The goddess of immortal love.

We mark the motion of thine eyes, And smile; for, heldst thou shield or scroll, A tender love-glance we surprise, That tells the secret of thy soul.

MORS LEONIS

When o'er the agèd lion steals The instinct of approaching death, Whose numbing grasp he vaguely feels In trembling limbs and labored breath, He shuns the garish light of day, And leaving mate and whelps at play, In mournful silence creeps away.

From bush to bush, by devious trails, He drags himself from hill to hill, And, as his old strength slowly fails, Drinks long at many a mountain rill, Until he gains, with stifled moan, A height, to hated man unknown, Where he may die, at least alone.

Relaxing now his mighty claws, He lies, half shrouded by his mane, His grand head resting on his paws, And heeding little save his pain, As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep, The film of death begins to creep,-- The prelude to eternal sleep.

As Caesar, reeling 'neath the stroke And dagger-thrust of many a friend, Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak, To meet, unseen, his tragic end, So hath this desert-monarch tried With noble dignity to hide From others how and where he died.

And now his spirit is serene; For here no stranger can intrude To view this last, pathetic scene, Or mar its sombre solitude; Prone on the lonely mountain crest, Confronting the resplendent west, The dying lion sinks to rest.

Proud king of beasts! thy death should teach Mankind the cheapness of display; More eloquent than human speech, Thy grand example shows the way To pass from life, unheard, unseen, And with composed, majestic mien Death's awful sacredness to screen.

Nay, more! thou didst select a place Where, unobserved, thy form could rest, Till Mother Earth with fond embrace Should hide it in her ample breast; Like Moses in lone Nebo's land, Thou hast been sepulchred in sand, Unseen by eye, untouched by hand.

No pompous tomb shall ever rise Above thy lonely, sun-bleached frame; No epitaph of well-turned lies Shall be inscribed beneath thy name; No bells for thee a dirge shall ring, No choir beside thy grave shall sing, Yet hast thou perished like a king!

A STORY OF THE SEA

Were you ever told the legend old Of the birth of storms at sea? You should hear the tale in a Channel gale, As happened once to me, On a fearful night off Fastnet Light, With Ireland on our lee.

In the good old days, which poets praise As the best that man hath seen, The storm-king's hand might smite the land, But the sea remained serene; Blow east, blow west, its sun-kissed breast Kept ever its tranquil sheen.

Not a single trace came o'er its face Of the storms that raged elsewhere; No misty screen e'er crept between The sun and its image there; And its depths at night were gemmed with light By stars in the crystal air.

The fisherman laughed in his little craft, If a landsman felt alarm, For never did gale a ship assail, Or a sailor suffer harm; There was nothing to fear, for the skies were clear, And the ocean always calm.

But on the shore, where more and more The human race increased, There were cold and heat, and snow and sleet, And troubles never ceased; For wind and rain beat down the grain, And the plague slew man and beast.

And even worse was the moral curse, That came like a deadly blight Through men who seized whate'er they pleased, On the plea that might makes right, Till the fatal seed of selfish greed Made life a bitter fight.

Hence many sighed, as they watched the tide Glide out to the sunset sea, And longed to go with its gentle flow To where they hoped might be A realm of peace, where sorrows cease, And souls from pain are free.

At last they said,--"We were better dead, Than endure this anguish more; Let us seek relief from care and grief Far out from the storm-swept shore; The sea can bring no sadder thing Than the life we lived before."

So a ship was framed, which they fondly named "The Peace of the Human Mind," And the weary band soon left the land And its ceaseless strife behind; But unattained the goal remained They had so longed to find.

For the souls that came were quite the same As they were before they sailed; And, as pride and hate did not abate, The hope of the voyagers failed; And, facing alone the great Unknown, The bravest spirits quailed.

Meanwhile the ship began to dip, And labored to and fro, For the sea, though fair, could no more bear This load of human woe; And at last the boat, with all afloat, Sank helplessly below.

Down, down it swirled to the nether world; While up from the riven main Came the gurgling sound of those who drowned, As the vortex closed again; The sea surged back to its wonted track; Once more 'twas a sun-lit plain!

But soon men saw, with deepening awe, That sea grow white with spray; Its brilliant hue was changed from blue To a deathlike, leaden gray; And a sullen roar approached the shore Whence the ship had sailed away.

Huge waves rolled in with frightful din, And spat out hissing foam, And smote the sand along the strand, And swept off many a home; And lightnings flashed and thunder crashed From heaven's ink-black dome.

"Alas!" they cried, "that our brothers died In the depths of the sea of peace; They have brought unrest to its quiet breast, Which nevermore shall cease; For the peace it lost we must pay the cost; And behold! our woes increase!"

In truth, since then how many men Have learned that the mighty deep Can heave and swell to a seething hell, When storms its surface sweep! For its calm hath fled, and countless dead Are the spoils it loves to heap.

But at its best, when it lies at rest On a cloudless summer day, And, tiger-like, forbears to strike, But, sated, basks at play, One seems to hear, with the psychic ear, Its murmuring wavelets say,--

"No real relief from care and grief Is found o'er distant waves; The men who sail to find it, fail, And sink to lonely graves; In the firm control of man's own soul Is alone the peace he craves."

OLD HYMN-TUNES

Dear, old-time tunes of prayer and praise, Heard first beside my mother's knee, Your music on my spirit lays A spell from which I should be free, If lapse of time gave liberty.

I listen, and the crowded years Fade, dream-like, from my life, and lo! I find my eyelids wet with tears,-- So much I loved, so well I know Those plaintive airs of long ago!

They tell me of my vanished youth, Of faith in what so flawless seemed, Before the painful quest of truth Had proved how much I then esteemed Was other than I fondly dreamed!

They make my childhood live again; And life's fair dawn grows once more bright, While listening to the sweet refrain, Sung in the Sabbath's waning light,-- "Glory to Thee, my God, this night!"

My mother's voice, so pure and strong, My father's flute of silvery tone, The little household's strength of song, The childish treble of my own,-- I hear them once more, but ... alone!

Sweet obligato to some hymn Whose words those vanished tones recall, Float o'er me, when earth's scenes grow dim, And life's last, lingering echoes fall, Till silence settles over all!

BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA

O Buddha, of the mystic smile And downcast, dreamful eyes, To whom unnumbered sacred shrines And gilded statues rise,

Whose fanes are filled with worshippers, Whose hallowed name is sung By myriads of the human race In every Eastern tongue,

What means thy sweet serenity? Our planet, as it rolls, Sweeps through the starry universe A mass of burdened souls,

Still agonized and pitiful, Despite the countless years That man has spent in wandering Through paths of blood and tears!

O Lord of love and sympathy For all created life, How canst thou view thus placidly The world's incessant strife,

The misery and massacre Of war's destructive train, The martyrdom of animals, The tragedy of pain,

The infamous brutalities To helpless children shown, The pathos of whose joyless lives Might melt a heart of stone?

Preeminently merciful, Does not thy spirit long To guard from inhumanity The weak against the strong?

Thou biddest us deal tenderly With every breathing-thing,-- The horse that drags the heavy load, The bird upon the wing,

The flocks along the riverside, The cattle on the lea, And every living denizen Of earth and air and sea;

Yet daily in the shambles A sea of blood is spilled, And man is nourished chiefly From beasts that he has killed!

And hunters still find happiness In seeing, red with wounds, A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes, Dragged down by yelping hounds!

What is the real significance Of thine unchanging smile? Hast thou the secret consciousness That grief is not worth while?

That sorrow is the consequence Of former lives of sin,-- The spur that goads us on and up A nobler life to win?

That pain is as impermanent As shadows on the hills, And that Nirvana's blessedness Will cure all mortal ills?

But agony is agony, And small is the relief If, measured with eternity, Life's anguish be but brief.

To hearts that break with misery, To every tortured frame The present pain is paramount, Nirvana but a name.

Moreover, why should former lives Bequeath their weight of woe, If with it comes no memory To guide us, as we go?

If o'er the dark, prenatal void No mental bridge be cast, No thread, however frail, to link The present to the past?

Still silent and dispassionate! Ah, would that I might find The key to the serenity That fills thy lofty mind!

Thou hast a joy we do not feel, A light we cannot see; Injustice, sin, and wretchedness No longer sadden thee;

No doubt to thy sublimer gaze Life's mystery grows plain, As finally full recompense Atones for earthly pain.

THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

Here ends at last the Inland Sea! Still seems its outlet, as of yore, The anteroom of Mystery, As, through its westward-facing door, I see the vast Atlantic lie In splendor 'neath a sunset sky.

Above its distant, glittering rim Streams o'er the waves a flood of gold, To gild the mountains, bare and grim, Which guard this exit, as of old,-- The sombre sentries of two seas, The Pillars reared by Hercules;--

Gibraltar,--on the northern shore, By conquering Moors once proudly trod,-- And, to the south a league or more, Huge Abyla, the "Mount of God", Whence burdened Atlas watched with ease The Gardens of Hesperides.

How many slow-paced centuries passed, Before brave sailors dared to creep Beyond the gloom these monsters cast, And venture on the unknown deep, At last resolving to defy The "God-established" termini!

Yet no fierce gods opposed their path; No lurid bolt or arrow sped To crush them with celestial wrath, And number them among the dead; The dreadful Pillars proved as tame As other rocks of lesser fame.

Hence, when before them stretched the sea, Majestic, limitless and clear, A rapturous sense of being free Dispelled all vestiges of fear The longed-for ocean to explore From pole to pole, from shore to shore.

Thus all men learn the God they dread Is kinder than they had supposed, And that, not God, but Man hath said,-- "The door to freedom must be closed!" Once past that door, with broadened view, They find Him better than they knew.

Meanwhile, along the sunlit strait My ship glides toward the saffron west, Beyond the old Phenician gate To ocean's gently heaving breast, Whence, on the ever-freshening breeze, There greet my spirit words like these;--

Sail bravely on! the morning light Shall find thee far beyond the land; Gibraltar's battlemented height And Afric's tawny hills of sand Shall soon completely sink from view Beneath the ocean's belt of blue.

Sail on! nor heed the shadows vast Of fabled Powers, whose fear enslaves! Their spectral shapes shall sink at last Below the night's abandoned waves; Rest not confined by shoals and bars; Steer oceanward by God's fixed stars!

FRIENDSHIP

'Tis not in the bitterest woes of life That the love of friends, as a rule, grows cold; Still less does it melt in the heat of strife, Or die from the canker of borrowed gold;

For pity comes when they see us grieved, Or forced to lie on a couch of pain, And a hasty word is soon retrieved, And the loan of money may leave no stain.

'Tis oftenest lost through the deadly blight Of Society's pestilential air, Which blackens the robe of purest white, And fouls what once was sweet and fair.

An envious woman's whispered word, A slander born of a cruel smile, The repetition of something heard, The imputation of something vile,

Or possibly even a fancied slight For a feast declined, or a call delayed, Or jealousy caused by petty spite, Or the wish for a higher social grade,--

'Tis one, or all of these combined, That saps the love of our dearest friends, And slowly poisons heart and mind, Till the joy of generous friendship ends.

Last night they were in a cordial mood, To-day they suddenly seem estranged! Shall we, then, grieve and sadly brood O'er the unknown cause that has made them changed?

Ask once, that they make the matter clear, But ask no more, if the lesson fail; Let changelings go, however dear, And shed no tears for a love so frail.

Be not the slave of a friend's migraine, Nor let him play, now hot, now cold; The master of thyself remain, And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!

For they who weep and sue and plead, Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove, And the friends with "moods" are the friends who need To learn that they are not worth our love.

TO MY DEAD DOG

All is noiseless; Cold and voiceless Lies the form I've oft caressed; Heedless now of blame or praises, 'Neath the sunshine and the daisies Dear, old Leo lies at rest.

Eager greeting, Joy at meeting, Watching for my step to come, Grief at briefest separation, Sorrow without affectation,-- These are over,--he is dumb!

Loyal ever, Treacherous never, Lifelong love he well expressed; Ah! may we deserve like praises When beneath the sun-kissed daisies We, like Leo, lie at rest!

TO-DAY

"The sun will set at day's decline"; Qu'importe? Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine! Of what avail are mournful fears, Foreboding sighs and idle tears, They hinder not the hurrying years; Buvons!

"This fleeting hour will soon be past"; Qu'importe? Enrich its moments while they last! To-day is ours; be ours its joy! Let not to-morrow's cares annoy! Enough the present to employ; Vivons!

"These pleasures will not come again"; Qu'importe? Enjoy their keenest transport then! If but of these we are secure, Be of their sweetness doubly sure, That long their memory may endure! Rions!

"With time love's ardor always cools"; Qu'importe? Leave that lugubrious chant to fools! Must doubt destroy our present bliss? Shall we through fear love's rapture miss, Or lose the honey of its kiss? Aimons!

"The sun will set at day's decline"; Qu'importe? Will not the eternal stars still shine? So even in life's darkest night A thousand quenchless suns are bright,-- Blest souvenirs of past delight; Allons!

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"

Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands, Describes strange climes and visions passing fair, Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands A private casket filled with treasures rare, So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid; Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray Above the depths of ocean's briny bed. For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue, Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face, And kisses sweeter far than he had sung; The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes, The hours of inspiration when he wrote, Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise At feeling thy white arms about his throat; To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice, But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth Reveals the folly of the siren's voice. Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy; Thy happy fate to see no rival claim A share in what was thine without alloy; How must the remnant of thy life seem tame! Yet this thy recompense,--that thou dost keep Thy friend and lover safe from every change; For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep, And life it is, not death, that can estrange.

THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS

Through the marble gates of Ostia, Where the Tiber meets the sea, And a hundred Roman galleys Strain their leashes to be free, Streams a flood of sunset glory From the classic sea of old, Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming, And the Tiber turns to gold.

Why, indifferent to this splendor, Do the people throng the streets? What is everyone demanding Of the stranger whom he meets? They have heard alas! the rumor That, ere dawn regilds the sky, All the world may be in mourning, For the Emperor must die.

Search, O Romans, through the annals Of the rulers of your race, From the zenith of their glory To their ultimate disgrace,-- And as earth's most perfect master, And the noblest of your line, You will yield your greatest homage To this dying Antonine.

For he holds a Caesar's sceptre In a loving father's hand, And his heart and soul are given To the welfare of his land; Through his justice every nation Hath beheld its warfare cease, And he leaves to his successor Rome's gigantic world at peace.

Hence these nations now are waiting In an anguish of suspense, For their future is as doubtful, As their love for him intense; By the Nile and on the Danube, From the Tagus to the Rhine, There is mourning among millions For the man they deem divine.

Now the sunset glow is fading, And the evening shadows creep O'er the ashen face of Caesar, As he lies in seeming sleep; But he slumbers not; for, faithful To his duties, small and great, He is not alone the sovereign, But the servant of the State.

Unrebuked, then, his Centurion, As the sun-god sinks from sight, Makes his wonted way to Caesar For the password of the night; And great Antonine, though conscious That ere dawn his soul must pass, As his last, imperial watchword, Utters "Aequanimitas!"

O thou noblest of the Caesars, Whose transcendent virtues shine, Like a glorious constellation, O'er the blood-stained Palatine, When the latest sands are running From my life's exhausted glass, May I have thy calm and courage, And thine Aequanimitas!

THE BUTTERFLY

I watched to-day a butterfly, With gorgeous wings of golden sheen, Flit lightly 'neath a sapphire sky Amid the springtime's tender green;--

A creature so divinely fair, So frail, so wraithlike to the sight, I feared to see it melt in air, As clouds dissolve in morning light.

With sudden swoop, a brutal boy Caught in his cap its fans of gold, And forced them down with savage joy Upon the path's defiling mould;

Then cautiously, the ground well scanned, He clutched his darkened, helpless prey, And, pinched within his grimy hand, Withdrew it to the light of day.

Alas! its fragile bloom was gone, Its gracile frame was sorely hurt, Its silken pinions drooped forlorn, Disfigured by the dust and dirt;

Its life, a moment since so gay, So joyous in its dainty flight, Was slowly ebbing now away,-- Its too-brief day eclipsed by night.

Meantime, the vandal, face aflame, Surveyed it dying in his grasp, Yet knew no grief nor sense of shame In watching for its final gasp.

At last its sails of gold and brown, Of texture fine and colors rare, Came, death-struck, slowly fluttering down, No more to cleave the sunlit air;

One happy, harmless being less, To bid us dream the world is sweet! Gone like a gleam of happiness, A glimpse of rapture ... incomplete!

Yet who shall say this creature fair In God's sight had a smaller worth Than that dull lout who watched it there, And in its death found cause for mirth?

For what, in truth, are we who claim An endless life beyond the grave, But insects of a larger frame, Whose souls may be too small to save?

Since far-off times, when Cave Men fought Like famished brutes for bloody food, And through unnumbered centuries sought To rear their naked, whelp-like brood,

How many million men have died, From pole to pole through every clime,-- An awful, never-ending tide Swept deathward on the shores of Time!

Like insects swarming in the sun, They flutter, struggle, mate, and die, And, with their life-work scarce begun, Are struck down like the butterfly;

A million more, a million less, What matters it? The Earth rolls on, Unmindful of mankind's distress, Or if the race be here, or gone.

Thus rolled our globe ere man appeared, And thus will roll, with wrinkled crust, Deserted, lifeless, old, and seared, When man shall have returned to dust.

And IT at last shall also die! Hence, measured by the eternal scale, It ranks but as the butterfly,-- A world, ephemeral, fair and frail.

Man, insect, earth, or distant star,-- They differ only in degree; Their transient lives, or near or far, Are moments in eternity!

Yet somehow to my spirit clings The faith that man survives the sod, For this poor insect's broken wings Have raised my thoughts from earth to God.

AFTER THE STORM

The duel of the warring clouds Hath ended with the day; Their scintillant, electric blades Have ceased their fearful play; The pent up fury of their hate Hath found at last release, And o'er the tempest-stricken earth Broods now the hush of peace.

The passing of the hurricane Hath swept the sultry skies; The clearness of the atmosphere Brings jubilant surprise; The mountain peaks are glorified With freshly-fallen snow, And, stealing o'er their coronets, Appears the sunset glow.