Chapter 3

"Our quarrel has left my mother Like death upon the floor; And I come from a furious presence I never shall enter more.

"I would not wed the woman He had chosen for my bride, For my heart had been before him, With his statecraft and his pride.

"I swore to him by my princehood In my love I would be free; And I swear to thee by my manhood, I love no one but thee.

"Let the Duke of Bavaria marry His daughter to whom he will: There where my love was given My word shall be faithful still.

"There are six true hearts will follow My truth wherever I go, And thou equal truth wilt keep me In welfare and in woe."

The maiden answered him nothing Of herself, but his words again Came back through her lips like an echo From an abyss of pain;

And vacantly repeating "In welfare and in woe," Like a dream from the heart of fever From her arms she felt him go.

III.

Out of Mantua's gate at daybreak Seven comrades wander forth On a path that leads at their humor, East, west, or south, or north.

The prince's laugh rings lightly, "What road shall we take from home?" And they answer, "We never shall lose it If we take the road to Rome."

And with many a jest and banter The comrades keep their way, Journeying out of the twilight Forward into the day,

When they are aware beside them Goes a pretty minstrel lad, With a shy and downward aspect, That is neither sad nor glad.

Over his slender shoulder, His mandolin was slung, And around its chords the treasure Of his golden tresses hung.

Spoke one of the seven companions, "Little minstrel, whither away?"-- "With seven true-hearted comrades On their journey, if I may."

Spoke one of the seven companions, "If our way be hard and long?"-- "I will lighten it with my music And shorten it with my song."

Spoke one of the seven companions, "But what are the songs thou know'st?"-- "O, I know many a ditty, But this I sing the most:

"How once was an humble maiden Beloved of a great lord's son, That for her sake and his troth's sake Was banished and undone.

"And forth of his father's city He went at break of day, And the maiden softly followed Behind him on the way

"In the figure of a minstrel, And prayed him of his love, 'Let me go with thee and serve thee Wherever thou may'st rove.

"'For if thou goest in exile I rest banished at home, And where thou wanderest with thee My fears in anguish roam,

"'Besetting thy path with perils, Making thee hungry and cold, Filling thy heart with trouble And heaviness untold.

"'But let me go beside thee, And banishment shall be Honor, and riches, and country, And home to thee and me!'"

Down falls the minstrel-maiden Before the Marquis' son, And the six true-hearted comrades Bow round them every one.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, From its scabbard draws his sword: "Now swear by the honor and fealty Ye bear your friend and lord,

"That whenever, and wherever, As long as ye have life, Ye will honor and serve this lady As ye would your prince's wife!"

IV.

Over the broad expanses Of garlanded Lombardy, Where the gentle vines are swinging In the orchards from tree to tree;

Through Padua from Verona, From the sculptured gothic town, Carved from ruin upon ruin, And ancienter than renown;

Through Padua from Verona To fair Venice, where she stands With her feet on subject waters, Lady of many lands;

From Venice by sea to Ancona; From Ancona to the west; Climbing many a gardened hillside And many a castled crest;

Through valleys dim with the twilight Of their gray olive trees; Over plains that swim with harvests Like golden noonday seas;

Whence the lofty campanili Like the masts of ships arise, And like a fleet at anchor Under them, the village lies;

To Florence beside her Arno, In her many-marbled pride, Crowned with infamy and glory By the sons she has denied;

To pitiless Pisa, where never Since the anguish of Ugolin The moon in the Tower of Famine[3] Fate so dread as his hath seen;

Out through the gates of Pisa To Livorno on her bay, To Genoa and to Naples The comrades hold their way,

Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered, Past the fortressed Ghibelline, Through lands that reek with slaughter, Treason, and shame, and sin;

By desert, by sea, by city, High hill-cope and temple-dome, Through pestilence, hunger, and horror, Upon the road to Rome;

While every land behind them Forgets them as they go, And in Mantua they are remembered As is the last year's snow;

But the Marchioness goes to her chamber Day after day to weep,-- For the changeless heart of a mother The love of a son must keep.

The Marchioness weeps in her chamber Over tidings that come to her Of the exiles she seeks, by letter And by lips of messenger,

Broken hints of their sojourn and absence, Comfortless, vague, and slight,-- Like feathers wafted backwards From passage birds in flight.[4]

The tale of a drunken sailor, In whose ship they went to sea; A traveller's evening story At a village hostelry,

Of certain comrades sent him By our Lady, of her grace, To save his life from robbers In a lonely desert place;

Word from the monks of a convent Of gentle comrades that lay One stormy night at their convent, And passed with the storm at day;

The long parley of a peasant That sold them wine and food, The gossip of a shepherd That guided them through a wood;

A boatman's talk at the ferry Of a river where they crossed, And as if they had sunk in the current All trace of them was lost;

And so is an end of tidings But never an end of tears, Of secret and friendless sorrow Through blank and silent years.

V.

To the Marchioness in her chamber Sends word a messenger, Newly come from the land of Naples, Praying for speech with her.

The messenger stands before her, A minstrel slender and wan: "In a village of my country Lies a Mantuan gentleman,

"Sick of a smouldering fever, Of sorrow and poverty; And no one in all that country Knows his title or degree.

"But six true Mantuan peasants, Or nobles, as some men say, Watch by the sick man's bedside, And toil for him, night and day,

"Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing, Bearing burdens, and far and nigh Begging for him on the highway Of the strangers that pass by;

"And they look whenever you meet them Like broken-hearted men, And I heard that the sick man would not If he could, be well again;

"For they say that he for love's sake Was gladly banishèd, But she for whom he was banished Is worse to him, now, than dead,--

"A recreant to his sorrow, A traitress to his woe." From her place the Marchioness rises, The minstrel turns to go.

But fast by the hand she takes him,-- His hand in her clasp is cold,-- "If gold may be thy guerdon Thou shalt not lack for gold;

"And if the love of a mother Can bless thee for that thou hast done, Thou shalt stay and be his brother, Thou shalt stay and be my son."

"Nay, my lady," answered the minstrel, And his face is deadly pale, "Nay, this must not be, sweet lady, But let my words prevail.

"Let me go now from your presence, And I will come again, When you stand with your son beside you, And be your servant then."

VI.

At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga Kneels his lady on the floor; "Lord, grant me before I ask it The thing that I implore."

"So it be not of that ingrate."-- "Nay, lord, it is of him." 'Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis His eyes are tender and dim.

"He lies sick of a fever in Naples, Near unto death, as they tell, In his need and pain forsaken By the wanton he loved so well.

"Now send for him and forgive him, If ever thou loved'st me, Now send for him and forgive him As God shall be good to thee."

"Well so,--if he turn in repentance And bow himself to my will; That the high-born lady I chose him May be my daughter still."

VII.

In Mantua there is feasting For the Marquis' grace to his son; In Mantua there is rejoicing For the prince come back to his own.

The pomp of a wedding procession Pauses under the pillared porch, With silken rustle and whisper, Before the door of the church.

In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom Stands with his high-born bride; The six true-hearted comrades Are three on either side.

The bridegroom is gray as his father, Where they stand face to face, And the six true-hearted comrades Are like old men in their place.

The Marquis takes the comrades And kisses them one by one: "That ye were fast and faithful And better than I to my son,

"Ye shall be called forever, In the sign that ye were so true, The Faithful of the Gonzaga, And your sons after you."

VIII.

To the Marchioness comes a courtier: "I am prayed to bring you word That the minstrel keeps his promise Who brought you news of my lord;

"And he waits without the circle To kiss your highness' hand; And he asks no gold for guerdon, But before he leaves the land

"He craves of your love once proffered That you suffer him for reward, In this crowning hour of his glory, To look on your son, my lord."

Through the silken press of the courtiers The minstrel faltered in. His claspèd hands were bloodless, His face was white and thin;

And he bent his knee to the lady, But of her love and grace To her heart she raised him and kissed him Upon his gentle face.

Turned to her son the bridegroom, Turned to his high-born wife, "I give you here for your brother Who gave back my son to life.

"For this youth brought me news from Naples How thou layest sick and poor, By true comrades kept, and forsaken By a false paramour.

"Wherefore I charge you love him For a brother that is my son." The comrades turned to the bridegroom In silence every one.

But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel With a visage blank and changed, As his whom the sight of a spectre From his reason hath estranged;

And the smiling courtiers near them On a sudden were still as death; And, subtly-stricken, the people Hearkened and held their breath

With an awe uncomprehended For an unseen agony:-- Who is this that lies a-dying, With her head on the prince's knee?

A light of anguish and wonder Is in the prince's eye, "O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me, Or I cannot let thee die!

"For now I see thy hardness Was softer than mortal ruth, And thy heavenly guile was whiter, My saint, than martyr's truth."

She speaks not and she moves not, But a blessed brightness lies On her lips in their silent rapture And her tender closèd eyes.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, He rises from his knee: "Aye, you have been good, my father, To them that were good to me.

"You have given them honors and titles, But here lies one unknown-- Ah, God reward her in heaven With the peace he gives his own!"

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so nearly as he found it in the _Cronache Montovane_, that he is ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it. The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his subjects.

[3] "Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda, La qual per me ha il titol della fame E in che conviene ancor ch'altri si chiuda, M'avea mostrato per lo suo forame Piu lune gia."

DANTE, _L'Inferno_.

[4] "As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight."

THE FIRST CRICKET.

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning, And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,-- Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining, All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?

Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber, Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan, Yet with th' unconscious earth's boded evil my soul thou dost cumber, And in the year's lost youth makest me still lose my own.

Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest, And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room, And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,-- Thou wilt again give me all,--dew and fragrance and bloom?

Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing, If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf, Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling, Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and--himself:

Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree. Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers, Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

THE MULBERRIES.

I.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand; The street ebbs under and makes no sound; But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, The noisy market rings around.

"_Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!_" A tuneful voice,--and light, light measure; Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear, If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood, The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves Hiding the berries beneath them;--good! Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old friend, I haven't eaten A mulberry since the ignorant joy Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten All this bitter world for a boy.

II.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, I could see the top of our cabin roof.

And, looking westward, could sweep the shores Of the river where we used to swim Under the ghostly sycamores, Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And eastward athwart the pasture-lot And over the milk-white buckwheat field I could see the stately elm, where I shot The first black squirrel I ever killed.

And southward over the bottom-land I could see the mellow breadths of farm From the river-shores to the hills expand, Clasped in the curving river's arm.

In the fields we set our guileless snares For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails, Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs From doubtful wings and vanished tails.

And in the blue summer afternoon We used to sit in the mulberry-tree: The breaths of wind that remembered June Shook the leaves and glittering berries free;

And while we watched the wagons go Across the river, along the road, To the mill above, or the mill below, With horses that stooped to the heavy load,

We told old stories and made new plans, And felt our hearts gladden within us again, For we did not dream that this life of a man's Could ever be what we know as men.

We sat so still that the woodpeckers came And pillaged the berries overhead; From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame, Peered, and listened to what we said.

III.

One of us long ago was carried To his grave on the hill above the tree; One is a farmer there, and married; One has wandered over the sea.

And, if you ask me, I hardly know Whether I'd be the dead or the clown,-- The clod above or the clay below,-- Or this listless dust by fortune blown

To alien lands. For, however it is, So little we keep with us in life: At best we win only victories, Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.

But if I could turn from the long defeat Of the little successes once more, and be A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet, Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,--

From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleep Of the will that cannot itself awaken, From the promise the future can never keep, From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,--

Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrill In the grass beneath the blanching thistle, And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill, Harked to the quail's complaining whistle,--

Ah me! should I paint the morrows again In quite the colors so faint to-day, And with the imperial mulberry's stain Re-purple life's doublet of hodden-gray?

Know again the losses of disillusion? For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?-- In spite of the question's bitter infusion, Don't you find these mulberries over-sweet?

All our atoms are changed, they say; And the taste is so different since then; We live, but a world has passed away With the years that perished to make us men.

BEFORE THE GATE.

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter, To fitful song and jest, To moods of soberness as idle, after, And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning, Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Till he said,--man-like nothing comprehending Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,--

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united Our steps as far as death, And I might open it!--" His voice, affrighted At its own daring, faltered under his breath.

Then she--whom both his faith and fear enchanted Far beyond words to tell, Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted The art he had that knew to blunder so well--

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking, "Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you--open the gate?"

CLEMENT.

I.

That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden, Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September, Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens; Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn, But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall, Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor; And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels, And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top; When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles, Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings, When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield, And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes; When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision, And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,-- Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing! That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow, Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset, Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel, Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there. Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded Hands, that held a few sad asters: "I sigh for this idyl Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life," With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner, "Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands; All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit Village,--so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal, Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence. Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to _him_ for his kindness, Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin Clement; Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors. --No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming: Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future? Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,--just as you like it;-- Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you. Then I'll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young person Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman. O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish? Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband." Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him, Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken, Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,-- All her mocking face transfigured,--with mournful effusion: "Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,-- Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition, Fame, and your art,--you have all these things to console you. I--what have I in this world? Since my child is dead--a bereavement." Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered (Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover), "Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime, With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness! Yes, you might play it, I think,--that _rôle_ of remorseful young person, That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted. Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal, Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you-- Not, indeed, for your word--that is light--but I wish to believe you. Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever! I--I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married. Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,-- Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!" There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle, Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance, Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision: "You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,-- Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember." Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house, Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.

II.