Chapter 8

Hear you that music, half song and half sigh? Sylph-like Undine is making reply:-- "Though I so motionless sit here above, I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; Others regard me as passionless stone, Only to thee shall my nature be known.

"Men who behold me, praise merely my art, Never suspecting I too have a heart; Under the marble the world cannot see All I am keeping there only for thee; Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet.

"Under the wall thou hast bravely assailed, Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, Passes this fountain; though cradled in snows, Straight to thy waters it secretly flows; Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, On that swift current I come to thee, dear!"

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; Silence and mystery brood over all; Still my Undine sits facing the dawn; 'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone,-- Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep.

JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA

Day by day, As if in May, We sail Azzano's beautiful bay; High and low The mountains show Luminous fields of stainless snow, But the air is soft, and the sun is warm, And the lake is free from wind and storm.

Far and nigh, Deep and high, The Alps invade both lake and sky; Base to base Their forms we trace, These in water, those in space,-- Duplicate peaks on single shores, As shadow sinks, and substance soars.

To and fro We idly go, Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; Here and there Halting where The vision seems supremely fair; Happy to let our little boat In a flood of opaline splendor float.

Far away Seems to-day The clamorous world of work and play; Ours indeed A different creed From that of the modern god of Speed, Whose converts suffer such grievous waste In strenuous labor and feverish haste!

East or west, A tranquil nest, When curfew rings, is always best, A landscape fair, A volume rare, And a kindred heart, one's peace to share,-- What is there better from life to take In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake?

THE WANDERER

Wandering minstrel at my gate, Shivering in the winter gloaming, How appalling seems your fate,-- Destined to be always roaming, Singing for a bit of bread And a shelter for your head!

Your sweet voice is all you own, Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, And you are not quite alone, For a dog your crust is sharing; Yet o'er many a weary mile You have brought ... a song and smile!

I, who have abundant land, Home with comforts beyond measure, Gardens, loggias, and a strand Where a boat awaits my pleasure, Wonder what would be your story, Were I tramp, and you signore!

Would you weary of control? Long to slip your gilded tether, And with Leo once more stroll, Heedless of the wind and weather? You could hardly do that all, Once ensconced behind my wall.

Every one must make a choice, Life is based on compensation; You have nothing but your voice, I have more, ... but more vexation! Minstrel, you at least are free; Give your smile to slaves like me!

SECLUSION

Shut out the World, shut in the Home! The sea is deeper than its foam; Retain the gem, reject the paste; Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, Its tumult and its senseless waste.

Within are love, and books, and flowers,-- Creators of life's happiest hours; Without are those whose baneful call, If once they pass within thy wall, May blight the beauty of it all.

Think not they come for love of thee! They seek from ennui to be free, To ask some boon, or tell some tale Which, true or false, will rarely fail To leave behind a poisoned trail.

What else indeed can such as they Invent to pass their time away? Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, Their reading is the daily press, Their mental life a wilderness.

What though their dwellings rise near thine? Propinquity is not a sign Of loyal hearts or kindred views; Thou surely hast a right to choose Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse.

Decline to let those mar thy joy, Whose manners wound, and words annoy; The vapid, heartless throng eschew; Admit alone,--alas, how few!-- The really kind, the really true.

Yet when did ever a recluse Escape the baffled crowd's abuse? The social world will ne'er condone Thy preference to live alone Amid resources of thine own.

Well, let it scoff, malign, or ... worse! Thou hast an independent purse; Alike to thee its smile or sneer, It hath no power to cause thee fear, Nor is its censure worth a tear.

Hence, 'mid thy flowers, books, and trees Strive not the multitude to please; Regard its humors as the spray Which winds blow lightly o'er the bay; Live thine own life, and win the day!

ONE MORE

With a smile and a kiss he went away; At the gate he turned and waved his hand, Then plunged once more in the sordid fray, Whose strain she could not understand.

She really thought that she loved him well, But she loved herself and children more, And realized only when he fell What all his friends had known before.

He had always hid his own distress, And answered us with a brave "Not yet," For boys must play and girls must dress, As do their mates in the social set.

At least she claimed that this was so, And he too dearly loved them all To spoil their place in the passing show, And so rode on for a fatal fall.

He had earned enough for a simple life, If only they a word had said, So weary was he of the strife; But they were dumb, and he ... is dead!

Yes, he is gone, and they are here; And now the purse he died to fill Will keep them well for many a year,-- Of course submissive to "God's will"!

One victim more in the cruel race With rivals he himself despised, For children who can ne'er replace The father whom they sacrificed.

UNDER THE PLANE TREE

Under my wall And plane-tree tall The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall; In they creep, Out they sweep, And ever their rhythmic measure keep, As the light breeze over the water steals, And fills the sails of a score of keels.

Soft and low, In the evening glow, Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow; Clear and sweet, Fair and fleet, It came from the mountain, the lake to meet, And here, where ivy and roses twine, Streamlet and lake their lives combine.

One by one, In shade or sun, Each river of life its course must run; Slow or fast, Small or vast, All come to the waiting sea at last,-- The source from which they first arose, The home in which they find repose.

"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE"

Marble fragment, freed at last From thy prison of the past, By a spade-thrust brought to light After centuries of night,-- Let me take thee in my hand, And thy legend understand.

On thy mutilated face It is difficult to trace All that once was graven here; But at least two words are clear,-- Reading still, as all agree, "Conjugi Carissimae."

"To my well-belovèd wife";-- Only this; but of her life, Rank or title, age or name, Or the place from which she came, Nothing further can be known Than is taught us by this stone.

Touching words they are, which tell Of a husband's last farewell; Cry of a despairing heart That has seen a wife depart On death's dark, uncharted sea;-- "Conjugi Carissimae!"

Was this lady still a bride, Or a matron, when she died? Had she children? Was she fair? Bright with joy, or bowed with care? Ah, pathetic mystery! "Conjugi Carissimae."

Yet, in truth, what matters all, Save the fact these words recall? She was loved,--a consort mourned In the home she had adorned; And her husband long ago Left the words which tell us so.

Strange, that these alone remain,-- Words of mingled love and pain! Time, which broke or blurred the rest, Tenderly has spared the best; For what better could there be? "Conjugi Carissimae."

Ancient relic, white and pure, May thine epitaph endure, While the lake with dimpled smile Mirrors this historic isle! Precious are thy words of old, Worthy of a script of gold!

Soon upon this island's shrine Shalt thou like a jewel shine,-- Dearest of its treasure-trove, Emblem of a deathless love From its sepulchre set free,-- "Conjugi Carissimae."

THE PAGAN PAST

What sylvan god was worshipped here? What nymph once made this grove her home, And bathed within its fountain clear, When Caesar ruled the world at Rome?

Did Pan frequent this charming site, So hidden from the haunts of men? Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night Within this moon-illumined glen?

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines Form trellised screens for distant snow, And trace in arabesque designs Their profiles on the Alpine glow?

So sure were Dryads to select A region thus supremely fair! So apt were mortals to erect In such a place a shrine for prayer!

The two millenniums have not brought Diminished splendor to this bay; The strand which Pliny loved and sought Is no less beautiful to-day.

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, And white magnolia-blossoms gleam Above my wave-lapped garden wall, I seem to see, as in a dream,

The kneeling forms of those who laid Their floral offerings on that shrine, And here their grateful tribute paid To beauty, rightly deemed divine.

Doth some Divinity each morn Cast over me its ancient spell, That this sweet landscape seems forlorn Without the gods who loved it well?

Men tell me they are dead and gone, But when my soul is moved to pray, I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, They are not very far away.

For I, who love this classic lake, And cruise along its storied shores, See Roman galleys in my wake, And hear the stroke of phantom oars.

It matters not which way I steer, Or if my course be slow or fast, The Pagan world seems always near; I sail, companioned by the Past.

RETIREMENT

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, Take me once more, like a child, to your breast! Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, Welcome me back, if it be not too late, Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, Hush of the forest and cadence of streams!

What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste? Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, Idle frivolity, senseless display, Youth without reverence, faith in decay.

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, Gladly go back to the humming of bees, Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, Gladly dispense with the voices of men, Thankful to hear only Nature again.

Out from the mob with its furious pace Into the cool, quiet reaches of space; Rid of Society's glittering chains, Fleeing a prison and finding the plains; Far from the clangor of murderous cars, Losing the limelight, but gaining ... the stars!

Others may live in the turbulent throng, Others may struggle to rectify wrong, Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, I too have striven and laughed in my day; But of life's blessings I crave now the best,-- Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest.

IN NOVEMBER

Under my trees of green and gold I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, With never a hint of winter's cold, Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze Which spreads from the gleaming lake below To gild the edge of the distant snow.

Closed are the stately inns once more; Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest; Many have gone to a southern shore, Some to the east and some to the west; But the smiling landlords count their gains, And we know well that the best remains.

For the walls are lined with precious books, And the hearth and home are always here, And the garden hath a score of nooks, Where flowers bloom throughout the year; And now that the restless crowd is gone I hear the flute of my rustic Faun.

Why should I grieve, if from my trees The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one? Through the clearer space with greater ease I feel the warmth of the genial sun; And though the plane-trees stand bereft, The pines and cypresses are left.

Does the gay world leave us? Well, good-bye! It will come again--perhaps too soon! We have the mountains, lake, and sky, And solitude is a precious boon. Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet,-- Their memory, after all, is sweet.

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

Over the water the shadows are creeping, Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, Only the fountain sings on as before.

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, Voices of absent ones seem to be calling:-- "Come to us! Come! thou hast waited too long."

Vainly I call it a childish delusion, Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion Voices I loved in the land of my birth.

Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, Waking within me a mingled emotion,-- Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear;

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me Many, alas! will await me no more; Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, Cold are the arms that embraced me before!

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, Dim and unknown is the opposite shore, But in the fatherland some are still keeping Lights in the window and watch at the door.

THE CASCADE

From the mountain gray It has made its way To my garden green and cool, And there, from the edge Of a rocky ledge Leaps down to a crystal pool.

With a plunging flash It falls, to dash That crystal into foam; And then at a bound Slips under ground To the lake,--its final home.

In the morning light, In the silent night, When the moonlight gems the scene, It laughs and sings, And a light spray flings O'er stately walls of green.

For in and out, And round about, Grow flowers, plants, and trees, From the lowly moss To the boughs that toss Their leaves in the passing breeze.

On its outer zone Of massive stone Two marble statues stand,-- The silver sheen Of the pool between,-- One form on either hand.

One of the pair Is a woman fair, With parted, smiling lips; For her each hour A honied flower, And she the bee that sips.

The other, a faun, From whom is gone The power to frankly smile; For whom each day, As it drags away, Makes life still less worth while.

The face of the one Is like the sun, With its warmth, and light, and cheer; But the faun looks down With ugly frown, And his lips retain a sneer.

Youth and age, Child and sage! The former with life unknown; The latter burnt By lessons learnt, With a heart now turned to stone.

Yet the torrent speeds, And never heeds The statues' smiles or sneers; They come and go, But the water's flow Has lasted a thousand years.

BIRD SLAUGHTER

Poor, little bird! the chase is ended; No longer hast thou cause for fear; Within these walls thou art befriended; No sportsmen can molest thee here.

Without, they doubtless still await thee, And scan with eager eyes the sky; Sweet, winsome thing! how can they hate thee? Why should they wish to see thee die?

So limp and helpless! wilt thou never Recover from thy fear and flight? How breathless was thy last endeavor To reach this shelter, when in sight!

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; Do I, too, seem like all the rest? Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me ... Alas! there's blood upon thy breast.

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently Uplift and hold thee in my hand; Thou gazest on me so intently, Thou must my motive understand.

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; This wing will never rise again; In vain thy look, so wild and pleading! I cannot cure or ease thy pain.

Too well the hunters have succeeded; Thy little life is ebbing fast; My presence now is all unheeded; 'Tis over; ... thou art dead at last.

Yet thus, within my garden dying, Thy fate hath caused me less regret Than that of all thy comrades, lying Half dead and mangled in the net!

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly The lofty Alps to seek the sun? Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, Or is her life-course also run?

Within the voiceless empyrean No birds are passing on the breeze; No songster lifts its joyous paean, And silent stand my empty trees;

For at the base of every mountain, Where southward-moving birds repose, In every grove, at every fountain, Lurk merciless, insatiate foes.

With cruel craft those foes surround them, Ensnaring hundreds in a day, Indifferent if they tear and wound them, Proud only of the heaps they slay.

What care these brutes if songs of rapture From thrush and lark are no more heard? What matter if their modes of capture Denude the land of every bird?

Whole regions, where they once abounded, Are now as silent as the tomb; The birds have vanished,--slain or wounded, Pursued, by thousands, to their doom.

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, The Nemesis of Nature wakes; Her flawless balance must be righted; If Ceres gives, ... she also takes!

Still worse, a moral degradation Thus cradled, vitiates the race; Among the rising generation A lust for slaughter grows apace.

Even children kill the birds thus captured,-- And, since none censures or withstands, They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured To crush them in their blood-smeared hands!

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, Its frail legs raw from rasping strings! A carriage comes,--he flings within it The tortured bird ... to sell its wings!

And oft as it may be rejected, The little victim, mad with thirst, Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, Till pain and hunger do their worst.

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman! Beneath you swells a threatening flood; If you and yours remain inhuman, It yet may drown you in your blood.

You smile, and call this sentimental; You will not smile in later times! For cruelty, so fundamental, Already breeds the worst of crimes.

THE IRON CROWN

On the classic shore of Como, 'Neath a headland steep and bold, Which, though leaden at the dawning, In the sunset turns to gold, Nestles beautiful Varenna, Still invested with renown By the legend that connects it With the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Far above it on the mountain Stands the castle, old and gray, With its battlements in ruin And its towers in decay; But a subtle charm still lingers Round that residence sublime, And the beauty of its story Is triumphant over time.

As we trace its ancient pavement, As we tread its roofless halls, How alluring is the figure Which this castle still recalls! For 'tis Queen Theodelinda Whom its ruined arches frame, And the passing breeze seems laden With the music of her name.

As we gaze from ivied ramparts On the storied lake below, We forget the world about us For the world of long ago, When the Lombards had descended From the mountains to the plain, And all Italy lay mourning For the thousands of her slain;

When their brave, ambitious leader, Not content to make his home By these northern lakes of beauty, Had resolved to capture Rome! For no longer could her legions His resistless course withstand, And the road lay open, southward, To the conquest of the land.

When his valiant host stood ready And impatient for the start, What reversed their king's decision? What so changed the warlord's heart? 'Twas the passionate entreaty Of his wife,--a Christian queen; 'Twas the conquest of the pagan By the lowly Nazarene.

Through her prayers Rome's agèd Pontiff From the threatened doom was freed; By her aid the Church was strengthened As the king professed its creed; And Saint Peter's great successor, Thus preserved from grievous loss, Gave to her, his faithful daughter, A true relic of the Cross.

What to pious Theodelinda Could be recompense more sweet Than the nail, forever sacred, That once pierced her Saviour's feet? Which, when rounded to a circlet, (To fine wire beaten down,) Then became the precious basis Of the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Through the ages that have followed What a line of the Renowned Have been proud to wear this emblem, As they, each in turn, were crowned! Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, German Kaisers by the score, And at last poor King Umberto, Basely slain at Monza's door!

Since that coronet was fashioned Fifteen centuries have passed O'er the castle by Lake Como, Where the good queen breathed her last; But the Crown is still at Monza, And its iron basic line Tells the world of human glory And the death of the Divine.

CONTRASTS

The wind is roaring down the lake, The clear, cold moon rides high, The mountains, crystal to their crests, Indent the starlit sky; The wild sea beats my garden-wall, And all its peace transforms; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When swept by Alpine storms!

My soul to-night is dark and sad From proofs of hate displayed, From envy and rapacity, And kindness ill-repaid; The baseness of humanity Hath spoiled a cherished dream; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When Evil reigns supreme!

The gale hath blown itself to rest, The sun turns all to gold, Once more the crystal mountain-sides A waveless plain enfold; And some will laugh, and lightly say The storm hath left no stain, But in my park one perfect rose Will never bloom again!

IN MY PERGOLA

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, I watch the flush of morning rise, While birds and flowers once more wake, To share with me my paradise.

Within this waveless bay of rest The Alpine winds contend no more, But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast, And sink to silence on its shore.

The breath of dawn descends the hills, And round me, as I greet the day, I hear the lilt of laughing rills And songs of fountains at their play.

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling Athwart the trellised path I tread, And incense-breathing roses swing Their pendent censers o'er my head.

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled This arbor, roofed with cups of gold? What Eastern casket ever held The perfume which their leaves unfold?

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, And touch my lips with odors sweet! Enfold me in your ardent glow, While petals flutter to my feet!

Let, for to-day, the dream remain That life is rose-hued, like this aisle,-- A fragrant pathway, free from pain, With every sun-kissed flower a smile!

EVANESCENCE

Passing ships! Passing ships! The white foam sparkling at your lips And countless jewels in your wake Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, While on your decks a smiling throng Surveys this realm of sun and song.

Slipping by! Slipping by! O'er waves that duplicate the sky I watch you daily come and go, But rarely is there one I know Of all who at your railings stand, To view with joy this storied land.

On ye pass! On ye pass! At times I follow through my glass Your silent course from sunset light To meet the dusky veil of night, As swiftly round the curving shore Glide faces I shall see no more.

Sailing on! Sailing on! The transient voyagers now are gone; Yet though the hills their features hide, One memory of them will abide,-- The thought of their enraptured gaze In this the gem of Larian bays.

Gliding by! Gliding by! Why is it that I look, ... and sigh? What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn For strangers who will ne'er return? I would not really have them stay, Yet grieve to see them fade away.

Hail-farewell! Hail-farewell! Those passing steamers seem to tell That all ships, whether slow or fast, Will cross life's little bay at last, While we who linger on the strand Must daily mourn some vanished hand.

LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN

From Como's curving base of blue, To where the snow lies cold and clear, Ascends in steps of varied hue The pageant of the passing year, As scores of mountain-sides unfold Their gorgeous robes of red and gold.

Meanwhile, where shore and lake unite, I see, projected far below, A counterpart in colors bright, Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,-- Two pictures of an ideal land, Divided by a single strand.

O matchless view, thus doubly fair, Impress thy beauty on my heart, That, when no longer really there, I still may see thee as thou art! Alas, that they should ever go,-- Those steps of light, those thrones of snow!