Part 4

Still o'er this town the crested castle stands, A nest for storks, as once for haughty souls, Still from the abbey, where the vale expands, The curfew for the long departed tolls,

Wafting some ghostly blessing to the heart From prayer of nun or silent Capuchin, To heal with balm of Golgotha the smart Of weary labour and distracted sin.

What fate has cast me on a tide of time Careless of joy and covetous of gold, What force compelled to weave the pensive rhyme When loves are mean, and faith and honour old,

When riches crown in vain men's sordid lives, And learning chokes a mind of base degree? What winged spirit rises from their hives? What heart, revolting, ventures to be free?

Their pride will sink and more ignobly fade Without memorial of its hectic fire. What altars shall survive them, where they prayed? What lovely deities? What riven lyre?

Tarry not, pilgrim, but with inward gaze Pass daily, musing, where their prisons are, And o'er the ocean of their babble raise Thy voice in greeting to thy changeless star.

Abroad a tumult, and a ruin here; Nor world nor desert hath a home for thee. Out of the sorrows of the barren year Build thou thy dwelling in eternity.

Let patience, faith's wise sister, be thy heaven, And with high thoughts necessity alloy. Love is enough, and love is ever given, While fleeting days bring gift of fleeting joy.

The little pleasures that to catch the sun Bubble a moment up from being's deep, The glittering sands of passion as they run, The merry laughter and the happy sleep,--

These are the gems that, like the stars on fire, Encrust with glory all our heaven's zones; Each shining atom, in itself entire, Brightens the galaxy of sister stones,

Dust of a world that crumbled when God's dream To throbbing pulses broke the life of things, And mingled with the void the scattered gleam Of many orbs that move in many rings,

Perchance at last into the parent sun To fall again and reunite their rays, When God awakes and gathers into one The light of all his loves and all his days.

KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL

The buttress frowns, the gorgeous windows blaze, The vaults hang wonderful with woven fans, The four stone sentinels to heaven raise Their heads, in a more constant faith than man's.

The College gathers, and the courtly prayer Is answered still by hymn and organ-groan; The beauty and the mystery are there, The Virgin and Saint Nicholas are gone.

Not one _Ora pro nobis_ bids them pause In their far flight, to hear this anthem roll; No heart, of all that the King's relic awes, Sings _Requiescat_ to his mournful soul.

No grain of incense thrown upon the embers Of their cold hearth, no lamp in witness hung Before their image. One alone remembers; Only the stranger knows their mother tongue.

Long rows of tapers light the people's places; The little choristers may read, and mark The rhythmic fall; I see their wondering faces; Only the altar--like the soul--is dark.

Ye floating voices through these arches ringing With measured music, subtle, sweet, and strong, Feel ye the inmost reason of your singing? Know ye the ancient burden of your song?

The twilight deepens, and the blood-dyed glories Of all these fiery blazonings are dim. Oh, they are jumbled, sad, forgotten stories! Why should ye read them, children? Chant your hymn.

But I must con them while the rays of even Kindle aloft some fading jewel-gleam And the vast windows glow a peopled heaven, Rich with the gathering pageant of my dream.

Eden I see, where from the leafy cover The green-eyed snake begins to uncoil his length And whispers to the woman and her lover, As they lie musing, large, in peaceful strength.

I see their children, bent with toil and terror, Lurking in caves, or heaping madly on The stones of Babel, or the endless error Of Sodom, Nineveh, and Babylon.

Here the Egyptian, wedding life with death, Flies from the sun into his painted tomb, And winds the secret of his antique faith Tight in his shroud, and seals in sterile gloom.

There the bold prophets of the heart's desire Hail the new Zion God shall build for them, And rapt Isaiah strikes the heavenly lyre, And Jeremiah mourns Jerusalem.

Here David's daughter, full of grace and truth, Kneels in the temple, waiting for the Lord; With the first _Ave_ comes the winged youth, Bringing the lily ere he bring the sword.

There, to behold the Mother and the Child, The sturdy shepherds down the mountain plod, And angels sing, with voices sweet and wild And wide lips parted: "Glory be to God."

Here, mounted on an ass, the twain depart To hallowed Egypt, safe from Herod's wrong; And Mary ponders all things in her heart, And pensive Joseph sadly walks along.

There with the Twelve, before his blood is shed, Christ blesses bread and breaks it with his hands, "This is my body." Thomas shakes his head, They marvel all, and no one understands,

Save John, whom Jesus loved above the rest. He marvels too, but, seeking naught beside, Leans, as his wont is, on his Master's breast. Ah! the Lord's body also should abide.

There Golgotha is dark against the blue In the broad east, above the painted crowd, And many look upon the sign, but few Read the hard lesson of the cross aloud.

And from this altar, now an empty tomb, The Lord is risen. Lo! he is not here. No shining angel sitteth in the gloom, No Magdalen in anguish draweth near.

All pure in heart, or all in aspect pure, The seemly Christians, kneeling, line the choir, And drop their eyelids, tender and demure, As the low lingering harmonies expire.

In that _Amen_ are the last echoes blended Of all the ghostly world. The shades depart Into the sacred night. In peace is ended The long delirious fever of the heart.

Then I go forth into the open wold And breathe the vigour of the freshening wind, And with the piling drift of cloud I hold A worship sweeter to the homeless mind,

Where the squat willows with their osiers crowned Border the humble reaches of the Cam, And the deep meadows stretching far around Make me forget the exile that I am,--

Exile not only from the wind-swept moor Where Guadarrama lifts his purple crest, But from the spirit's realm, celestial, sure Goal of all hope and vision of the best.

They also will go forth, these gentle youths, Strong in the virtues of their manful isle, Till one the pathway of the forest smooths, And one the Ganges rules, and one the Nile;

And to whatever wilderness they choose Their hearts will bear the sanctities of home, The perfect ardours of the Grecian Muse, The mighty labour of the arms of Rome;

But, ah! how little of these storied walls Beneath whose shadow all their nurture was! No, not one passing memory recalls The Blessed Mary and Saint Nicholas.

Unhappy King, look not upon these towers, Remember not thine only work that grew. The moving world that feeds thy gift devours, And the same hand that finished overthrew.

ON AN UNFINISHED STATUE

BY MICHAEL ANGELO IN THE BARGELLO, CALLED AN APOLLO OR A DAVID

What beauteous form beneath a marble veil Awaited in this block the Master's hand? Could not the magic of his art avail To unseal that beauty's tomb and bid it stand?

Alas! the torpid and unwilling mass Misknew the sweetness of the mind's control, And the quick shifting of the winds, alas! Denied a body to that flickering soul.

Fair homeless spirit, harbinger of bliss, It wooed dead matter that they both might live, But dreamful earth still slumbered through the kiss And missed the blessing heaven stooped to give,

As when Endymion, locked in dullard sleep, Endured the gaze of Dian, till she turned Stung with immortal wrath and doomed to weep Her maiden passion ignorantly spurned.

How should the vision stay to guide the hand, How should the holy thought and ardour stay, When the false deeps of all the soul are sand And the loose rivets of the spirit clay?

What chisel shaking in the pulse of lust Shall find the perfect line, immortal, pure? What fancy blown by every random gust Shall mount the breathless heavens and endure?

Vain was the trance through which a thrill of joy Passed for the nonce, when a vague hand, unled, Half shaped the image of this lovely boy And caught the angel's garment as he fled.

Leave, leave, distracted hand, the baffling stone, And on that clay, thy fickle heart, begin. Mould first some steadfast virtue of thine own Out of the sodden substance of thy sin.

They who wrought wonders by the Nile of old, Bequeathing their immortal part to us, Cast their own spirit first into the mould And were themselves the rock they fashioned thus.

Ever their docile and unwearied eye Traced the same ancient pageant to the grave, And awe made rich their spirit's husbandry With the perpetual refluence of its wave,

Till 'twixt the desert and the constant Nile Sphinx, pyramid, and awful temple grew, And the vast gods, self-knowing, learned to smile Beneath the sky's unalterable blue.

Long, long ere first the rapt Arcadian swain Heard Pan's wild music pulsing through the grove, His people's shepherds held paternal reign Beneath the large benignity of Jove.

Long mused the Delphic sibyl in her cave Ere mid his laurels she beheld the god, And Beauty rose a virgin from the wave In lands the foot of Heracles had trod.

Athena reared her consecrated wall, Poseidon laid its rocky basement sure, When Theseus had the monstrous race in thrall And made the worship of his people pure.

Long had the stripling stood in silence, veiled, Hearing the heroes' legend o'er and o'er, Long in the keen palaestra striven, nor quailed To tame the body to the task it bore,

Ere soul and body, shaped by patient art, Walked linked with the gods, like friend with friend, And reason, mirrored in the sage's heart, Beheld her purpose and confessed her end.

Mould, then, thyself and let the marble be. Look not to frailty for immortal themes, Nor mock the travail of mortality With barren husks and harvesting of dreams.

MIDNIGHT

The dank earth reeks with three days' rain, The phantom trees are dark and still, Above the darkness and the hill The tardy moon shines out again. O heavy lethargy of pain! O shadows of forgotten ill!

My parrot lips, when I was young, To prove and to disprove were bold. The mighty world has tied my tongue, And in dull custom growing old I leave the burning truth untold And the heart's anguish all unsung.

Youth dies in man's benumbed soul, Maid bows to woman's broken life, A thousand leagues of silence roll Between the husband and the wife. The spirit faints with inward strife And lonely gazing at the pole.

But how should reptiles pine for wings Or a parched desert know its dearth? Immortal is the soul that sings The sorrow of her mortal birth. O cruel beauty of the earth! O love's unutterable stings!

IN GRANTCHESTER MEADOWS

ON FIRST HEARING A SKYLARK SING

Too late, thou tender songster of the sky Trilling unseen, by things unseen inspired, I list thy far-heard cry That poets oft to kindred song hath fired, As floating through the purple veils of air Thy soul is poured on high, A little joy in an immense despair.

Too late thou biddest me escape the earth, In ignorance of wrong To spin a little slender thread of song; On yet unwearied wing To rise and soar and sing, Not knowing death or birth Or any true unhappy human thing.

To dwell 'twixt field and cloud, By river-willow and the murmurous sedge, Be thy sweet privilege, To thee and to thy happy lords allowed. My native valley higher mountains hedge 'Neath starlit skies and proud, And sadder music in my soul is loud.

Yet have I loved thy voice, Frail echo of some ancient sacred joy. Ah, who might not rejoice Here to have wandered, a fair English boy, And breathed with life thy rapture and thy rest Where woven meadow-grasses fold thy nest? But whose life is his choice? And he who chooseth not hath chosen best.

SPAIN IN AMERICA

WRITTEN AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISH FLEET IN THE BATTLE OF SANTIAGO, IN 1898

I

When scarce the echoes of Manila Bay, Circling each slumbering billowy hemisphere, Had met where Spain's forlorn Armada lay Locked amid hostile hills, and whispered near The double omen of that groan and cheer-- Haste to do now what must be done anon Or some mad hope of selling triumph dear Drove the ships forth: soon was _Teresa_ gone, _Furor, Pluton, Vizcaya, Oquendo_, and _Colon._

And when the second morning dawned serene O'er vivid waves and foam-fringed mountains, dressed Like Nessus in their robe's envenomed sheen, Scarce by some fiery fleck the place was guessed Where each hulk smouldered; while from crest to crest Leapt through the North the news of victory, Victory tarnished by a boorish jest[1] Yet touched with pity, lest the unkindly sea Should too much aid the strong and leave no enemy.

As the anguished soul, that gasped for difficult breath, Passes to silence from its house of pain, So from those wrecks, in fumes of lurid death, Passed into peace the heavy pride of Spain, Passed from that aching tenement, half fain, Back to her castled hills and windy moors, No longer tossed upon the treacherous main Once boasted hers, which with its watery lures Too long enticed her sons to unhallowed sepultures.

II

Why went Columbus to that highland race, Frugal and pensive, prone to love and ire, Despising kingdoms for a woman's face, For honour riches, and for faith desire? On Spain's own breast was snow, within it fire; In her own eyes and subtle tongue was mirth; The eternal brooded in her skies, whence nigher The trebled starry host admonished earth To shame away her grief and mock her baubles' worth.

Ah! when the crafty Tyrian came to Spain To barter for her gold his motley wares, Treading her beaches he forgot his gain. The Semite became noble unawares. Her passion breathed Hamilcar's cruel prayers; Her fiery winds taught Hannibal his vows; Out of her tribulations and despairs They wove a sterile garland for their brows. To her sad ports they fled before the Roman prows.

And the Greek coming too forgot his art, And that large temperance which made him wise. The wonder of her mountains choked his heart, The languor of her gardens veiled his eyes; He dreamed, he doubted; in her deeper skies He read unfathomed oracles of woe, And stubborn to the onward destinies, Like some dumb brute before a human foe, Sank in Saguntum's flames and deemed them brighter so.

The mighty Roman also when he came, Bringing his gods, his justice, and his tongue, Put off his greatness for a sadder fame, And what a Caesar wrought a Lucan sung. Nor was the pomp of his proud music, wrung From Latin numbers, half so stern and dire, Nor the sad majesties he moved among Half so divine, as her unbreathed desire. Shall longing break the heart and not untune the lyre?

When after many conquerors came Christ, The only conqueror of Spain indeed, Not Bethlehem nor Golgotha sufficed To show him forth, but every shrine must bleed And every shepherd in his watches heed The angels' matins sung at heaven's gate. Nor seemed the Virgin Mother wholly freed From taint of ill if born in frail estate, But shone the seraphs' queen and soared immaculate.

And when the Arab from his burning sands Swept o'er the waters like a heavenly flail, He took her lute into his conquering hands, And in her midnight turned to nightingale. With woven lattices and pillars frail He screened the pleasant secrets of his bower, Yet little could his subtler arts avail Against the brutal onset of the Giaour. The rose passed from his courts, the muezzin from his tower.

Only one image of his wisdom stayed, One only relic of his magic lore,-- Allah the Great, whom silent fate obeyed, More than Jehovah calm and hidden more, Allah remained in her heart's kindred core High witness of these terrene shifts of wrong. Into his ancient silence she could pour Her passions' frailty--He alone is strong-- And chant with lingering wail the burden of her song.

Seizing at Covadonga the rude cross Pelayo raised amid his mountaineers, She bore it to Granada, one day's loss Ransomed with battles of a thousand years. A nation born in harness, fed on tears, Christened in blood, and schooled in sacrifice, All for a sweeter music in the spheres, All for a painted heaven--at a price Should she forsake her loves and sail to Ind for spice?

Had Genoa in her merchant palaces No welcome for a heaven-guided son? Had Venice, mistress of the inland seas, No ships for bolder venture? Pisa none? Was sated Rome content? Her mission done? Saw Lusitania in her seaward dreams No floating premonition, beckoning on To vast horizons, gilded yet with gleams Of old Atlantis, whelmed beneath the bubbling streams?

Or if some torpor lay upon the South, Tranced by the might of memories divine, Dwelt no shrewd princeling by the marshy mouth Of Scheldt, or by the many mouths of Rhine? Rode Albion not at anchor in the brine Whose throne but now the thrifty Tudor stole Changing a noble for a crafty line? Swarmed not the Norsemen yet about the pole, Seeking through endless mists new havens for the soul?

These should have been thy mates, Columbus, these Patrons and partners of thy enterprise, Sad lovers of immeasurable seas, Bound to no hallowed earth, no peopled skies. No ray should reach them of their ladies' eyes In western deserts: no pure minstrel's rhyme, Echoing in forest solitudes, surprise Their heart with longing for a sweeter clime. These, these should found a world who drag no chains of time.

In sooth it had seemed folly, to reveal To stubborn Aragon and evil-eyed These perilous hopes, folly to dull Castile Moated in jealous faith and walled in pride, Save that those thoughts, to Spain's fresh deeds allied, Painted new Christian conquests, and her hand Itched for that sword, now dangling at her side, Which drove the Moslem forth and purged the land. And then she dreamed a dream her heart could understand.

[Footnote 1: Admiral Sampson said he made a Fourth of July present of the Spanish fleet to the American people, although all the ships had been sunk and none captured.]

III

Three caravels, a cross upon the prow, A broad cross on the banner and the sail, The liquid fields of Hesperus should plough Borne by the leaping waters and the gale. Before that sign all hellish powers should quail Troubling the deep: no dragon's obscene crest, No serpent's slimy coils should aught avail, Till ivory cities looming in the west Should gleam from high Cathay or Araby the Blest.

Then, as with noble mien and debonair The captains from the galleys leapt to land, Or down the temple's alabaster stair Or by the river's marge of silvery sand, Proud Sultans should descend with outstretched hand Greeting the strangers, and by them apprised Of Christ's redemption and the Queen's command, Being with joy and gratitude baptized, Should lavish gifts of price by rarest art devised.

Or if (since churls there be) they should demur To some least point of fealty or faith, A champion, clad in arms from crest to spur, Should challenge the proud caitiffs to their death And, singly felling them, from their last breath Extort confession that the Lord is lord, And India's Catholic queen, Elizabeth. Whereat yon turbaned tribes, with one accord, Should beat their heathen breasts and ope their treasures' hoard.

Or, if the worst should chance and high debates Should end in insult and outrageous deed, And, many Christians rudely slain, their mates Should summon heaven to their direful need, Suddenly from the clouds a snow-white steed Bearing a dazzling rider clad in flames Should plunge into the fray: with instant speed Rout all the foe at once, while mid acclaims The slaughtered braves should rise, crying, _Saint James! Saint James!_

Then, the day won, and its bright arbiter Vanished, save for peace he left behind, Each in his private bosom should bestir His dearest dream: as that perchance there pined Some lovely maiden of angelic mind In those dark towers, awaiting out of Spain Two Saviours that her horoscope divined Should thence arrive. She (womanlike) were fain Not to be wholly free, but wear a chosen chain.

That should be youth's adventure. Riper days Would crave the guerdon of a prouder power And pluck their nuggets from an earthly maze For rule and dignity and children's dower. And age that thought to near the fatal hour Should to a magic fount descend instead, Whose waters with the fruit revive the flower And deck in all its bloom the ashen head, Where a green heaven spreads, not peopled of the dead.

IV

By such false meteors did those helmsmen steer, Such phantoms filled their vain and vaulting souls With divers ardours, while this brooding sphere Swung yet ungirdled on her silent poles. All journeys took them farther from their goals, All battles won defeated their desire, Barred from one India by the other's shoals, Each sighted star extinguishing its fire, Cape doubled after cape, and never haven nigher.

How many galleons sailed to sail no more, How many battles and how many slain, Since first Columbus touched the Cuban shore, Till Araucania felt the yoke of Spain! What mounting miseries! What dwindling gain! To till those solitudes, soon swept of gold, And bear that ardent sun, across the main Slaves must come writhing in the festering hold Of galleys.--Poison works, though men be brave and bold.

That slothful planter, once the buccaneer, Lord of his bastards and his mongrel clan, Ignorant, harsh, what could he list or hear Of Europe and the heritage of man? No petty schemer sees the larger plan, No privy tyrant brooks the mightier law, But lash in hand rides forth a partisan Of freedom: base, without the touch of awe, He poisoned first the blood his poniard was to draw.