Part 3
No trace to-day of what in her was fair! Only the record of long years grown green Upon the mirror’s lustreless dead sheen, Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me One picture of that immemorial land, For oft as I have held thee in my hand The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise, And o’er one marble shoulder all the while Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile, And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
It was well thought to set thee there, so she Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere She stood before the queen Persephone.
And still it may be where the dead folk rest She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes, And looks upon the changelessness and sighs, And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
THE SONG OF THE DEAD CHILD.
FLORENCE, ’81.
By the light of their waxen tapers, I saw not ever a tear, For the child in its bridal garment, the little dead child on the bier.
Some child of the poor;--I wonder, was it glad that the years were done, This flower that fell in spring tide, and had hardly looked on the sun?
They have decked her in burial raiment, they have twined a wreath for her hair; Ah child, you had never in life such delicate dress to wear!
And the man in the pilgrim’s habit has covered the marble head, And carried it out for ever to the sleeping place of the dead.
Rest, little one, have no fear, you will hardly turn in your sleep, Though the moon and the stars are clouded, and the grave they have made be deep!
But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night, With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.
He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand, And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.
Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lie On the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,
And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled, For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.
And here is the children’s meeting, the length of a summer’s day, You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.
While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream, You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;
Such marvellous robes are o’er them, and whiter are some than snows, And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.
For these are the hues of day-dawn that you saw from the world of old, And the first light over the mountains was shed from their crowns of gold;
And many go by with weeping, for ever, the long night through, The tears of the sorrowing angels fall over the earth in dew;
Till your eyes grow weary of wonder as you sit in the long cool grass, And many will bend and kiss you of the wonderful forms that pass;
With your head on the breast of the angel there will steal down over your eyes The sleep of the long forgetting, and the dream where memory dies,
As the flowers are washed in the night-time, when the dew drops down from above, You will reck no more of the winter, and hunger, and want of love.
Then at last it will seem like even when you waken, and hand in hand You will pass with your angels guiding, to the utmost verge of the land;
And I think you will hear far voices growing musical there, and loud, As you pass, with an unfelt swiftness, from luminous cloud to cloud;
Till the light shall turn to a glory, that seemed but a lone faint star, That will be the gate of Heaven, where the souls of the children are.
NIGHT AT AVIGNON.
No cloud between the myriad stars and me,-- Soft music moving o’er a sleeping land Of winds that fret about the cypress tree, And Rhone’s swift rapids rippling past the sand. Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall, Against the violet deepness of the skies;-- And one grey spire set high above them all, Where round the hill the moon begins to rise. An hour’s knell rings softly out once more From unseen cloisters, where the misty bridge Fades in the distance of the further shore, And nearer spires repeat it o’er and o’er; One great blue star peers through the seaward ridge;
A hollow footfall up the echoing street Goes wandering out to silence, and the breeze Drops faint and fainter, here beneath my feet The grass is all with violets overstrewn; Oh listen, listen; in yon garden trees Do you not hear the lute that lovers use! One sets the discord of its strings atune;-- And in the dreamland of the risen moon They sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse.
“WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA.”
A sweet still night of the vintage time, Where the Rhone goes down to the sea; The distant sound of a midnight chime Comes over the wave to me. Only the hills and the stars o’erhead Bring back dreams of the days long dead, While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
The years are long, and the world is wide, And we all went down to the sea; The ripples splash as we onward glide, And I dream they are here with me-- All lost friends whom we all loved so, In the old mad life of long ago, Who all went down to the sea.
So we passed in the golden days With the summer down to the sea. They wander still over weary ways, And come not again to me. I am here alone with the night wind’s sigh, The fading stars, and a dream gone by, And the Rhone going down to the sea.
AT TIBER MOUTH.
The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds, Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads; And the fresh wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath, As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death. We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat, When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street; No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound, But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground. There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep, Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep; And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears, By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years. Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze, Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas, For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay, And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away. But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore, So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more; And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead, They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head. But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will, And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still. How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and far From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star, They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free Look over our life’s horizon as the sun looks over the sea, But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies, And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o’er us dies; We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have; And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent, Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went? They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills, And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills. So a shadow fell o’er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past, For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last. And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines, Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines. And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood; From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun. And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow, And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow; Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass, The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass. And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers, While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours; From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue, Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread-like gossamers flew. And the joy of the woods came o’er us, and we felt that our world was young With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung. So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way, Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay; For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god’s shrine, And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line. But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores, And shone on our boat’s red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars, And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea, From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
GARIBALDI IN ROME.
JUNE 29-30, 1849.
St. Peter’s eve, from dim Janiculum The battle’s thunder drowned the bells that tolled, The great guns flashed, but that night as of old We kept St. Peter’s vigil, and the dome Blazed with its myriad little lamps of gold, And all the river ran with yellow foam, While on the torchlit Capitol unrolled The banner blew of our Republic, Rome,
Then silence fell with treacherous midnight,-- An hour ere dawn we heard a wild alarm, The blast of bugles, the swift call to arm, We sang his war hymn and fell in to fight; Then as dawn gathered on the Esquiline Our grand old lion gave the battle sign.
ἙΡΑΝ ΤΩΝ ἉΔΥΝΑΤΩΝ.
So now I know we shall not any more, As we have done in these last golden days, Go hand in hand along life’s pleasant ways, Walk heart with heart together as before.
It seems we cannot choose but wear the chain Fate winds about our little lives. Ah sweet, What wall is set between us that your feet Must wander alway where I gaze in vain!
Could we have climbed together! How these bars Had melted in the fire of love; the road Had known our footsteps where the wise men trod, And our sure ways had ended with the stars!
We had atoned for passion!--passed above All fleeting shadows of the world’s desire, Made pure our spirits at a holier fire, And in the lap of morning laid our love.
One law I knew, one right, one starward way, One hope to make our lives divine, one love In this one life, one star of truth above, And one great desert where the rest go stray.
Life had no more to give, if that we two Had let the world go gladly, grasp and reach Strained ever upward, leaning each on each, Had seen one star-ray of the pure and true.
Had we but climbed together! Oh my light, My star, my moon, and art thou clouded o’er? And we that were together, evermore Must stand apart and stare across the night!
One life it seems must take its tale of days, And as it may make service of its own, But ah! the infinite help of love!--alone The heart grows faint and weary of dispraise.
I shall be braver on the way I go, Hearing that voice forever, for whose sake, What burthen had I not bowed down to take, What shame or peril, had it helped you so!
This must content me, to have loved, who lose In this hard world where little loves live on, No man will love you as I might have done, Sweet heart, too holy for the world to choose!
Therefore be strong, remembering love’s past, Climb on for ever in the steep old way That haply so a moment’s space we may Meet on the verge of changes at the last.
That at the end of all these journeyings, Crossing the borderland of time and space We two may stand together face to face, Whose hearts were set upon abiding things, And through the cloud-veil of Eternity Our eyes may meet at last in the full light, and see.
TRANSLATIONS.
_From the Italian of Stecchetti._
I.
When the sere leaves fall and you come one To find me under the graveyard stone, It will be in a corner hidden away, With beds of flowers about it grown.
Then gather and wreathe in your golden hair The flowers that grow from my heart laid there.
They will be love’s message I might not bring, And the rest of the songs that I meant to sing.
II.
Floweret born in the hedge-row shade Set out of sight alone, Love like thee must hide his head Love like thee must live unknown.
No smile of the sun, and thou wilt die, Thorns round thee and above, No smile of hope, and love will die, And none take heed.--Poor love! Poor love!
* * * * *
_From the German of Heine._
I.
How the mirrored moonbeams quiver On the waters’ fall and rise, Yet the moon serene as ever Wanders through the quiet skies.
Like the mirrored moonlight’s fretting Are the dreams I have of you, For my heart will beat, forgetting You are ever calm and true.
II.
So fair and pure and holy, So flowerlike thou art, And while I gaze the shadow Grows deeper on my heart; I want my hands to rest on That head of thine in prayer, That God will keep thee alway So holy pure and fair.
III.
The leaves are falling, falling, The yellow treetops wave, Ah, all delight and beauty Is drawing to the grave.
About the wood’s crest flicker The wan sun’s laggard rays, They are the parting kisses Of fleeting summer days.
Meseems I should be shedding The heart’s-tears from my eyes, The day will keep recalling The time of our good-byes.
I knew that you were dying And I must pass away, Oh I was the waning summer, And you were the wood’s decay.
IV.
From my tears that have fallen a flower Is springing along the vale, And the sighs I have sighed endower The song of a nightingale.
And, child, if you’ll be my lover, The flowers shall all be yours, And the bird with its song shall hover For ever before your doors.
AVE ATQUE VALE.
I.
And he is gone!--like strain of viols parted-- Back to the infinite from whence he came, And we sit here, bereft and weary hearted, New songs may wake, but not again the same.
Our hearts were lutes, whereon he used to play, Now evermore is silence on that key, And thought grows chilly like a sunless day That greys the ripple on the haggard sea.
Those lips were cold that lingering we kissed, There came no pressure from the old true hand, A little while and through the twilight mist We scarce shall trace his footprints in the sand.
II.
This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath, The last long sigh that ever man sighs here; And then for us, the great unanswered fear, Will love live on,--the other side of death?
Only a year, and I had hoped to spend A life of pleasant communing, to be A kindred spirit holding fast to thee, We never thought that love had such an end.
This was the end love made, for our delight, For one sweet year he cannot take away;-- Those tapers burning in the dim half-light, Those kneeling women with a cross that pray, And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white, Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
III.
He had the poet’s eyes, --Sing to him sleeping,-- Sweet grace of low replies, --Why are we weeping?
He had the gentle ways, --Fair dreams befall him!-- Beauty through all his days, --Then why recall him?--
That which in him was fair Still shall be ours: Yet, yet my heart lies there Under the flowers.
“IF ANY ONE RETURN.”
I would we had carried him far away To the light of this south sun land, Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay And the sea’s blue breaks into snow-white spray As the wave dies out on the sand.
Not there, not there, where the winds deface! Where the storm and the cloud race by! But far away in this flowerful place Where endless summers retouch, retrace, What flowers find heart to die.
And if ever the souls of the loved, set free, Come back to the souls that stay, I could dream he would sit for a while with me, Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea, And look to the red-rocked bay,
By the high cliff’s edge where the wild weeds twine, And he would not speak or move, But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,-- My eyes that would answer without one sign, And that were enough for love.
And I think I should feel as the sun went round That he was not there any more, But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound On the bed of my love lying underground, And evening pale on the shore.
HIC JACET.
Did you play here, child, The whole spring through, And smiled and smiled And never knew?-- Where the shade is cool And the grass grows deep, One that was beautiful Lies in his sleep.
Ah no, child, never Will he arise; The sleep was for ever That closed his eyes. And his bed is strewn Deep underground, He was tired so soon, And now sleeps sound.
When the first birds sing We can hear them, dear, And in early spring There are snowdrops here; For the flowers love him That lies below, And ever above him The daisies grow.
“Shall we look down deep Where he hides away? Shall we find him asleep?” Yes, child, some day. But his palace gate Is so hard to see, We two must wait For the angel’s key.
“WHEN I AM DEAD.”
When I am dead, my spirit Shall wander far and free Through realms the dead inherit Of earth, and sky, and sea; Through morning dawn and gloaming, By midnight moons at will, By shores where the waves are foaming, By seas where the waves are still. I, following late behind you, In wingless sleepless flight, Will wander till I find you, In sunshine or twilight; With silent kiss for greeting On lips, and eyes, and head, In that strange after-meeting Shall love be perfected. We shall lie in summer breezes, And pass where whirlwinds go, And the Northern blast that freezes Shall bear us with the snow. We shall stand above the thunder, And watch the lightnings hurled At the misty mountains under, Of the dim forsaken world, We shall find our footsteps’ traces, And passing hand in hand By old familiar places, We shall laugh, and understand.
ST. CATHARINE OF EGYPT.
There was a king’s one daughter long ago, In ways of summer, where the swallows go, For whom no prince was found in any land Fair lived and clean to wed so white a hand; Who lying wakeful on a moonless night Saw the dim ways grow tremulous with light, As the sun’s dawning glory, and was aware Of a pale woman standing shrouded there, With hands locked in another’s hands, whose eyes Shone like the starriest wonder of the skies.
And the pale woman bending o’er her bed Unveiled the pity in her eyes, and said, “Lo this is he whose blameless days were sweet, If thou could’st love him, and thy love was meet.” And yet he turned those lustrous brows away, And a sad voice seemed evermore to say Across the stillness of a world that slept, “Not mine, not mine,”--so all night through she wept And never heard the singing nightingales.
Then awhile after when the cloudy sails Of many a day had winged across the sky, And she had gathered all the mystery From a lone hermit in a desert wood, He came once more in the night-time and stood And set a bridal ring upon her hand To be his lady in his father’s land. So in a little while her rumour grew Till the rough Roman angered--her they slew Being too sweet and wise for that rude time That murdered pity and made love a crime.
And the wise men were glad when she was dead, For they had failed of reason--she had said, “When I come up into my kingdom there And my Lord greets me, and I speak him fair, Then will I take him by the hand with me And lead him down, how far so e’er it be, Until we find the old man, Socrates, And the fair souls who followed, for all these Will be together, and I will bid him take Their hands in his and love them for my sake, Because of old they brought me near his side.”
It was the time of even when she died; And a fair choir of angels swept along The dying afterglow, before their song The gates were loosed and through the broken bars They bore her skyward under the chill stars, Westward--but once alighting as they flew. In a deep meadow-land, with soft night-dew, They washed the tender wounded throat, and kissed The cords that bound her delicate soft wrist, And at their kiss the fetters fell in twain And the white robe grew faultless of one stain. Then onward, ever onward, all night through, Till lustreless the moon of morning grew In the pale sky where one star lingered yet.
Some dark-browed fisher, as he cast his net And woke a ripple on the waveless calm, Looked up and heard the passing angels’ psalm, And through the ripple of the water-rings He saw the gleam of rainbow-tinted wings Drift o’er the glassing bosom of the sea.
There where the grave of innocence should be, High up between the rock ridge and the sky, Upon the holy summit Sinai, Above the red sea’s summer-tranced wave They laid their burden in a marble grave. And there her beauty fleeteth not, decay Can never steal her loveliness away, But like a carven image evermore Sleeps on now with her still hands folded o’er The saint’s white lily ever blossoming,-- All that was earthly of so fair a thing.
ATALANTA.
Wait not along the shore, they will not come; The suns go down beyond the windy seas, Those weary sails shall never wing them home O’er this white foam; No voice from these On any landward wind that dies among the trees.