Chapter 6

Obermais! Obermais! Charming bit of Paradise, Where the palm and snow are blended, Where life's joys seem never ended, Where the purl of limpid streams Haunts the traveller's deepest dreams; Girt by miles of terraced vines, Birthplace of the purest wines, Sheltered by imposing mountains, Musical from countless fountains, Bathed in sunshine, bright with flowers, Studded with old Roman towers, Castles, convents, shrines and walls, Whose strange history enthralls,-- Jewel of fair South Tyrol, Thou hast won my heart and soul!

CONTENTMENT

Urge me no more! The mid-day toil is ended, And shadows lengthen from the radiant west; The glowing sun, with sumptuous clouds attended, Sinks to its rest.

I too would rest; an Indian-Summer beauty Gilds my life's autumn in a charming vale; No further quest of gold or fame seems duty; Their splendors pale

Tempt me no more! In vain are spread before me New plans of battle and rare hopes of gain; The sweeter airs of love and peace blow o'er me; I will remain.

Gone is the glamour of the heartless city; Hateful its traffic and its ceaseless roar; Slaves of its tyranny, you have my pity; Urge me no more!

Girdled by mountains, in a land of story, Nestles the high-walled garden of my home; Here, book in hand, I feast myself on glory, Nor wish to roam.

Each dawn brings rose-hued snow-peaks to my vision; Each eve's enchanting pageant thrills my soul; Day after day I find yet more elysian Fair South Tyrol.

Urge me no more! The riches of Golconda Could not allure me to the old-time task; Here, till the curtain falls, to live and ponder Is all I ask.

TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS

Breathe on my soul your everlasting calm, Majestic mountains, passionless and cold! Give to my spirit, drooping 'neath the palm, The rugged strength your changeless summits hold!

So thin the azure veil that floats between My tropic flowers and your arctic snows, That one swift glance reveals to me the sheen Of your white bastions and my blossoming rose.

Yet, though so near, my feet have never pressed Your silvered ramparts, etched along the sky: Untrodden crystal crowns each spotless crest; On virgin snows the sunset colors die.

So near, yet unattainable! Ye seem Like awful deities, at whose command Man's evanescent life,--a fretful stream, One instant murmurs and is lost in sand.

Splendid in sunshine, steadfast under storms, Facing the fiercest tempests with disdain, The blackest clouds that shroud your giant forms, Leave on your glittering panoply no stain.

The setting sun will turn your gray to gold, The dawn will find your icy foreheads bare, And all your glacial armor, as of old, Will shine resplendent in the upper air.

So from my life may all dark clouds depart! So may I come unscathed from Fate's worst blows! Yet with your strength, O Mountains, let my heart Retain, as well, the sweetness of the rose.

AT SUNSET

Belov'd Meran, supremely fair! With joy I greet thy peaks anew, And quaff again the crystal air That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue.

Once more through miles of trellised vines The purple bloom of vintage glows; Once more amid my palms and pines I breathe the perfume of the rose.

Once more, as snow-crests far and wide Flush crimson in the Alpine glow, I sit and muse at eventide On Roman days of long ago.

Across the valley, steeped in light, Uplifted toward the western skies, And flanked by many a snow-crowned height, The stately "Roman Terrace" lies;

Whose fair expanse hath been a stage Where actors for two thousand years Have played, by turns, in every age Their varying roles of smiles and tears.

Still through its mighty Vintschgau door The sunset streams in floods of gold; Still winding o'er its emerald floor, The river sparkles as of old.

I watch the distant torrent leap From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound; A ghostly path it seems, whose deep, Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground.

Beside its waves, whose glittering spray Begems the gorge its flood hath worn, Rome's conquering legions made their way A score of years ere Christ was born.

On yonder mound where frowns the wood, And curves the road with steep incline, A temple to Diana stood Before the age of Antonine.

Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame I see the ancient watchtower stand, Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame Flashed signals into Switzerland.

And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls Loom grandly from the darkening moor, Where still a dungeon-keep recalls The last Tyrolean Troubadour.

Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower That Nature gave to South Tyrol Cannot alone explain thy power To captivate both mind and soul;

I love thy sunshine, fruits and flowers, I love thy mountain-peaks sublime, But, best of all, thine agèd towers,-- The ivied protégés of Time.

Thus favored, while my sun of life Moves calmly toward a cloudless west, I crave no more the New World's strife And ceaseless turmoil of unrest;

Content, within my garden walls, To let the Present's uproar cease, While on my tranquil spirit falls The Past's sweet benison of peace.

POST NUBES LUX

Sink, sullen rear-guard of the storm, Behind the Laugen's snowy crest! Already Rotheck's lordly form Stands spotless in the radiant west; Blow, winter wind, and clarify Our crystal air, our sapphire sky!

Shine, Sun God! Give us life once more! Too long have clouds concealed thy face; Give to Meran the look she wore, When to her beauty, light, and grace I gladly yielded heart and soul, And made my home in fair Tyrol!

Stupendous source of life and light! As in thy warmth my pulses thrill, Before thy glory and thy might I feel myself a Pagan still, And in my spirit's inmost shrine I half adore thee as divine.

THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME

Make haste! There is but one more turning! The horses cannot go too fast, So eagerly our hearts are yearning To see the longed-for home at last!

Here is the shrine, the lamp still burning, Beside the vineyard's massive wall; And see, to welcome our returning, The banners on the flagstaffs tall!

Before the gate, our servants, wearing Their brightest smiles, together stand, In quaint, Tyrolean style preparing To kiss respectfully the hand.

Now, too, the dogs perceive their master, And rush to meet our carriage wheels; The loyal Leo first and faster, The dackels close upon his heels!

How wild the joy, how loud the chorus Our old, familiar tones excite! Dear, faithful creatures that adore us, How genuine their keen delight!

The door is passed, the hall is entered! How true it is, where'er we roam, That here alone our hearts are centered, That no place hath the charm of Home!

Here smile the pictures ranged above us; Here stand our books, the best of friends; Here those we love and those who love us Are happy that our absence ends.

We prize the intellectual treasures On History's famous sites amassed; And precious are the varied pleasures From Art's great glories of the past;

But well we know, when once more seated Within these rooms with volumes lined, That,--now the journey is completed--, The best of Rome is in the mind.

MY GARDEN

Sweet garden, wreathed in fruits and flowers, And domed by blue Tyrolean skies, Within thy rose-encircled bowers, Secluded from all curious eyes, I find a peaceful paradise.

Without, the world's fierce strife and yearning In floods of passion ebb and flow; Within, as in a shrine, is burning,-- Reflecting fires of long ago,-- A stormy life's calm afterglow.

How sumptuous is the golden splendor Thy yellow roses give my walls! Like yonder glow, so sweet and tender, That o'er the snow at sunset falls, And by its spell the soul enthralls.

How swiftly pass the happy hours Beside thy palms, beneath thy pines, As through the fountain's crystal showers I watch the sunlight gild thy vines Against the snow-peaks' silvered lines!

I lean upon my loggia's railing And view the vineyard's saffron sheen,-- Its amber leaves in glory veiling The purpling grapes, that hang between Its long arcades of gold and green.

And at the sight my heart is beating With rapture hitherto unknown, As with delight I keep repeating In love's triumphant undertone,-- "All this is mine, my very own"!

Then with a chill, like that which steals Across the vale at set of sun, A solemn thought the truth reveals,-- How transient is the prize thus won! How short a time my lease can run!

Before I thought this garden fair And from its beauty rapture drew, How many others breathed its air, And, glorying in its matchless view, Had plucked its roses wet with dew!

Where now my vines and violets grow, And fill the breeze with odors sweet, Two thousand years and more ago Some Roman had his loved retreat, And watched the sun and snow-peak meet.

Rome fell; but, Maia still remaining, Both Goth and Frank the slope desired, Through two millenniums still retaining The longing for what all admired, The love which ownership inspired.

I sometimes fancy that I see Those masters of an earlier age,-- A ghostly line preceding me Across this corner of life's stage,-- The Pagan, Christian, bard and sage.

Each one in turn called thee his own, And deemed thee his submissive slave; But, when a few short years had flown, Of all thy wealth what could he save? At most thou gavest him a grave!

Ephemeral creatures of a day, We move like insects on thy soil, And wear our little lives away In fleeting pleasures or in toil; But naught our destiny can foil.

A few more Springs thy buds shall quicken, A few more Summers bring thy bloom, A few more Autumn suns shall thicken The clusters ripening in thy gloom,-- When I for strangers must make room!

When other eyes shall see the vision Of Rotheck's pyramid of snow, And watch the roseate hues elysian Creep over it at evening's glow, As o'er its crest the sun sinks low.

Another then will pluck the flowers Whose seeds my loving hand hath sown; Another, through the mid-day hours, Will hear the honey bee's dull drone Where other roses shall have blown.

These mountains then will still be lifting Their ice-crowned summits to the sky; The fleecy clouds will still be drifting Above their peaks and pastures high; But they will heed not where I lie.

Even thou wilt never miss thy master! Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same, The season's round will move no faster, No bud will quench its torch of flame, And naught will change here but a name.

Yet all who shall with joy succeed me In their turn must thy charms resign, When, as to all who now precede me, Death shall have made the fatal sign To join the ever-lengthening line.

We "owners," then, are but thy tenants Despite our purchase and our pride; To thee what is our transient presence? Thou carest not if we abide Among thy roses, or have died.

Hence, let me drain in fullest measure Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine! To-day at least I hold thy treasure; To-day with truth I call thee mine; To-morrow's sun may never shine.

THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUNRISE

Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms Indent the western sky: The jewelled gifts of countless storms Upon their summits lie.

The sinking moon, with fading scars, Hath touched their frosty spires; Around them pale the wearied stars, Like waning bivouac fires.

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one, Like rose leaves half unfurled, Announce the coming of the sun To an awakening world.

The chief peak now hath caught the glow, And, soft, o'er sloping walls And buttresses of dazzling snow, The flood of splendor falls;

While miles of tender pink and gold Incrust the blue of space, And bands of amethyst enfold Each mountain's massive base.

Gone are the tents that pierced the skies; But in their place, more fair, Transfigured flowers of Paradise Bloom in the crystal air.

OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran

PROLOGUE

Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minnesingers, loved a beautiful woman, named Sabina, who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs by writing poems on her coquetry and cruelty. Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven him his satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese prince, "Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also hated Oswald for opposing his political plans. Accordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce the poet to come to her under a pretence of renewing their former love. To effect this, she wrote him a letter expressing her undying affection for him, and begging him to meet her near Meran. The plot was successful, and Oswald fell completely into their power. By Frederick's orders he was at once imprisoned in the dungeon of Schloss Forst, and subjected to tortures which crippled him for the rest of his life.

"Oswald von Wolkenstein! Last of a gifted line, Years have gone by since we parted in hate; What have they taught to me? This, that all's naught to me Save what you brought to me,-- Love and love's fate. Can you that love forget? Know that I love you yet! If you my passion share, Linger no longer there; Fearless to do and dare, Come, ere too late!

"Near the old Roman Road Up which the legions strode, Where the first vine-covered terraces rise, Stands a grim fortress tall, Which, like a mountain wall, Though scarred by many a ball, Capture defies! 'Forst' is the name it bears; Brilliant the fame it wears; Thither,--our trysting place--, Ride at your swiftest pace; Come to my fond embrace! My love your prize!"

Who could such words suspect? Who could that call reject? Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul! Gone is the pain of years; Vanished his jealous fears; Smiles have replaced his tears; Lost self-control; Slave to his passion's past, Vows to the winds are cast; Faithless, she holds him still; Absent, she sways his will; Traitress, with subtle skill Plays she her role.

Where Etsch and Eisack meet, Mingling their waters fleet, Opens the valley that leads to Meran; As its red cliffs divide, Castles on either side (Each a strong chieftain's pride) Threaten his plan; Yet, where the shadows sleep Under each dungeon keep, Up through the land of wine, Blest with both palm and pine, Oswald von Wolkenstein Rides to Terlan.

Here falls his gallant horse, Killed by his headlong course; Is it a warning to halt and retreat? Yet who, when passion pleads, Ever such warning heeds? What though a dozen steeds Drop at his feet? Hence, while the peasants stare, Buys he their swiftest mare; And, as the pavement rings With the bright gold he flings, He to the saddle springs, Never so fleet!

Now, lover, pause for breath! Folly may here mean death! Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers; Here let thy pace be slow; Frederick, thy crafty foe, Plots there to lay thee low, Fearing thy powers; He of the "empty purse", Stung by thy biting verse, Using a woman's hate, Offers a tempting bait; Both thy approach await, Counting the hours!

Dark is the starless night; Only one feeble light Burns at the grating surmounting the door; Has his advance been heard? Was that a whispered word? What in that shadow stirred? Shall he explore? Fie! when a prize so fair Doubtless awaits him there, Shall he now hesitate Here, at Forst's very gate, Fearing to test his fate? No, nevermore!

Hark! 'tis a gruff command, Loosing an ambushed band; Seizing, they drag him, disarmed, to the court; Brightly the torches flare, Flinging a ruddy glare On a proud, mocking pair, Watching the sport; God, can this thing be true? _She_ with this hostile crew! "Faithless and shameless one, Thou hast my life undone"! "Poet, thy race is run", Is her retort.

Barred is the iron door! On the damp dungeon floor Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong, Lies in a loathsome cave, Dark as a living grave, No one to care or save, Silenced his song; And while they leave him there, Crushed by profound despair, Princelet and paramour, Knowing their prey secure, Feeling their vengeance sure, Laugh loud and long.

Who can in words relate Oswald's unhappy fate, Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze? Both on revenge were bent; He for a menace sent, She for the merriment Caused by his lays. "Dungeon and torture-rack, These shall now pay thee back! Minstrel and poet rare, Rave in thy mad despair, And in that fetid lair Finish thy days!"

Vainly he pleads with her; No prayer succeeds with her; Useless the joys of their past to rehearse; For to increase his woe, Frederick, his jealous foe, Shares in this cruel show,-- Fit for God's curse; Shameless and treacherous, Heartless and lecherous, Sabine with fiendish glee, Deaf to his every plea, Watches his agony, Quoting his verse!

Broken at last his chain! Ended the poet's pain! Freed by a ransom (his relatives' dole), Humbled by grief and shame, Injured in name and fame, Drags he his crippled frame Back through Tyrol. Then, in a plaintive song Chanting his grievous wrong, Oswald von Wolkenstein, Last of his gifted line, Dies in Schloss Hauenstein; God rest his soul!

AFTER THE VINTAGE

How can my vineyard's charm be told, As it basks in the autumn haze? The Frost King's touch, so light and cold, Like that of the Persian king of old, Hath turned its roof from green to gold, Till the hillside seems ablaze.

Threading its maze of arbors fair Under its saffron bowers, I watch, in the crisp, November air, Through vine-framed openings here and there The ivied walls of castles rare And ruined Roman towers.

Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky, White are the mountain walls, Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie Lavishly spread on the forests high, Where leaves by millions flame and die, As the chill of Autumn falls.

Over the slopes in sun and shade The terraced vines descend, Like stately steps of a broad cascade, Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade, Where red and amber blend.

I love to see, from the rising sun Each terrace gain its crown, When the splendid dawn hath just begun, From the crest of the mountain it hath won, To gild the vine-rows one by one, As the mellow glow creeps down.

And when the day's receding light Deserts the vale below, I trace its noiseless, upward flight Through darkening zones of foliage bright, Till all the world is lost in night Save pyramids of snow.

THE PASSING MOON

In my loggia bright I watch to-night The full moon sailing by; From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak It slipped to the open sky, And now rides free in a clear, blue sea, With not an island nigh.

Through pearly haze its light displays Each buttressed mountain side, And softly shines through stately pines Where feudal castles hide, And every height grows dazzling white In the foam of a silver tide.

From the eastern side of the valley wide To its snow-capped western rim It will hold its way, till the dawning day Shall have made its disk grow dim; Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view Behind the mountain's brim.

Whence did it climb on its path sublime, Ere it left that icy height? And where will it go, when yonder snow Is reached in the morning light? Will its face elsewhere be just as fair, When here it is lost to sight?

Why should I ask? 'Tis a fruitless task; Enough that its splendor falls On me to-night in my loggia bright, Till the scene my soul enthralls; 'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set Behind those glittering walls.

And even when it sinks again Below that stainless crest, It will seem at last to have safely passed To a haven of peace and rest, Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal In the kingdom of the blest.

I also know not where I go, Nor whence I came, or why, Nor can I guess what happiness Or strange, new world may lie Beyond the vale through which I sail, Beneath another sky;

But as the moon, which all too soon Sinks down the west for me, To other eyes appears to rise And glide on fair and free, So the frail boat in which I float, Though tempest-worn it be, May cross life's brink, and seem to sink, Yet sail another sea.

AUTUMN IN MERAN

The vintage time is gone, but not its glory; The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom; Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story, Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom.

The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold; Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains, Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold.

Above the vines the mountain sides are blending The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow, In variegated zones their hues ascending From radiant roses to eternal snow.

Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping, A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide,-- High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping, Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide.

In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls; While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver, Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls.

Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious, Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down; Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious, In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown.

THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH. MERAN

She is seated by the river In a robe of spotless white, With her lovely face illumined By the evening's tender light; But her eyes are full of sadness, As if weary of the day, And her gaze is toward the ocean, While the river glides away.

At her feet are beds of flowers, Overhead are stately trees Whose protecting branches murmur With the passing of the breeze; Though her hand retains a volume, From its page her glances stray, For her thoughts are with the ocean, As the river flows away.

As I view her chastened features, I can feel the rising tears At the thought of all her anguish Through a martyrdom of years; For her joys were writ in water,-- Too impermanent to stay, And were swept toward sorrow's ocean, Ere her youth had passed away.

She was captured in the morning Of her childhood's careless age, And imprisoned in a palace Like a linnet in a cage; And its gilded bars confined her To a Court's prescribed display, Which her simple nature hated, As the slow years crept away.

Thus her heart grew always sadder, Till her sorrows, one by one, Reached at last their tragic climax In the murder of her son; And this broken-hearted woman, As a madman's victim, lay By Geneva's placid waters, While her life-blood ebbed away!

Hence her marble face seems troubled, As she gazes down the stream, Like an angel who hath wakened From a fearful, earth-born dream; She is waiting for the sunset Of her tempest-darkened day, But her soul is with the ocean, Where all rivers wend their way.

THE OUTCASTS

The smile of God was in the air; Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue, The valley lay, divinely fair, Beneath a cloudless vault of blue; And singing, like a bird set free, The river hurried to the sea.

Through Alpine ether, crystal clear, The genial sun of South Tyrol Diffused its blessèd warmth and cheer, Enriching body, mind and soul, While music floated o'er the stream, And made such beauty seem a dream.

Enraptured with the sun's caress And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow, In careless quest of happiness The gay world sauntered to and fro, Or, seated on the well-kept strand, Enjoyed the music of the band.

Upon a bench, remote from those Whose dress betokened rank or wealth, Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose Betrayed a fruitless search for health,-- An agèd couple, near their end, United, yet without a friend.