Chapter 11
A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird Of Jove to drink: When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, The moistened brink, Beneath the palm--_they_ always tempt pugnacious hands-- Both travel-sore; But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands Straight to each core; As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call Of Eagle shrill: "Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small, Now one grave fill! Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone Becomes a pipe Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone By quail and snipe. Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, And mortal feud? I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo--none afraid-- In solitude: At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. Kings, he and I; For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, And he to me the sky."
H.L.W.
CHILDHOOD.
_("L'enfant chantait.")_
[Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.]
The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, With anguish moaned,--fair Form pain should possess not long; For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head: I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.
The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.
The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; And the blithe little lad began anew to sing... Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.
NELSON R. TYERMAN.
SATIRE ON THE EARTH.
_("Une terre au flanc maigre.")_
[Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.]
A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends! Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. And this to those who, luckily, abide afar-- This is, ha! ha! _a star_!
HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN.
_("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")_
[Bk. I. xii.]
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses--lo, the little lovers-- That kiss the buds and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays, Of the proud hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that men wound, The messages of love that mortals write, Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the Maytime Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime. We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress to despair, To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
A. LANG.
HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
_("Si vous n'avez rien à me dire.")_
[Bk. II. iv., May, 18--.]
Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden! Or haunt no more my lone retreat. If not for me thy heart be laden, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden, Whene'er as thus so oft we meet? If not for me thy heart be, Aideen, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Why, when my hand unconscious pressing, Still keep untold the maiden dream? In fancy thou art thus caressing The while we wander by the stream.
If thou art pained when I am near thee, Why in my path so often stray? For in my heart I love yet fear thee, And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.
C.H. KENNY.
INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.[1]
_("Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu.")_
[Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.]
Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold! Ye wounded, come hither--the Healer enfold! Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care-- Or pass--for _this_ Comfort is found ev'rywhere.
[Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.]
DEATH, IN LIFE.
_("Ceux-ci partent.")_
[Bk. III. v., February, 1843.]
We pass--these sleep Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs, And gentle summer winds in many sweep Whirl in eddying waves The dead leaves o'er the graves.
And the living sigh: Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. Ye never more may list the wild bird's song, Or mingle in the crowded city-throng. Ye must ever dwell in gloom, 'Mid the silence of the tomb.
And the dead reply: God giveth us His life. Ye die, Your barren lives are tilled with tears, For glory, ye are clad with fears. Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades! We live; your beauty clouds and fades.
THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.
_("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")_
[Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.]
Ah, you said too often to your angel There are other angels in the sky-- There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, Sweet it were to enter in on high.
To that dome on marvellous pilasters, To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, That blue garden full of stars like lilies, And of lilies beautiful as stars.
And you said it was a place most joyous, All our poor imaginings above, With the wingèd cherubim for playmates, And the good God evermore to love.
Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, Like a taper burning day and night, Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, In that home so beautiful and bright.
But you should have told him, hapless mother, Told your child so frail and gentle too, That you were all his in life's beginning, But that also he belonged to you.
For the mother watches o'er the infant, He must rise up in her latter days, She will need the man that was her baby To stand by her when her strength decays.
Ah, you did not tell enough your darling That God made us in this lower life, Woman for the man, and man for woman, In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.
So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow! The sweet creature left you all alone; 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open, Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.
BP. ALEXANDER.
EPITAPH.
_("Il vivait, il jouait.")_
[Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.]
He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming? Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright, The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by-- Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?
Because of this one child thou hast no more of might, O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight! But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild, This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth-- This world as vast as thou, even _thou_, O sorrowless Earth, Is desolate and void because of this one child!
NELSON K. TYERMAN.
ST. JOHN.
_("Un jour, le morne esprit.")_
[Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.]
One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime At Patmos who aye dreamed, And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time, Words that with hell-fire gleamed,
Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight-- Needs must I see His Face!" The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night, Lo! the all-sacred Place!
And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows The name, nor there hath trod; And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows Because of very God.
NELSON R. TYERMAN.
THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH.
You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell, And still go on. If but the way be straight, It cannot go amiss! before me lies Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that Suffices me; I break the bounds; I _see_, And nothing more; _believe_, and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns.
PROF. E. DOWDEN.
I AM CONTENT.
_("J'habite l'ombre.")_
[1855.]
True; I dwell lone, Upon sea-beaten cape, Mere raft of stone; Whence all escape Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb.
My bedroom rocks With breezes; quakes in storms, When dangling locks Of seaweed mock the forms Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.
Upon the sky Crape palls are often nailed With stars. Mine eye Has scared the gull that sailed To blacker depths with shrillest scream, Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.
My days become More plaintive, wan, and pale, While o'er the foam I see, borne by the gale, Infinity! in kindness sent-- To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"
LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES.
CAIN.
_("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.")_
[Bk. II]
Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. Raising his head, in that funereal heaven He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night Open, and staring at him in the gloom. "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge, And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent," And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. But Cain replied, "That Eye--I see it still." And Jubal cried (the father of all those That handle harp and organ): "I will build A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried: "Then must we make a circle vast of towers, So terrible that nothing dare draw near; Build we a city with a citadel; Build we a city high and close it fast." Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them That work in brass and iron) built a tower-- Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, His fiery brothers from the plain around Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, And hurled at even arrows to the stars. They set strong granite for the canvas wall, And every block was clamped with iron chains. It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, With their huge masses made night in the land. The walls were thick as mountains. On the door They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done, And having finished to cement and build In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire, Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly. But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there." Then added: "I will live beneath the earth, As a lone man within his sepulchre. I will see nothing; will be seen of none." They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow," As he went down alone into the vault; But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.
_Dublin University Magazine_
BOAZ ASLEEP.
_("Booz s'était couché.")_
[Bk. II. vi.]
At work within his barn since very early, Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, Upon the small bed where he always lay Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
His beard was silver, as in April all A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."
He walked his way of life straight on and plain, With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.
Good master, faithful friend, in his estate Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth He won regard of woman, for in sooth The young man may be fair--the old man's great.
Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, The old man entereth, the day eterne; And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.
And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. His race ran up it far, like a long chain; Below it sung a king, above it died a God.
Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, "The number of my years is past fourscore: How may this be? I have not any more, Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.
"In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; And she, half living, I half dead within, Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line!
"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound From night, as from a victory. But such A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.
"I bow myself to death, as lone to meet The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!
For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring-- Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast The angels sped, for momently there passed A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur-- The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. Far west among those flowers of the shadows. The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
BP. ALEXANDER.
SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT
_("Sonnex, clarions!")_
[Bk. VI. vii.]
Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! The _Reiters_ are mounted! the Reiters will come!
When our bullets cease singing And long swords cease ringing On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, We'll dig up their dollars To string for girls' collars-- They'll jingle around them before it is night! When flourish the trumpets, etc.
We're the Emperor's winners Of right royal dinners, Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, While we wallow in claret, Knowing not how to spare it, Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates-- While flourish the trumpets, etc.
Gods of battle! red-handed! Wise it was to have banded Such arms as are these for embracing of gain! Hearken to each war-vulture Crying, "Down with all culture Of land or religion!" _Hoch_! to our refrain Of flourish the trumpets, etc.
Give us "bones of the devil" To exchange in our revel The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; Coronets are but playthings-- We reck not who say things When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!-- To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!
H.L.W.
KING CANUTE.
_("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")_
[Bk. X. i.]
King Canute died.[1] Encoffined he was laid. Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint--Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned.
I.
Evening came, And hushed the organ in the holy place, And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose, Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, And went forth loftily. The massy walls Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.
There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers Glass in deep waters. Over this he went Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot Inaudible, itself being but a dream. Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, And thus, "O mountain buffeted of storms, Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him, Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make The garment he desired, and then he cried, "Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou The way to God." More deep each dread ravine And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus Answered that hoar associate of the clouds: "Spectre, I know not, I am always here." Canute departed, and with head erect, All white and ghastly in his robe of snow, Went forth into great silence and great night By Iceland and Norway. After him Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost Confronted with Immensity. He saw The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness Moving confusedly in the horrible dark Inscrutable and blind. No star was there, Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb And fearful shudder. "'Tis the tomb," he said, "God is beyond!" Three steps he took, then cried: 'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice Responded, nor came any breath to sway The snowy mantle, with unsullied white Emboldening the spectral wanderer. Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, A spot grew broad upon his livid robe; Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; And Canute proved it with his spectral hands It was a drop of blood.
_R. GARNETT._
II.