Chapter 7

But still they bravely tried to smile, --So warm the sun, so fair the scene!-- They could be happy yet a while, Ere death's cold shadow crept between; And music's softly rhythmic flow Recalled their youth of long ago.

"Begone!" a watchman's voice exclaimed; "Your rustic garb is much too poor; How comes it, you are not ashamed In such a place to play the boor? From company like this withdraw! Obey the mandate of the law!"

The startled strangers meekly rose And moved away with downcast eyes, Too wonted to such cruel blows To manifest the least surprise; Too humbled to inquire why; Too timid to attempt reply.

Poor outcasts from that joyous stage Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease, With faltering steps, and bowed with age, They vanished slowly 'neath the trees; But neither scanned the other's face, For fear a falling tear to trace.

Farewell, sweet, music-laden air, And sunshine on the sheltered strand! I follow where that outcast pair Are walking sadly, hand in hand; For me your vaunted charm hath fled, While they remain uncomforted.

HEIMWEH

I dwell in a region of valleys fair, Of stately forests and mountains bold, Of churches filled with treasures rare, And storied castles centuries old; But now and then, when the sun sinks low, And the vesper bell is softly rung, I think of the days of long ago, And yearn for the land where I was young.

I live where the sun shines bright and warm On feathery palms and terraced vines, Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm And the sough of the wind through northern pines; And though my ear hath wonted grown To the accents strange of an alien tongue, No speech hath half so sweet a tone As the language learned when I was young.

I live in a land where men are kind, And friends increase, as the years roll on, Yet of them all not one I find So dear as those of the days now gone; And so I think, as the sun sinks low, And the curfew bell of my life is rung, I shall turn to my home of long ago, And die in the land where I was young.

MY LIBRARY

Shrine of my mind, my Library! Each morn I greet thee with delight, When, soul-refreshed, I bring to thee The benediction of the night; Encompassed by thy sheltering walls, 'Mid books whose interest enthralls, Life's shadow from my spirit falls.

Behold! above the wooded height The sun-god's glittering disk appears, And at a bound its flood of light The intervening valley clears; Enveloped in its noiseless tide, Each castle on the mountain side Stands forth in splendor, glorified.

How welcome are the yellow waves That through the eastern windows pour And, with a warmth my nature craves, Transmute to gold the polished floor! Then mount to gild my desk, my chair, And e'en the spotless paper there, Which soon my written thought must bear.

In serried ranks around me rise Two thousand tried and trusty friends; Instructive, famous, witty, wise, Each gladly his assistance lends To suit, at will, my varying mood; But none that aid will e'er intrude, Or break, unsought, my solitude.

Some speak of problems of the soul,-- Profound, insoluble, sublime; Some tell of Law's supreme control; And some retrace through distant time The evolution of mankind, And in its ever-broadening mind A hope for future triumphs find.

A few the noble deeds rehearse Of heroes famed in peace or war; While many in inspiring verse Show heights to which the soul may soar; But all with serious thoughts are filled, And some hold truths, from life distilled, Whose power my heart hath often thrilled.

By such companions cheered and blest, How vapid seems the listless throng Of those who, tortured by unrest, Find life too dull and days too long, And idly frittering time away, As scandal-mongers, rend and slay The friends they dined with yesterday!

My Library! to thee I turn, As turns the needle toward the pole, And feel my heart within me yearn For all thou offerest to the soul; Why should I join in feverish haste The crowd for which I have no taste, The precious boon of life to waste?

Yet not as an austere recluse,-- Still less as one who hates mankind--, Do I thy peaceful precincts choose; But as a student, who can find No joys in Vanity's gay Fair That for an instant can compare With those thou askest me to share.

Moreover, welcome as the sun Are friends whose love I prize and hold; Their visits I would never shun; To them my heart grows never cold; And whether they have wealth, or fame, Or bear a plain or titled name, To me will always be the same.

Nor am I ever quite alone When thus ensconced among my books; A kindred mind there meets my own, And with me toward the sunset looks; With blazing logs the hearth is bright, A treasured volume is in sight; Hence to the outer world good night!

TOUT PASSE

Once more I watch the crystal stream I watched in days gone by; Once more its waves reflect the gleam Of Autumn's sunset sky; Again its banks of gold and green Seem bursting into flame,-- And yet for me the lovely scene Can never be the same.

The waves that gleamed here long ago Have reached a distant sea; The leaves of that first autumn glow Have fallen from the tree; The birds which charmed me with their song Have long since elsewhere flown, And I amid a careless throng Am standing here alone.

This sparkling flood can never quite Replace the stream of old; These radiant leaves, however bright, Wear not the old-time gold; For evening's light can ne'er retain The splendor of the dawn, And naught, alas, can bring again The faces that are gone.

BESIDE LAKE COMO

THE FAUN

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, A sculptured Faun.

The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, The scent of calycanthus fills the air, And on the ivied parapet before him Bloom roses fair.

Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain Meets heaven's blue.

Across Lake Como's silvered undulation The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation With tender grace.

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, As if unable longer to be mute, Has lifted to his lips in adoration His simple flute.

Ah! would that I might hear the music stealing From yonder artless reed upon the air,-- The subtle revelation of his feeling, While standing there!

Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, When Como's shore held many a hallowed shrine, Where such as he were worshipped,--none denying Their rights divine.

That Past is gone; its sylvan shrines have crumbled; From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled; Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, And Pan is dead.

Yet still he plays,--the coming day adoring, With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, All past and future happiness ignoring Just for to-day's!

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining Through storm and sunshine thine unchanging smile? Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, Makes life worth while?

Impart to me the secret of discerning The gold of life, with none of its alloy, That I may also satisfy my yearning For perfect joy!

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow,-- Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow Bring what it will.

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, Cast over me the spell of thy control, And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, Thy Pagan soul!

ISOLA COMACINA

(The only Island on Lake Como, the Lake Larius of the Romans)

There sleeps beneath Italian skies A lovely island rich in fame, In days of old a longed-for prize, And bearing still an honored name,-- A spot renowned from age to age, An ancient Roman heritage;

A valued stronghold, for whose sake Unnumbered men have fought and died,-- The Malta of the Larian lake, Forever armed and fortified, To Como's shores the master-key, The guardian of its liberty.

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, How different is the scene to-day Reflected in its waveless tide, From that which this historic foss Showed mailèd soldiers of the Cross!

Yet still, across the narrow strait, Some remnants of the hospice stand, Whose ever hospitable gate Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, Its finely carved, millennial tower Enduring to the present hour.

One gem alone doth Como wear, None other need adorn her breast; 'Tis this, her emerald solitaire, Her unique island of the blest,-- The star beside her crescent shore, A thing of beauty evermore.

On Comacina's peaceful strand The coldest heart is moved to pray, As softly steals o'er lake and land The splendor of departing day, And scores of snowy peaks aspire To sparkle with supernal fire.

Then Lario paints for liquid miles The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, Transmutes at once to dimpled smiles The sternest of their glacial frowns, And often holds, with subtlest art, Some Titan's likeness to her heart.

Fair Comacina, through whose trees Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, And every whispering breeze seems charmed, Can it be true that human blood Hath ever stained thy limpid flood?

Alas! too often, drenched with gore, Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, When hostile feet profaned thy shore, And each advancing step cost life, As prince and peasant, side by side, Beat back the Goths' invading tide.

But why disturb the silent past? Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts? Or see in forms by ruins cast The phantoms of those warlike hosts? For centuries the gentle waves Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves.

And what will now thy future be, Thou pristine refuge of the brave, Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, And vainly gave their lives to save? Forget not, thou wast once a gem That graced a Caesar's diadem!

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes? I sometimes long to check the stream Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, And tell them of my cherished dream,-- To see upon thy storied height A palace worthy of the site;

Not meaningless, not merely vast, Nor crudely modern in design, But something suited to thy past,-- For highest art a hallowed shrine, A classic home of long ago, The Tusculum of Cicero.

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, And, scattered through the leafy gloom Of olive-groves and laurels tall, Shall many a marble nymph and faun Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn.

So let me dream! I may not see That stately palace crown thy brow, Those roses may not bloom for me, But, as thou art, I love thee now, Content thy future to resign To abler portraiture than mine.

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well! Across the water's placid breast The music of the vesper-bell Invites me to my port of rest; Fair jewel of this inland sea, May all the gods be good to thee!

THE OLD CARRIER

("Old Lucia", who for many years walked back and forth, every day and in all weathers, between Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles, bearing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, fell to the ground exhausted, as she was nearing her poor home on Christmas Eve, 1907. She died next morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred pounds!)

Patient toiler on the road, Bending 'neath your heavy load, Worn and furrowed is your face, Slow and tremulous your pace, Yet you still pursue your way, Bearing burdens day by day, With the same pathetic smile, Over many a weary mile, As you bravely come and go To and from Menaggio.

Snowy white, your scanty hair Crowns a forehead seamed with care, And a look of suffering lies In your clear-blue, wistful eyes; While your thin and ashen cheek Tells the tale you will not speak, Of a lodging dark and old, And a hearth so bare and cold That you often hungry go To and from Menaggio.

Never know you days of rest; Ceaseless is your humble quest Of the pittance that you ask For your arduous daily task. Every morning sees your form Pass through sunshine or through storm; Every evening hears your feet Trudging up the darkened street; For your gait is always slow, Coming from Menaggio.

Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; Once those arms were round and white; And the feet, now roughly shod, Lightly danced upon the sod, As to womanhood you grew And a lover's rapture knew; For you once were fair, 'tis said, Early wooed and early wed, And your husband long ago Died in old Menaggio.

Children? Aye, but not one cares How the poor old mother fares! You must struggle on alone; They have children of their own, And for them, devoid of shame, All your scanty earnings claim! Can you walk? Then go you must, Plodding on through rain and dust, Summer heat and winter's snow To and from Menaggio!

Christmas Eve! Through glistening green Gleams a merry, festive scene; Trees, with candles burning bright, Wake in children's hearts delight. Where such peace and comfort reign, None observes the window-pane, Where your wan face sadly peers Through a mist of falling tears At a joy you never know, Carrier from Menaggio!

Much that makes those children gay You have brought them day by day, Thankful that you thus could earn Wood to make your hearthstone burn. Not for you such food and light, Clothing warm and candles bright! You are grateful, if you gain Bread to stifle hunger's pain. Ah! it was not always so In old-time Menaggio!

* * * * *

She has turned to climb the hill. Stay! why lies she there so still? Have her old limbs failed at last In the chilling wintry blast? Since for threescore years and ten She has done the work of men, 'Tis not strange that she should fall Weak and helpless by the wall, Nevermore to come and go To and from Menaggio.

Gently lift her old gray head! Bear her homeward! She is dead. Fallen, like a faithful horse At the limit of its course; Fallen on the stony road, Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; And the heart within her breast For the first time finds its rest,-- Rest that it could never know Coming from Menaggio!

Sound again, O Christmas bells! "Peace on Earth" your song foretells. It has come, in truth, to one Whose long pilgrimage is done. Merciful her quick release, Blessèd her eternal peace! Yet I know that, day by day, As she no more comes my way, I shall miss her, as I go To and from Menaggio.

EVENING ON LAKE COMO

Beside my garden's ivied wall, Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, I stand, as evening shadows fall, And marvel at the matchless scene, While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, Perpetual music at my feet.

The year grows old,--yet on the breeze Still floats the perfume of the rose; Still gleams the gold of orange trees, Regardless of the Alpine snows; For while, above, Frost reigns as king, Below prevails the warmth of Spring.

In Tremezzina's sheltered bay The wintry storms forget to rave; Without,--the white caps and the spray, Within,--a shore with scarce a wave,-- A favored spot where tempests cease, And Heaven whispers, "Here is Peace."

Across the water's purple bloom Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom With glistening walls of pink and white,-- The wraith of some celestial strand, The fringe of an enchanted land.

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings Its good-night lyric to the lake; A skiff glides by on slender wings With scarce a ripple in its wake; And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, Float idly in an ideal world.

The swan-like steamers come and go; The ruffled water finds its rest; The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; And, trembling on the tranquil air, Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer.

Oh, peerless strand! I yearn no more To mingle with the maddened throng; Enough for me this wave-kissed shore, The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, And storied towers of long ago.

Between me and the world's unrest The lake's broad leagues of water lie; Above my wave-protected nest Serenely bends a cloudless sky; And homeward from life's stormy sea The dreams of youth come back to me.

DELIO PATRI

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the Island of Lake Como, 1910, and belonging formerly to a temple of Delian Apollo,--the "Delian Father,"--which no doubt existed there.)

Once more Lake Como's storied isle Reveals the Roman past! Again a stone of classic style The spade hath upward cast; How can such relics thus endure Two thousand years of sepulture?

More eagerly than those who toil For nuggets of mere gold, We seize and rescue from the soil This monument of old,-- An altar-fragment, much defaced, Yet on whose surface words are traced.

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime The legend chiselled there, Which now, triumphant over time, Still proves the sculptor's care, Engraved when on this wave-girt hill The Pagan gods were potent still.

'As on their own peculiar page The fingers of the blind Decipher truths of every age, As mind communes with mind, So, one by one, these letters spell A name the ancient world knew well.

For "Delio Patri" heads the lines Inscribed upon this stone, And instantly the mind divines What, else, had been unknown, Since that familiar name makes clear Apollo once was worshipped here;

Perhaps because the spot suggests That other tiny isle, Upon whose shore forever rests The Sun-God's tender smile,-- Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, Both he and Artemis were born.

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, And lower still we read In characters, now half effaced, The motive for his deed;-- "Onesimus this altar reared To One he gratefully revered."

Faith, grateful reverence,--these are traits Worth more than rank or fame, And what this brief inscription states Does honor to his name, And makes us wish still more to know Of him who built here long ago.

"And is this all?" the cynic sneers, "The remnant of a shrine?" Alas for him who never hears Or heeds the world divine And in this fragment fails to see A stepping-stone to Deity!

The Sun-God's shrines in ruins lie, But not the glorious sun! A thousand transient faiths may die. All prototypes of One, Since under every form and name Their essence still remains the same.

ACQUA FREDDA

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall I pause to feel the mountain breeze, And watch the shadows eastward fall From immemorial cypress trees.

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, Those dusky phantoms downward creep To where, by Lenno's curving bay, The peaceful village seems to sleep;

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow Turn crimson 'neath the farther shore, And here and there the sunset glow Threads diamonds on a dripping oar.

But now a tremor breaks the spell, And stirs to life the languid air,-- It is the convent's vesper-bell,-- The plaintive call to evening prayer;

That prayer which rises like a sigh From every sorrow-laden breast, When twilight dims the garish sky, And day is dying in the west.

Ave Maria! we who miss A mother's love, a mother's care, Implore thee, bring us to that bliss We fondly hope with thee to share!

How sweet and clear, how soft and low Those vesper orisons are sung, In Rome's grand speech of long ago, Forever old, forever young!

And those who chant,--that exiled band, Expelled from France with scorn and hate, How fare they in this foreign land? Is life for them disconsolate?

Have they escaped the sight of pain, Of social strife, of hopeless tears? Does life's dark problem grow more plain, As pass in prayer the tranquil years?

I know not; dare not ask of them; Their souls are read by God alone; But he who would their lives condemn, Should pause before he cast a stone.

So full is life of hate and greed, So vain the world's poor tinselled show, What wonder that some souls have need To flee from all its sin and woe?

I would not join them; yet, in truth, I feel, in leaving them at prayer, That something precious of my youth, Long lost to me, is treasured there.

THE POSTERN GATE

I chose me a lovely garden, Beneath whose ivied wall A lake's blue wavelets murmur As evening shadows fall,--

A garden, whose leafy windows Frame visions of Alpine snow On peaks that burn to crimson In sunset's afterglow.

And there, in its sweet seclusion, I built me a mansion fair, With many a classic statue And Eastern relic rare,

And volumes, whose precious pages Hold all that the wise have said,-- The latest among the living, The greatest among the dead.

And I sat in those fragrant arbors Of laurel and palm and pine, And held in the tranquil twilight My darling's hand in mine;

And said "We will here be happy, And let the mad world go; Its gold no longer tempts us, Still less do its pomp and show;

"No more shall its cares annoy us, And under these stately trees With Nature and Art and Letters Our souls shall take their ease."

But a brood of griefs pursued us, Like evil birds of prey; They lodged in the trees' tall branches, They shadowed the cloudless day;

They flew to the darkened casement, And beat on the wind-swept shade, And oft in the sleepless midnight We listened and were afraid;

And daily came the tidings Of folly and crime and woe, And one by one kept dying The friends of long ago.

For the Past is ever one's master, And Memory mocks at space, And Trouble travels with us, However swift our pace;

And envy is always envy, Though called by a foreign name, And perfidy, greed, and malice Are everywhere the same.

I thought I had left behind me That gloomy realm of care, But really one never leaves it, Its shadow is everywhere.

So I learned at last the lesson That walls, and gates, and keys Can never exclude life's sorrows; They enter as they please.

And if we ever acquire The perfect life we crave, A subtle warning tells us Its background is the grave.

Perhaps I have almost reached it, For when I am walking late, I see a shrouded stranger Beside my postern gate;

And a sudden chill creeps o'er me At sight of that figure grim, For I fancy that he is waiting For me in the twilight dim;

And I know he will one day beckon With gesture of command, And I shall follow him mutely. Away to the Silent Land,

And all that I here have treasured In fountain, and tree, and stone Will pass to the hands of others, Whom I have never known.

Hence over his sombre features There flickers a ghostly smile, As if he would say, "What matter? Your cares are not worth while;

"The trouble which gives you anguish, The woes o'er which you weep, Will all be soon forgotten In my long, dreamless sleep.

"Enjoy the fleeting moment; I cannot always wait, And the glow of the coming sunset Is gilding the postern gate."

UNDINE

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call Murmurs caressingly under my wall, Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate? What is the cause of this passionate strain, Voiced by thy wavelets again and again?

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn; White, on the rocks of the fountain below, Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, Sung so alluringly under my wall.

Leaf-woven ladders of ivy-wreathed vines Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, Tempting the lover to clamber with ease Up to the garden, to woo and to take Lovely Undine away to the lake.

Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, White gleam their feet on its background of green; Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, Never is reached by their glittering spray.