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/St>.  . 


THE   POEMS 


OF 


EMMA  LAZARUS 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.  I. 


NARRATIVE,  LYRIC,  AND  DRAMATIC 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

OTfe  fitoertfiDe  &n$4,  damfcri&ge 


Copyright,  1888, 
BY  MARY  LAZARUS  AND  ANNIE  LAZARUS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  EMMA  LAZARUS   .        .      1 

EPOCHS. 

I.  Youth 40 

II.  Regret 41 

III.  Longing 42 

IV.  Storm 42 

V.  Surprise 43 

VI.  Grief 44 

VII.  Acceptance .......  45 

VIII.  Loneliness 46 

IX.  Sympathy 47 

X.  Patience 48 

XL  Hope 48 

XII.  Compensation 49 

XIII.  Faith 50 

XIV.  Work 51 

XV.  Victory 52 

XVI.  Peace 53 

How  LONG  ! 54 

HEROES 55 

ADMETUS 59 

TANNHAUSER 81 

LINKS 127 

MATINS  127 

SAINT  ROMUALDO 130 

AFTERNOON  .  141 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PHANTASIES. 

I.  Evening 142 

II.  Aspiration 144 

III.  Wherefore  ? 145 

IV.  Fancies 147 

V.  In  the  Night 148 

VI.  Faerie 149 

VII.  Confused  Dreams 150 

ON  THE  PROPOSAL,  TO  ERECT  A  MONUMENT  IN  ENG 
LAND  TO  LORD  BYRON       ....      152 

ARABESQUE 155 

AGAMEMNON'S  TOMB 158 

Sic  SEMPER  LIBERATORIBUS 160 

DON  RAFAEL 162 

OFF  ROUGH  POINT 166 

MATER  AMABILIS 167 

FOG 169 

THE  ELIXIR 173 

SONG 174 

SPRING  LONGING 175 

THE  SOUTH 178 

SPRING  STAR 181 

A  JUNE  NIGHT 183 

MAGNETISM 185 

AUGUST  MOON 186 

SUNRISE 191 

A  MASQUE  OF  VENICE 196 

AUTUMN  SADNESS 199 

SONNETS 

Echoes 201 

Success 202 

The  New  Colossus 202 

Venus  of  the  Louvre 203 

Chopin  I.,  II.,  III.,   IV 204 

Symphonic  Studies     Prelude,   L,  II.,  III.,  IV., 

V.,  VI.,  Epilogue 206 

Long  Island  Sound    •  .         .         .         .  .211 


CONTENTS.  v 

Destiny 212 

1879 213 

From  one  Augur  to  Another  .         .         .         .213 

The  Cranes  of  Ibicus 214 

Critic  and  Poet 215 

St.  Michael's  Chapel  216 

Life  and  Art 216 

Sympathy 217 

Youth  and  Death 218 

Age  and  Death  .          .....  218 

City  Visions 219 

Influence 220 

Restlessness 221 

THE  SPAGNOLETTO:    A  PLAY  IN  FIVE  ACTS  .        .  222 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  "The  Century," 
Lippincott's  Magazine,  and  "The  Critic,"  for  their  cour 
tesy  in  allowing  the  poems  published  by  them  to  be  re 
printed  in  these  pages. 


EMMA  LAZARUS.1 

BORN  JULY  22,  1849 ;  DIED  NOVEMBER  19,  1887. 

OXE  hesitates  to  lift  the  veil  and  throw  the 
light  upon  a  life  so  hidden  and  a  personality  so 
withdrawn  as  that  of  Emma  Lazarus ;  but  while 
her  memory  is  fresh,  and  the  echo  of  her  songs 
still  lingers  in  these  pages,  we  feel  it  a  duty  to 
call  up  her  presence  once  more,  and  to  note  the 
traits  that  made  it  remarkable  and  worthy  to 
shine  out  clearly  before  the  world.  Of  dramatic 
episode  or  climax  in  her  life  there  is  none ;  out 
wardly  all  was  placid  and  serene,  like  an  un 
troubled  stream  whose  depths  alone  hold  the 
strong,  quick  tide.  The  story  of  her  life  is  the 
story  of  a  mind,  of  a  spirit,  ever  seeking,  ever 
striving,  and  pressing  onward  and  upward  to  new 
truth  and  light.  Her  works  are  the  mirror  of 
this  progress.  In  reviewing  them,  the  first  point 
that  strikes  us  is  the  precocity,  or  rather  the 
spontaneity,  of  her  poetic  gift.  She  was  a  born 
singer ;  poetry  was  her  natural  language,  and  to 
write  was  less  effort  than  to  speak,  for  she  was 
a  shy,  sensitive  child,  with  strange  reserves  and 
reticences,  not  easily  putting  herself  en  rapport 

1  Written  for  The  Century  Magazine. 


2  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

with  those  around  her.  Books  were  her  world 
from  her  earliest  years  ;  in  them  she  literally 
lost  and  found  herself.  She  was  eleven  years 
old  when  the  War  of  Secession  broke  out,  which 
inspired  her  first  lyric  outbursts.  Her  poems 
and  translations  written  between  the  ages  of 
fourteen  and  seventeen  were  collected,  and  con 
stituted  her  first  published  volume.  Crude  and 
immature  as  these  productions  naturally  were, 
and  utterly  condemned  by  the  writer's  later 
judgment,  they  are,  nevertheless,  highly  interest 
ing  and  characteristic,  giving,  as  they  do,  the 
keynote  of  much  that  afterwards  unfolded  itself 
in  her  life.  One  cannot  fail  to  be  rather  pain 
fully  impressed  by  the  profound  melancholy  per 
vading  the  book.  The  opening  poem  is  "In 
Memoriam,"  —  on  the  death  of  a  school  friend 
and  companion ;  and  the  two  following  poems 
also  have  death  for  theme.  "  On  a  Lock  of  my 
Mother's  Hair  "  gives  us  reflections  on  growing 
old.  These  are  the  four  poems  written  at  the  age 
of  fourteen.  There  is  not  a  wholly  glad  and  joy 
ous  strain  in  the  volume,  and  we  might  smile  at 
the  recurrence  of  broken  vows,  broken  hearts,  and 
broken  lives  in  the  experience  of  this  maiden  just 
entered  upon  her  teens,  were  it  not  that  the  inno 
cent  child  herself  is  in  such  deadly  earnest.  The 
two  long  narrative  poems,  "Bertha"  and  "El- 
frida,"  are  also  tragic  in  the  extreme.  Both  are 
dashed  off  apparently  at  white  heat :  "  Elfrida," 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  3 

over  fifteen  hundred  lines  of  blank  verse,  in  two 
weeks ;  "  Bertha,"  in  three  and  a  half.  We 
have  said  that  Emma  Lazarus  was  a  born  singer, 
but  she  did  not  sing,  like  a  bird,  for  joy  of  being 
alive  ;  and  of  being  young,  alas  !  there  is  no  hint 
in  these  youthful  effusions,  except  inasmuch  as 
this  unrelieved  gloom,  this  ignorance  of  "  values," 
so  to  speak,  is  a  sign  of  youth,  common  especially 
among  gifted  persons  of  acute  and  premature 
sensibilities,  whose  imagination,  not  yet  focused 
by  reality,  overreaches  the  mark.  With  Emma 
Lazarus,  however,  this  sombre  streak  has  a 
deeper  root ;  something  of  birth  and  tempera 
ment  is  in  it,  —  the  stamp  and  heritage  of  a  race 
born  to  suffer.  But  dominant  and  fundamental 
though  it  was,  Hebraism  was  only  latent  thus  far. 
It  was  classic  and  romantic  art  that  first  at 
tracted  and  inspired  her.  She  pictures  Aphro 
dite  the  beautiful,  arising  from  the  waves,  and 
the  beautiful  Apollo  and  his  loves,  —  Daphne, 
pursued  by  the  god,  changing  into  the  laurel,  and 
the  enamored  Clytie  into  the  faithful  sunflower. 
Beauty,  for  its  own  sake,  supreme  and  uncon 
ditioned,  charmed  her  primarily  and  to  the  end. 
v  Her  restless  spirit  found  repose  in  the  pagan 
idea,  —  the  absolute  unity  and  identity  of  man 
with  nature,  as  symbolized  in  the  Greek  myths, 
where  every  natural  force  becomes  a  person,  and 
where,  in  turn,  persons  pass  with  equal  readiness 
and  freedom  back  into  nature  again. 


4  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

In  this  connection  a  name  would  suggest  itself 
even  if  it  did  not  appear,  —  Heine  the  Greek, 
Heine  the  Jew,  Heine  the  Romanticist,  as  Emma 
Lazarus  herself  has  styled  him ;  and  already  in 
this  early  volume  of  hers  we  have  trace  of  the 
kinship  and  affinity  that  afterwards  so  plainly 
declared  itself.  Foremost  among  the  transla 
tions  are  a  number  of  his  songs,  rendered  with  a 
finesse  and  a  literalness  that  are  rarely  combined. 
Four  years  later,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  she 
published  her  second  volume,  "Admetus  and 
Other  Poems,"  which  at  once  took  rank  as  litera 
ture  both  in  America  and  England,  and  chal 
lenged  comparison  with  the  work  of  established 
writers.  Of  classic  themes  we  have  "  Admetus  " 
and  "  Orpheus,"  and  of  romantic  the  legend  of 
Tannhauser  and  of  the  saintly  Lohengrin.  All 
are  treated  with  an  artistic  finish  that  shows  per 
fect  mastery  of  her  craft,  without  detracting  from 
the  freshness  and  flow  of  her  inspiration.  While 
sounding  no  absolutely  new  note  in  the  world, 
she  yet  makes  us  aware  of  a  talent  of  unusual 
distinction,  and  a  highly  endowed  nature,  —  a 
sort  of  tact  of  sentiment  and  expression,  an  in 
stinct  of  the  true  and  beautiful,  and  that  quick 
intuition  which  is  like  second-sight  in  its  sensi 
tiveness  to  apprehend  and  respond  to  external 
stimulus.  But  it  is  not  the  purely  imaginative 
poems  in  this  volume  that  most  deeply  interest 
us.  We  come  upon  experience  of  life  in  these 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  5 

pages;  not  in  the  ordinary  sense,  however,  of 
outward  activity  and  movement,  but  in  the  hid 
den  undercurrent  of  being.  "  The  epochs  of  our 
life  are  not  in  the  visible  facts,  but  in  the  silent 
thoughts  by  the  wayside  as  we  walk."  This  is 
the  motto,  drawn  from  Emerson,  which  she 
chooses  for  her  poem  of  "  Epochs,"  which  marks 
a  pivotal  moment  in  her  life.  Difficult  to  analyze, 
difficult  above  all  to  convey,  if  we  would  not  en 
croach  upon  the  domain  of  private  and  personal 
experience,  is  the  drift  of  this  poem,  or  rather 
cycle  of  poems,  that  ring  throughout  with  a 
deeper  accent  and  a  more  direct  appeal  than  has 
yet  made  itself  felt.  It  is  the  drama  of  the  hu- 
tman  soul,  —  "the  mystic  winged  and  flickering 
butterfly,"  "  flitting  between  earth  and  sky,"  in 
its  passage  from  birth  to  death. 

A  golden  morning  of  June !  "  Sweet  empty 
sky  without  a  stain."  Sunlight  and  mist  and 
"ripple  of  rain-fed  rills."  "A  murmur  and  a 
singing  manifold." 

"  What  simple  things  be  these  the  soul  to  raise 
To  bounding1  joy,  and  make  young  pulses  beat 
With  nameless  pleasure,  finding  life  so  sweet!  " 

Such  is  youth,  a  June  day,  fair  and  fresh  and 
tender  with  dreams  and  longing  and  vague  de 
sire.  The  morn  lingers  and  passes,  but  the  noon 
has  not  reached  its  height  before  the  clouds  begin 
to  rise,  the  sunshine  dies,  the  air  grows  thick  and 


6  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

heavy,  the  lightnings  flash,  the  thunder  breaks 
among  the  hills,  rolls  and  gathers  and  grows, 
until 

"  Behold,  yon  bolt  struck  home, 
And  over  ruined  fields  the  storm  hath  come.' ' 

Now  we  have  the  phases  of  the  soul,  —  the 
shock  and  surprise  of  grief  in  the  face  of  the 
world  made  desolate.  Loneliness  and  despair 
for  a  space,  and  then,  like  stars  in  the  night,  the 
new  births  of  the  spirit,  the  wonderful  outcoming 
from  sorrow :  the  mild  light  of  patience  at  first ; 
hope  and  faith  kindled  afresh  in  the  very  jaws  of 
evil ;  the  new  meaning  and  worth  of  life  beyond 
sorrow,  beyond  joy ;  and  finally  duty,  the  holiest 
word  of  all,  that  leads  at  last  to  victory  and 
peace.  The  poem  rounds  and  completes  itself 
with  the  close  of  "  the  long,  rich  day,"  and  the 
release  of 

"  The  mystic  winged  and  flickering  butterfly, 
A  human  soul,  that  drifts  at  liberty, 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  to  what  strange  paradise, 
To  what  undreamed-of  fields  and  lofty  skies ! ' ' 

We  have  dwelt  at  some  length  upon  this  poem, 
which  seems  to  us,  in  a  certain  sense,  subjective 
and  biographical ;  but  upon  closer  analysis  there 
is  still  another  conclusion  to  arrive  at.  In 
"Epochs"  we  have,  doubtless,  the  impress  of  a 
calamity  brought  very  near  to  the  writer,  and 
profoundly  working  upon  her  sensibilities  ;  not 
however  by  direct,  but  by  reflex  action,  as  it 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  1 

were,  and  through  sympathetic  emotion,  —  the 
emotion  of  the  deeply-stirred  spectator,  of  the 
artist,  the  poet  who  lives  in  the  lives  of  oth 
ers,  and  makes  their  joys  and  their  sorrows  his 
own. 

Before  dismissing  this  volume  we  may  point 
out  another  clue  as  to  the  shaping  of  mind  and 
character.  The  poem  of  "  Admetus  "  is  dedi 
cated  "  to  my  friend  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson." 
Emma  Lazarus  was  between  seventeen  and 
eighteen  years  of  age  when  the  writings  of 
Emerson  fell  into  her  hands,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  over-estimate  the  impression  produced 
upon  her.  As  she  afterwards  wrote  :  "  To  how 
many  thousand  youthful  hearts  has  not  his  word 
been  the  beacon  —  nay,  more,  the  guiding  star  — 
that  led  them  safely  through  periods  of  mental 
storm  and  struggle !  "  Of  no  one  is  this  more 
true  than  of  herself.  Left,  to  a  certain  extent, 

t  without  compass  or  guide,  without  any  positive 
or  effective  religious  training,  this  was  the  first 
great  moral  revelation  of  her  life.  We  can 
easily  realize  the  chaos  and  ferment  of  an  over- 
stimulated  brain,  steeped  in  romantic  literature, 
and  given  over  to  the  wayward  leadings  of  the 
imagination.  Who  can  tell  what  is  true,  what  is 
false,  in  a  world  where  fantasy  is  as  real  as  fact  ? 

t  Emerson's  word  fell  like  truth  itself,  "  a  shaft 
of  light  shot  from  the  zenith,"  a  golden  rule  of 
thought  and  action.  His  books  were  bread  and 


8  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

wine  to  her,  and  she  absorbed  them  into  her  very 
being.  She  felt  herself  invincibly  drawn  to  the 
master,  "  that  fount  of  wisdom  and  goodness," 
and  it  was  her  great  privilege  during  these  years 
to  be  brought  into  personal  relations  with  him. 
From  the  first  he  showed  her  a  marked  interest 
and  sympathy,  which  became  for  her  one  of  the 
most  valued  possessions  of  her  life.  He  criticised 
her  work  with  the  fine  appreciation  and  discrimi 
nation  that  made  him  quick  to  discern  the  quality 
of  her  talent  as  well  as  of  her  personality,  and  he 
was  no  doubt  attracted  by  her  almost  transparent  < 
sincerity  and  singleness  of  soul,  as  well  as  by  the 
simplicity  and  modesty  that  would  have  been  un 
usual  even  in  a  person  not  gifted.  He  consti 
tuted  himself,  in  a  way,  her  literary  mentor,  ad 
vised  her  as  to  the  books  she  should  read  and  the 
attitude  of  mind  she  should  cultivate.  For  some 
years  he  corresponded  with  her  very  'faithfully  ; 
his  letters  are  full  of  noble  and  characteristic 
utterances,  and  give  evidence  of  a  warm  regard 
that  in  itself  was  a  stimulus  and  a  high  incentive. 
But  encouragement  even  from  so  illustrious  a 
source  failed  to  elate  the  young  poetess,  or  even 
to  give  her  a  due  sense  of  the  importance  and 
value  of  her  work,  or  the  dignity  of  her  vocation. 
We  have  already  alluded  to  her  modesty,  but 
there  was  something  more  than  modesty  in  fyer 
unwillingness  to  assert  herself  or  claim  any  pre 
rogative,  —  something  even  morbid  and  exagger- 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  9 

ated,  which  we  know  not  how  to  define,  whether 
as  over-sensitiveness  or  indifference.  Once  fin 
ished,  the  heat  and  glow  of  composition  spent, 
her  writings  apparently  ceased  to  interest  her. 
She  often  resented  any  allusion  to  them  on  the 
part  of  intimate  friends,  and  the  public  verdict  as 
to  their  exceUence  could  not  reassure  or  satisfy 
her.  The  explanation  is  not  far,  perhaps,  to 
seek.  Was  it  not  the  "  Ewig-Weibliche "  that 
allows  no  prestige  but  its  own  ?  Emma  Lazarus 
was  a  true  woman,  too  distinctly  feminine  to  wish 
to  be  exceptional,  or  to  stand  alone  and  apart, 
even  by  virtue  of  superiority. 

A  word  now  as  to  her  life  and  surroundings. 
She  was  one  of  a  family  of  seven,  and  her 
parents  were  both  living.  Her  winters  were 
passed  in  New  York,  and  her  summers  by  the 
sea.  In  both  places  her  life  was  essentially 
quiet  and  retired.  The  success  of  her  book  had 
been  mainly  in  the  world  of  letters.  In  no  wise 
tricked  out  to  catch  the  public  eye,  her  writings 
had  not  yet  made  her  a  conspicuous  figure,  but 
were  destined  slowly  to  take  their  proper  place 
and  give  her  the  rank  that  she  afterwards  held. 

For  some  years  now  almost  everything  that 
she  wrote  was  published  in  a  Lippincott's  Maga 
zine,"  then  edited  by  John  Foster  Kirk,  and  we 
shall  still  find  in  her  poems  the  method  and 
movement  of  her  life.  Nature  is  still  the  fount 
and  mirror,  reflecting,  and  again  reflected,  in  the 


10  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

soul.  We  have  picture  after  picture,  almost  to 
satiety,  until  we  grow  conscious  of  a  lack  of  sub 
stance  and  body  and  of  vital  play  to  the  thought, 
as  though  the  brain  were  spending  itself  in  dream- 
ings  and  reverie,  the  heart  feeding  upon  itself, 
and  the  life  choked  by  its  own  fullness  without 
due  outlet.  Happily,  however,  the  heavy  cloud 
of  sadness  has  lifted,  and  we  feel  the  subsidence 
of  waves  after  a  storm.  She  sings  "  Matins  :  "  — 

' '  Does  not  the  morn  break  thus, 
Swift,  bright,  victorious, 
With  new  skies  cleared  for  us 
Over  the  soul  storm-tost  ? 
Her  night  was  long  and  deep, 
Strange  visions  vexed  her  sleep, 
Strange  sorrows  bade  her  weep, 
Her  faith  in  dawn  was  lost. 

"No  halt,  no  rest  for  her, 
The  immortal  wanderer 
From  sphere  to  higher  sphere 
Toward  the  pure  source  of  day. 
The  new  light  shames  her  fears, 
Her  faithlessness  and  tears, 
As  the  new  sun  appears 
To  light  her  god-like  way." 

Nature  is  the  perpetual  resource  and  consolation. 
"  'T  is  good  to  be  alive !  "  she  says,  and  why  ? 
Simply, 

"To  see  the  light 

That  plays  upon  the  grass,  to  feel  (and  sigh 
With  perfect  pleasure)  the  mild  breezes  stir 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  11 

Among  the  garden  roses,  red  and  white, 
With  whiffs  of  fragrancy." 

She  gives  us  the  breath  of  the  pines  and  of  the 
cool,  salt  seas,  "  inimitably  sparkling."  Her  ears 
drink  the  ripple  of  the  tide,  and  she  stops 

"  To  gaze  as  one  who  is  not  satisfied 
With  gazing  at  the  large,  bright,  breathing  sea." 

"  Phantasies  "  (after  Robert  Schumann)  is  the 
most  complete  and  perfect  poem  of  this  period. 
Like  "  Epochs,"  it  is  a  cycle  of  poems,  and  the 
verse  has  caught  the  very  trick  of  music,  —  allur 
ing,  baffling  and  evasive.  This  time  we  have 
the  landscape  of  the  night,  the  glamour  of  moon 
and  stars,  —  pictures  half  real  and  half  unreal, 
mystic  imaginings,  fancies,  dreams,  and  the  en 
chantment  of  "  faerie,"  and  throughout  the  un 
answered  cry,  the  eternal  "  Wherefore  "  of  des 
tiny.  Dawn  ends  the  song  with  a  fine  clear  note, 
the  return  of  day,  night's  misty  phantoms  rolled 
away,  and  the  world  itself,  again  green,  spark 
ling  and  breathing  freshness. 

In  1874  she  published  "  Alide,"  a  romance  in 
prose  drawn  from  Goethe's  autobiography.  It 
may  be  of  interest  to  quote  the  letter  she  received 
from  Tourge'nefl:  on  this  occasion  :  — 

"Although,  generally  speaking,  I  do  not  think  it  ad 
visable  to  take  celebrated  men,  especially  poets  and 
artists,  as  a  subject  for  a  novel,  still  I  am  truly  glad  to 
say  that  I  have  read  your  book  with  the  liveliest  interest. 
It  is  very  sincere  and  very  poetical  at  the  same  time ;  the 


12  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

life  and  spirit  of  Germany  have  no  secrets  for  you,  and 
your  characters  are  drawn  with  a  pencil  as  delicate  as  it 
is  strong.  I  feel  very  proud  of  the  approbation  you  give 
to  my  works,  and  of  the  influence  you  kindly  attribute  to 
them  on  your  own  talent ;  an  author  who  writes  as  you 
do  is  not  a  pupil  in  art  any  more  ;  he  is  not  far  from 
being- himself  a  master." 

Charming  and   graceful  words,   of  which  the 
young  writer  was  justly  proud. 

About  this   time    occurred  the   death  of   her 
mother,  the  first  break  in  the  home  and  family 
circle.     In  August  of  1876  she  made  a  visit  to 
Concord,  at  the  Emersons',  memorable   enough 
for  her  to  keep  a  journal  and  note  down  every 
incident  and  detail.     Very  touching  to  read  now, 
in  its  almost  childlike  simplicity,  is  this  record  of 
"persons  that   pass  and  shadows  that  remain." 
Mr.  Emerson  himself  meets  her  at  the  station, 
and  drives  with  her  in  his  little  one-horse  wagon 
to  his  home,  the  gray  square  house,  with  dark 
green  blinds,  set  amidst  noble  trees.     A  glimpse 
of  the  family,  —  "  the  stately,  white-haired  Mrs. 
Emerson,  and  the  beautiful,  faithful  Ellen,  whose 
figure  seems  always  to  stand  by  the  side  of  her 
august   father."     Then  the  picture  of   Concord 
itself,  lovely  and  smiling,  with  its  quiet  meadows, 
quiet  slopes,  and  quietest  of  rivers.     She  meets 
the   little    set    of    Concord   people :  Mr.  Alcott, 
for  whom  she  does  not  share  Mr.  Emerson's  en 
thusiasm  ;  and  William  Ellery  Channing,  whose 
figure    stands   out   like  a   gnarled   and   twisted 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  13 

scrub-oak, —  a  pathetic,  impossible  creature,  whose 
cranks  and  oddities  were  submitted  to  on  account 
of  an  innate  nobility  of  character.  "  Generally 
crabbed  and  reticent  with  strangers,  he  took  a 
liking  to  me,"  says  Emma  Lazarus.  "(The  bond 
of  our  sympathy  was  my  admiration  for  Thoreau, 
whose  memory  he  actually  worships,  having  been 
his  constant  companion  in  his  best  days,  and  his 
daily  attendant  in  the  last  years  of  illness  and 
heroic  suffering.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  was 
most  touched  by  the  thought  of  the  unique,  lofty 
character  that  had  inspired  this  depth  and  fervor 
of  friendship,  or  by  the  pathetic  constancy  and 
pure  affection  of  the  poor,  desolate  old  man  be 
fore  me,  who  tried  to  conceal  his  tenderness  and 
sense  of  irremediable  loss  by  a  show  of  gruffness 
and  philosophy.  He  never  speaks  of  Thoreau's 
death,"  she  says,  "  but  always  '  Thoreau's  loss,' 
or  'when  I  lost  Mr.  Thoreau,'  or  'when  Mr. 
Thoreau  went  away  from  Concord ; '  nor  would 
he  confess  that  he  missed  him,  for  there  was  not 
a  day,  an  hour,  a  moment,  when  he  did  not  feel 
that  his  friend  was  still  with  him  and  had  never 
left  him.  And  yet  a  day  or  two  after,"  she  goes 
on  to  say,  "  when  I  sat  with  him  in  the  sunlit 
wood,  looking  at  the  gorgeous  blue  and  silver 
summer  sky,  he  turned  to  me  and  said :  '  Just 
half  of  the  world  died  for  me  when  I  lost  Mr. 
Thoreau.  None  of  it  looks  the  same  as  when  I 
looked  at  it  with  him.'  .  .  .  He  took  me  through 


14  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

the  woods  and  pointed  out  to  me  every  spot  visited 
and  described  by  his  friend.  Where  the  hut 
stood  is  a  little  pile  of  stones,  and  a  sign,  '  Site  of 
Thoreau's  Hut,'  and  a  few  steps  beyond  is  the 
pond  with  thickly-wooded  shores,  —  everything 
exquisitely  peaceful  and  beautiful  in  the  after 
noon  light,  and  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  except 
the  crickets  or  the  '  z-ing '  of  the  locusts  which 
Thoreau  has  described.  Farther  on  he  pointed 
out  to  me,  in  the  distant  landscape,  a  low  roof, 
the  only  one  visible,  which  was  the  roof  of 
Thoreau's  birthplace.  He  had  been  over  there 
many  times,  he  said,  since  he  lost  Mr.  Thoreau, 
but  had  never  gone  in,  —  he  was  afraid  it  might 
look  lonely  !  But  he  had  often  sat  on  a  rock  in 
front  of  the  house  and  looked  at  it."  On  parting 
from  his  young  friend,  Mr.  Channing  gave  her  a 
package,  which  proved  to  be  a  copy  of  his  own 
book  on  Thoreau,  and  the  pocket  compass  which 
Thoreau  carried  to  the  Maine  woods  and  on  all 
his  excursions.  Before  leaving  the  Emersons 
she  received  the  proof-sheets  of  her  drama  of 
"  The  Spagnoletto,"  which  was  being  printed  for 
private  circulation.  She  showed  them  to  Mr. 
Emerson,  who  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  them, 
and,  after  reading  them,  he  gave  them  back  to 
her  with  the  comment  that  they  were  "  good." 
She  playfully  asked  him  if  he  would  not  give  her 
a  bigger  word  to  take  home  to  the  family.  He 
laughed,  and  said  he  did  not  know  of  any ;  but 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  15 

he  went  on  to  tell  her  that  he  had  taken  it  up, 
not  expecting  to  read  it  through,  and  had  not 
been  able  to  put  it  down.  Every  word  and  line 
told  of  richness  in  the  poetry,  he  said,  and  as  far 
as  he  could  judge  the  play  had  great  dramatic 
opportunities.  Early  in  the  autumn  "  The  Spa- 
gnoletto  "  appeared,  —  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  the 
scene  laid  in  Italy,  1655. 

Without  a  doubt,  every  one  in  these  days  will 
take  up  with  misgiving,  and  like  Mr.  Emerson 
"  not  expecting  to  read  it  through,"  a  five-act 
tragedy  of  the  seventeenth  century,  so  far  re 
moved  apparently  from  the  age  and  present  actu 
alities, —  so  opposed  to  the  "  Modernite,"  which 
has  come  to  be  the  last  word  of  art.  Moreover, 
great  names  at  once  appear ;  great  shades  arise 
to  rebuke  the  presumptuous  new-comer  in  this 
highest  realm  of  expression.  "  The  Spagnoletto  " 
has  grave  defects  that  would  probably  preclude 
its  ever  being  represented  on  the  stage.  The 
denotiment  especially  is  unfortunate,  and  sins 
against  our  moral  and  aesthetic  instinct.  The 
wretched,  tiger-like  father  stabs  himself  in  the 
presence  of  his  crushed  and  erring  daughter,  so 
that  she  may  forever  be  haunted  by  the  horror 
and  the  retribution  of  his  death.  We  are  left 
suspended,  as  it  were,  over  an  abyss,  our  moral 
judgment  thwarted,  our  humanity  outraged.  But 
"  The  Spagnoletto "  is,  nevertheless,  a  remark 
able  production,  and  pitched  in  another  key  from 


16  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

anything  the  writer  has  yet  given  us.  Heretofore 
we  have  only  had  quiet,  reflective,  passive  emo 
tion  :  now  we  have  a  storm  and  sweep  of  passion 
for  which  we  were  quite  unprepared.  Ribera's 
character  is  charged  like  a  thunder-cloud  with 
dramatic  elements.  Maria  Rosa  is  the  child  of 
her  father,  fired  at  a  flash,  "  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind  "  at  the  touch  of  passion. 

"  Does  love  steal  gently  o'er  our  soul  ?  " 
she  asks ; 

"What  if  he  come, 
A  cloud,  a  fire,  a  whirlwind  ?  " 

and  then  the  cry  : 

"O  my  God! 
This  awful  joy  in  mine  own  heart  is  love." 

Again : 

"While  you  are  here  the  one  thing  real  to  me 
In  all  the  universe  is  love." 

Exquisitely  tender  and  refined  are  the  love 
scenes  —  at  the  ball  and  in  the  garden  — between 
the  dashing  prince-lover  in  search  of  his  pleasure 
and  the  devoted  girl  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes, 
on  her  lips,  in  her  hand.  Behind  them,  always 
like  a  tragic  fate,  the  sombre  figure  of  the  Spa- 
gnoletto,  and  over  all  the  glow  and  color  and 
soul  of  Italy. 

In  1881  appeared  the  translation  of  Heine's 
poems  and  ballads,  which  was  generally  accepted 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  17 

as  the  best  version  of  that  untranslatable  poet. 
Very  curious  is  the  link  between  that  bitter, 
mocking,  cynic  spirit  and  the  refined,  gentle 
spirit  of  Emma  Lazarus.  Charmed  by  the  rnagic 
of  his  verse,  the  iridescent  play  of  his  fancy,  and 
the  sudden  cry  of  the  heart  piercing  through  it 
all.  she  is  as  yet  unaware  or  only  vaguely  con 
scious  of  the  real  bond  between  them  :  the  sym 
pathy  in  the  blood,  the  deep,  tragic,  Judaic  passion 
of  eighteen  hundred  years  that  was  smouldering 
in  her  own  heart,  soon  to  break  out  and  change 
the  whole  current  of  her  thought  and  feeling. 

Already,  in  1879,  the  storm  was  gathering. 
In  a  distant  province  of  Russia  at  first,  then  on 
the  banks  of  the  Volga,  arid  finally  in  Moscow 
itself,  the  old  cry  was  raised,  the  hideous  me 
diaeval  charge  revived,  and  the  standard  of  per 
secution  unfurled  against  the  Jews.  Province 
after  province  took  it  up.  In  Bulgaria,  Servia, 
and,  above  all,  Roumania,  where,  we  were  told, 
the  sword  of  the  Czar  had  been  drawn  to  protect 
the  oppressed,  Christian  atrocities  took  the  place 
of  Moslem  atrocities,  and  history  turned  a  page 
backward  into  the  dark  annals  of  violence  and 
crime.  And  not  alone  in  despotic  Russia,  but 
in  Germany,  the  seat  of  modern  philosophic 
thought  and  culture,  the  rage  of  Anti-Semitism 
broke  out  and  spread  with  fatal  ease  and  po 
tency.  In  Berlin  itself  tumults  and  riots  were 
threatened.  We  in  America  could  scarcely  com- 


18  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

prebend  the  situation  or  credit  the  reports,  and 
for  a  while  we  shut  our  eyes  and  ears  to  the 
facts  ;  but  we  were  soon  rudely  awakened  from 
our  insensibility,  and  forced  to  face  the  truth. 
It  was  in  England  that  the  voice  was  first  raised 
in  behalf  of  justice  and  humanity.  In  January, 
1881,  there  appeared  in  the  "  London  Times  "  a 
series  of  articles,  carefully  compiled  on  the  tes 
timony  of  eye-witnesses,  and  confirmed  by  official 
documents,  records,  etc.,  giving  an  account  of 
events  that  had  been  taking  place  in  southern 
and  western  Russia  during  a  period  of  nine 
months,  between  April  and  December  of  1880. 
We  do  not  need  to  recall  the  sickening  details.  The 
headings  will  suffice  :  outrage,  murder,  arson,  and 
pillage,  and  the  result,  —  100,000  Jewish  fami 
lies  made  homeless  and  destitute,  and  nearly 
$100,000,000  worth  of  property  destroyed.  Nor 
need  we  recall  the  generous  outburst  of  sympathy 
and  indignation  from  America.  "It  is  not  that 
it  is  the  oppression  of  Jews  by  Russia,"  said 
Mr.  Evarts  in  the  meeting  at  (/bickering  Hall 
Wednesday  evening,  February  4  ;  "it  is  that  it  is 
the  oppression  of  men  and  women  by  men  and 
women,  and  we  are  men  and  women."  So  spoke 
civilized  Christendom,  and  for  Judaism,  —  who 
can  describe  that  thrill  of  brotherhood,  quickened 
anew,  the  immortal  pledge  of  the  race,  made  one 
again  through  sorrow  ?  For  Emma  Lazarus  it 
was  a  trumpet  call  that  awoke  slumbering  and  un- 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  19 

guessed  echoes.  All  this  time  she  had  been  seek 
ing-  heroic  ideals  in  alien  stock,  soulless  and  far 
removed ;  in  pagan  mythology  and  mystic,  ine- 
diseval  Christianity,  ignoring  her  very  birthright, 
—  the  majestic  vista  of  the  past,  down  which, 
"  high  above  flood  and  fire,"  had  been  conveyed 
the  precious  scroll  of  the  Moral  Law.  Hitherto 
Judaism  had  been  a  dead  letter  to  her.  Of 
Portuguese  descent,  her  family  had  always  been 
members  of  the  oldest  and  most  orthodox  con 
gregation  of  New  York,  where  strict  adherence 
to  custom  and  ceremonial  was  the  watchword  of 
faith ;  but  it  was  only  during  her  childhood  and 
earliest  years  that  she  attended  the  synagogue, 
and  conformed  to  the  prescribed  rites  and  usages 
which  she  had  now  long  since  abandoned  as 
obsolete  and  having  no  bearing  on  modern  life. 
Nor  had  she  any  great  enthusiasm  for  her  own 
people.  As  late  as  April,  1882,  she  published 
in  "The  Century  Magazine"  an  article  written 
probably  some  months  before,  entitled  "  Was  the 
Earl  of  Beaconsfield  a  Representative  Jew  ?  "  in 
which  she  is  disposed  to  accept  as  the  type  of  the 
modern  Jew  the  brilliant,  successful,  but  not 
over-scrupulous  chevalier  d'industrie.  In  view 
of  subsequent,  or  rather  contemporaneous  events, 
the  closing  paragraph  of  the  article  in  question  is 
worthy  of  being  cited  :  — 

"  Thus  far  their  religion  [the  Jewish],  whose  mere  pres 
ervation  under  such  adverse  conditions  seems  little  short 


20  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

of  a  miracle,  has  been  deprived  of  the  natural  means  of 
development  and  progress,  and  has  remained  a  stationary 
force.  The  next  hundred  years  will,  in  our  opinion,  he 
the  test  of  their  vitality  as  a  people  ;  the  phase  of  tolera 
tion  upon  which  they  are  only  now  entering  will  prove 
whether  or  not  they  are  capable  of  growth.' ' 

By  a  curious,  almost  fateful  juxtaposition,  in 
the  same  number  of  the  magazine  appeared 
Madame  Ragozin's  defense  of  Russian  barbarity, 
and  in  the  following  (May)  number  Emma 
Lazarus's  impassioned  appeal  and  reply,  "  Rus 
sian  Christianity  versus  Modern  Judaism."  From 
this  time  dated  the  crusade  that  she  undertook 
in  behalf  of  her  race,  and  the  consequent  ex 
pansion  of  all  her  faculties,  the  growth  of  spir 
itual  power  which  always  ensues  when  a  great 
cause  is  espoused  and  a  strong  conviction  enters 
the  soul.  Her  verse  rang  out  as  it  had  never 
rung  before,  —  a  clarion  note,  calling  a  people  to 
heroic  action  and  unity,  to  the  consciousness  and 
fulfillment  of  a  grand  destiny.  When  has  Judaism 
been  so  stirred  as  by  "  The  Crowing  of  the  Red 
Cock  "  and 

THE  BANNER  OF  THE  JEW. 

Wake,  Israel,  wake  !    Recall  to-day 

The  glorious  Maccabean  rage, 

The  sire  heroic,  hoary-gray, 

His  five-fold  lion-lineage ; 

The  Wise,  the  Elect,  the  Help-of-God, 

The  Burst-of-Spring,  the  Avenging  Rod. 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  21 

From  Mizpeh's  mountain  ridge  they  saw 
Jerusalem's  empty  streets  ;  her  shrine 
Laid  waste  where  Greeks  profaned  the  Law 
With  idol  and  with  pagan  sign. 
Mourners  in  tattered  black  were  there 
With  ashes  sprinkled  on  their  hair. 

Then  from  the  stony  peak  there  rang 
A  blast  to  ope  the  graves  ;  down  poured 
The  Maccabean  clan,  who  sang 
Their  battle  anthem  to  the  Lord. 
Five  heroes  lead,  and  following,  see 
Ten  thousand  rush  to  victory  ! 

Oh  for  Jerusalem's  trumpet  now, 
To  blow  a  blast  of  shattering  power, 
To  wake  the  sleepers  high  and  low, 
And  rouse  them  to  the  urgent  hour ! 
No  hand  for  vengeance,  but  to  save, 
A  million  naked  swords  should  wave. 

Oh,  deem  not  dead  that  martial  fire, 
Say  not  the  mystic  flame  is  spent ! 
With  Moses'  law  and  David's  lyre, 
Your  ancient  strength  remains  unbent. 
Let  but  an  Ezra  rise  anew, 
To  lift  the  Banner  of  the  Jew  ! 

A  rag,  a  mock  at  first,  —  erelong, 
When  men  have  bled  and  women  wept, 
To  guard  its  precious  folds  from  wrong, 
Even  they  who  shrunk,  even  they  who  slept, 
Shall  leap  to  bless  it  and  to  save. 
Strike !  for  the  brave  revere  the  brave ! 

The  dead  forms  burst  their  bonds  and  lived 


22  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

again.  She  sings  "Rosh  Hashanah"  (the  Jew 
ish  New  Year)  and  "  Hanuckah "  (the  Feast  of 
Lights  )  :  — 

' '  Kindle  the  taper  like  the  steadfast  star 
Ablaze  on  Evening's  forehead  o'er  the  earth, 
And  add  each  night  a  lustre  till  afar 
An  eight-fold  splendor  shine  above  thy  hearth. 
Clash,  Israel,  the  cymbals,  touch  the  lyre, 
Blow  the  brass  trumpet  and  the  harsh-tongued  horn  ; 
Chant  psalms  of  victory  till  the  heart  take  fire, 
The  Maccabean  spirit  leap  new-born." 

And  "  The  New  Ezekiel : "  — 

"  What !  can  these  dead  bones  live,  whose  sap  is  dried 
By  twenty  scorching  centuries  of  wrong  ? 
Is  this  the  House  of  Israel  whose  pride 
Is  as  a  tale  that  's  told,  an  ancient  song  ? 
Are  these  ignoble  relics  all  that  live 
Of  psalmist,  priest,  and  prophet  ?     Can  the  breath 
Of  very  heaven  bid  these  bones  revive, 
Open  the  graves,  and  clothe  the  ribs  of  death  ? 
Yea,  Prophesy,  the  Lord  hath  said  again  : 
Say  to  the  wind,  Come  forth  and  breathe  afresh, 
Even  that  they  may  live,  upon  these  slain, 
And  bone  to  bone  shall  leap,  and  flesh  to  flesh. 
The  spirit  is  not  dead,  proclaim  the  word. 
Where  lay  dead  bones  a  host  of  armed  men  stand ! 
I  ope  your  graves,  my  people,  saith  the  Lord, 
And  I  shall  place  you  living  in  your  land.' ' 

Her  whole  being  renewed  and  refreshed  itself 
at  its  very  source.  She  threw  herself  into  the 
study  of  her  race,  its  language,  literature,  and 
history. 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  23 

Breaking  the  outward  crust,  she  pierced  to  the 
heart  of  the  faith  and  "  the  miracle  "  of  its  sur 
vival.  What  was  it  other  than  the  ever-present, 
ever-vivifying  spirit  itself,  which  cannot  die,  — 
the  religious  and  ethical  zeal  which  fires  the 
whole  history  of  the  people,  and  of  which  she 
herself  felt  the  living  glow  within  her  own  soul  ? 
She  had  come  upon  the  secret  and  the  genius 
of  Judaism,  —  that  absolute  interpenetration  and 
transfusion  of  spirit  with  body  and  substance 
which,  taken  literally,  often  reduces  itself  to  a 
question  of  food  and  drink,  a  dietary  regulation, 
and  again,  in  proper  splendor,  incarnates  itself 
and  shines  out  before  humanity  in  the  prophets, 
teachers,  and  saviors  of  mankind. 

Those  were  busy,  fruitful  years  for  Emma 
Lazarus,  who  worked,  not  with  the  pen  alone, 
but  in  the  field  of  practical  and  beneficent  ac 
tivity.  For  there  was  an  immense  task  to  ac 
complish.  The  tide  of  immigration  had  set  in, 
and  ship  after  ship  came  laden  with  hunted  hu 
man  beings  flying  from  their  fellow-men,  while 
all  the  time,  like  a  tocsin,  rang  the  terrible  story 
of  cruelty  and  persecution,  —  horrors  that  the  pen 
refuses  to  dwell  upon.  By  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  they  flocked  upon  our  shores,  —  helpless,  in 
nocent  victims  of  injustice  and  oppression,  panic- 
stricken  in  the  midst  of  strange  and  utterly  new 
surroundings. 

Emma   Lazarus   came   into  personal   contact 


24  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

with  these  people,  and  visited  them  in  their 
refuge  on  Ward's  Island.  While  under  the  in 
fluence  of  all  the  emotions  aroused  by  this  great 
crisis  in  the  history  of  her  race,  she  wrote  the 
"Dance  to  Death,"  a  drama  of  persecution  of 
the  twelfth  century,  founded  upon  authentic  rec 
ords, —  unquestionably  her  finest  work  in  grasp 
and  scope,  and,  above  all,  in  moral  elevation  and 
purport.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Nordhausen,  a 
free  city  of  Thuringia,  where  the  Jews,  living, 
as  they  deemed,  in  absolute  security  and  peace, 
were  caught  up  in  the  wave  of  persecution  that 
swept  over  Europe  at  that  time.  Accused  of 
poisoning  the  wells  and  causing  the  pestilence, 
or  black  death,  as  it  was  called,  they  were  con 
demned  to  be  burned. 

We  do  not  here  intend  to  enter  upon  a  critical 
or  literary  analysis  of  the  play,  or  to  point  out 
dramatic  merits  or  defects,  but  we  should  like  to 
make  its  readers  feel  with  us  the  holy  ardor  and 
impulse  of  the  writer  and  the  spiritual  import  of 
the  work.  The  action  is  without  surprise,  the 
doom  fixed  from  the  first ;  but  so  glowing  is 
the  canvas  with  local  and  historic  color,  so  vital 
and  intense  the  movement,  so  resistless  the  "  in 
ternal  evidence,"  if  we  may  call  it  thus,  pene 
trating  its  very  substance  and  form,- that  we  are 
swept  along  as  by  a  wave  of  human  sympathy 
and  grief.  In  contrast  with  "  The  Spagnoletto," 
how  large  is  the  theme  and  how  all-embracing 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  25 

the  catastrophe  !  In  place  of  the  personal  we 
have  the  drama  of  the  universal.  Love  is  only 
a  flash  now,  —  a  dream  caught  sight  of  and  at 
once  renounced  at  a  higher  claim. 

"  Have  you  no  smile  to  welcome  love  with,  Liebhaid  ? 
Why  should  you  tremble  ? 
Prince,  I  am  afraid ! 

Afraid  of  my  own  heart,  my  unfathomed  joy, 
A  blasphemy  against  my  father's  grief, 
My  people's  agony ! 

"  What  good  shall  come,  forswearing  kith  and  God, 
To  follow  the  allurements  of  the  heart  ?  " 

asks  the  distracted  maiden,  torn  between  her 
love  for  her  princely  wooer  and  her  devotion  to 
the  people  among  whom  her  lot  has  been  cast. 

"OGod! 

How  shall  I  pray  for  strength  to  love  him  less 
Than  mine  own  soul ! 

No  more  of  that, 

I  am  all  Israel's  now.     Till  this  cloud  pass, 
I  have  no  thought,  no  passion,  no  desire, 
Save  for  my  people." 

Individuals  perish,  but  great  ideas  survive,  — 
fortitude  and  courage,  and  that  exalted  loyalty 
and  devotion  to  principle  which  alone  are  worth 
living  and  dying  for. 

The  Jews  pass  by  in  procession  —  men,  women, 
and  children  —  on  their  way  to  the  flames,  to  the 
sound  of  music,  and  in  festal  array,  carrying  the 
gold  and  silver  vessels,  the  roll  of  the  law,  the 


26  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

perpetual  lamp  and  the  seven-branched  silver 
candle-stick  of  the  synagogue.  The  crowd  hoot 
and  jeer  at  them. 

"  The  misers !  they  will  take  their  gems  and  gold 
Down  to  the  grave ! ' ' 

"Let  us  rejoice" 

sing  the  Jewish  youths  in  chorus  ;  and  the  maid 
ens  :  — 

"Our  feet  shall  stand  within  thy  gates,  O  Zion ! 
Within  thy  portals,  O  Jerusalem!  " 

The  flames  rise  and  dart  among  them  ;  their  gar 
ments  wave,  their  jewels  flash,  as  they  dance  and 
sing  in  the  crimson  blaze.  The  music  ceases,  a 
sound  of  crashing  boards  is  heard  and  a  great 
cry,  —  "  Hallelujah !  "  What  a  glory  and  conse 
cration  of  martyrdom !  Where  shall  we  find  a 
more  triumphant  vindication  and  supreme  vic 
tory  of  spirit  over  matter  ? 

"  I  see,  I  see, 

How  Israel's  ever-crescent  glory  makes 
These  flames  that  would  eclipse  it  dark  as  blots 
Of  candle-light  against  the  blazing  sun. 
We  die  a  thousand  deaths,  —  drown,  bleed,  and  burn. 
Our  ashes  are  dispersed  unto  the  winds. 
Yet  the  wild  winds  cherish  the  sacred  seed, 
The  waters  guard  it  in  their  crystal  heart, 
The  fire  refuseth  to  consume. 


Even  as  we  die  in  honor,  from  our  death 
Shall  bloom  a  myriad  heroic  lives, 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  27 

Brave  through  our  brig-lit  example,  virtuous 
Lest  our  great  memory  fall  in  disrepute." 

The  "  Dance  to  Death  "  was  published,  along 
with  other  poems  and  translations  from  the  He 
brew  poets  of  mediaeval  Spain,  in  a  small  volume 
entitled  "  Songs  of  a  Semite."  The  tragedy  was 
dedicated,  "  In  profound  veneration  and  respect 
to  the  memory  of  George  Eliot,  the  illustrious 
writer  who  did  most  among  the  artists  of  our  day 
towards  elevating  and  ennobling  the  spirit  of 
Jewish  nationality." 

For  this  was  the  idea  that  had  caught  the 
imagination  of  Emma  Lazarus,  —  a  restored  and 
independent  nationality  and  repatriation  in  Pal 
estine.  In  her  article  in  "  The  Century  "  of  Feb 
ruary,  1883,  on  the  "  Jewish  Problem,"  she 
says :  — ~ 

"  I  am  fully  persuaded  that  all  suggested  solutions  other 
than  this  are  but  temporary  palliatives.  .  .  .  The  idea 
formulated  by  George  Eliot  has  already  sunk  into  the 
minds  of  many  Jewish  enthusiasts,  and  it  germinates 
with  miraculous  rapidity.  '  The  idea  that  I  am  pos 
sessed  with,'  says  Deronda,  '  is  that  of  restoring  a  polit 
ical  existence  to  my  people  ;  making  them  a  nation  again, 
giving  them  a  national  centre,  such  as  the  English  have, 
though  they,  too,  are  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  globe. 
That  is  a  task  which  presents  itself  to  me  as  a  duty.  .  .  . 
I  am  resolved  to  devote  my  life  to  it.  At  the  least,  I 
may  awaken  a  movement  in  other  minds  such  as  has  been 
awakened  in  my  own."1  Could  the  noble  prophetess  who 
wrote  the  above  words  have  lived  but  till  to-day  to  see 
the  ever-increasing  necessity  of  adopting  her  inspired 


28  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

counsel,  .  .  .  she  would  have  been  herself  astonished  at 
the  flame  enkindled  by  her  seed  of  fire,  and  the  practi 
cal  shape  which  the  movement  projected  by  her  in  poetic 
vision  is  beginning  to  assume.' ' 

In  November  of  1882  appeared  her  first 
"  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews,"  —  one  of  a  series  of 
articles  written  for  the  "American  Hebrew," 
published  weekly  through  several  months.  Ad 
dressing  herself  now  to  a  Jewish  audience,  she 
sets  forth  without  reserve  her  views  and  hopes 
for  Judaism,  now  passionately  urging  its  claims 
and  its  high  ideals,  and  again  dispassionately 
holding  up  the  mirror  for  the  shortcomings  and 
peculiarities  of  her  race.  She  says  :  — 

"  Every  student  of  the  Hebrew  language  is  aware  that 
we  have  in  the  conjugation  of  our  verbs  a  mode  known 
as  the  intensive  voice,  which,  by  means  of  an  almost  im 
perceptible  modification  of  vowel-points,  intensifies  the 
meaning  of  the  primitive  root.  A  similar  significance 
seems  to  attach  to  the  Jews  themselves  in  connection 
with  the  people  among  whom  they  dwell.  They  are  the 
intensive  form  of  any  nationality  whose  language  and  cus 
toms  they  adopt.  .  .  .  Influenced  by  the  same  causes, 
they  represent  the  same  results;  but  the  deeper  lights 
and  shadows  of  their  Oriental  temperament  throw  their 
failings,  as  well  as  their  virtues,  into  more  prominent  re- 
Kef." 

In  drawing  the  epistles  to  a  close,  February 
24,  1883,  she  thus  summarizes  the  special  objects 
she  has  had  in  view :  — 

"  My  chief  aim  has  been  to  contribute  my  mite  towards 
arousing  that  spirit  of  Jewish  enthusiasm  which  might 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  29 

manifest  itself :  First,  in  a  return  to  the  varied  pursuits 
and  broad  system  of  physical  and  intellectual  education 
adopted  by  our  ancestors ;  Second,  in  a  more  fraternal 
and  practical  movement  towards  alleviating  the  suffer 
ings  of  oppressed  Jews  in  countries  less  favored  than  our 
own ;  Third,  in  a  closer  and  wider  study  of  Hebrew  lit 
erature  and  history ;  and  finally,  in  a  truer  recognition 
of  the  large  principles  of  religion,  liberty,  and  law  upon 
which  Judaism  is  founded,  and  which  should  draw  into 
harmonious  unity  Jews  of  every  shade  of  opinion. ' ' 

Her  interest  in  Jewish  affairs  was  at  its  height 
when  she  planned  a  visit  abroad,  which  had  been 
a  long-cherished  dream,  and  May  15,  1883,  she 
sailed  for  England,  accompanied  by  a  younger 
sister.  We  have  difficulty  in  recognizing  the 
tragic  priestess  we  have  been  portraying  in  the 
enthusiastic  child  of  travel  who  seems  new-born 
into  a  new  world.  From  the  very  outset  she  is 
in  a  maze  of  wonder  and  delight.  At  sea  she 
writes  :  — 

"  Our  last  day  on  board  ship  was  a  vision  of  beauty 
from  morning  till  night,  —  the  sea  like  a  mirror  and  the 
sky  dazzling  with  light.  In  the  afternoon  we  passed  a 
ship  in  full  sail,  near  enough  to  exchange  salutes  and 
cheers.  After  tossing  about  for  six  days  without  seeing 
a  human  being,  except  those  on  our  vessel,  even  this  was 
a  sensation.  Then  an  hour  or  two  before  sunset  came 
the  great  sensation  of  —  land !  At  first,  nothing  but  a 
shadow  on  the  far  horizon,  like  the  ghost  of  a  ship  ;  two 
or  three  widely  scattered  rocks  which  were  the  promonto 
ries  of  Ireland,  and  sooner  than  we  expected  we  were 
steaming  along  low-lying  purple  hills. 

The  journey  to  Chester  gives  her  "the  first 


30  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

glimpse  of  mellow  England,"  —  a  surprise  which 
is  yet  no  surprise,  so  well  known  and  familiar 
does  it  appear.  Then  Chester,  with  its  quaint, 
picturesque  streets,  "  like  the  scene  of  a  Walter 
Scott  novel,  the  cathedral  planted  in  greenness, 
and  the  clear,  gray  river  where  a  boatful  of  scar 
let  dragoons  goes  gliding  by."  Everything  is  a 
picture  for  her  special  benefit.  She  "  drinks  in, 
at  every  sense,  the  sights,  sounds,  and  smells, 
and  the  unimaginable  beauty  of  it  all."  Then 
the  bewilderment  of  London,  and  a  whirl  of  peo 
ple,  sights,  and  impressions.  She  was  received 
with  great  distinction  by  the  Jews,  and  many  of 
the  leading  men  among  them  warmly  advocated 
her  views.  But  it  was  not  alone  from  her  own 
people  that  she  met  with  exceptional  considera 
tion.  She  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  many  of 
the  most  eminent  personages  of  the  day,  all  of 
whom  honored  her  with  special  and  personal  re 
gard.  There  was,  no  doubt,  something  that 
strongly  attracted  and  attached  people  to  her  at 
this  time,  —  the  force  of  her  intellect  at  once 
made  itself  felt,  while  at  the  same  time  the  un 
altered  simplicity  and  modesty  of  her  character, 
and  her  readiness  and  freshness  of  enthusiasm, 
kept  her  still  almost  like  a  child. 

She  makes  a  flying  visit  to  Paris,  where  she 
happens  to  be  on  the  14th  of  July,  the  anni 
versary  of  the  storming  of  the  Bastile,  and  of  the 
beginning  of  the  republic ;  she  drives  out  to 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  31 

Versailles,  "  that  gorgeous  shell  of  royalty,  where 
the  crowd  who  celebrate  the  birth  of  the  repub 
lic  wander  freely  through  the  halls  and  avenues, 
and  into  the  most  sacred  rooms  of  the  king.  .  .  . 
There  are  ruins  on  every  side  in  Paris,"  she  says  ; 
"  ruins  of  the  Commune,  or  the  Siege,  or  the 
Revolution  ;  it  is  terrible  —  it  seems  as  if  the 
city  were  seared  with  fire  and  blood." 

Such  was  Paris  to  her  then,  and  she  hastens 
back  to  her  beloved  London,  starting  from  there 
on  the  tour  through  England  that  has  been 
mapped  out  for  her.  "A  Day  in  Surrey  with 
William  Morris,"  published  in  "The  Century 
Magazine,"  describes  her  visit  to  Merton  Abbey, 
the  old  Norman  monastery,  converted  into  a 
model  factory  by  the  poet  -  humanitarian,  who 
himself  received  her  as  his  guest,  conducted  her 
all  over  the  picturesque  building  and  garden,  and 
explained  to  her  his  views  of  art  and  his  aims  for 
the  people. 

She  drives  through  Kent,  "  where  the  fields, 
valleys,  and  slopes  are  garlanded  with  hops  and 
ablaze  with  scarlet  poppies."  Then  Canterbury, 
Windsor,  and  Oxford,  Stratford,  Warwick,  the 
valley  of  the  Wye,  Wells,  Exeter,  and  Salisbury, 
—  cathedral  after  cathedral.  Back  to  London, 
and  then  north  through  York,  Durham,  and 
Edinburgh,  and  on  the  15th  of  September  she 
sails  for  home.  We  have  merely  named  the 
names,  for  it  is  impossible  to  convey  an  idea  of 


32  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

the  delight  and  importance  of  this  trip,  "  a  cres 
cendo  of  enjoyment,"  as  she  herself  calls  it. 
Long  after,  in  strange,  dark  hours  of  suffering, 
these  pictures  of  travel  arose  before  her,  vivid 
and  tragic  even  in  their  hold  and  spell  upon  her. 
The  winter  of  1883-84  was  not  especially  pro 
ductive.  She  wrote  a  few  reminiscences  of  her 
journey  and  occasional  poems  on  Jewish  themes, 
which  appeared  in  the  "  American  Hebrew ;  " 
but  for  the  most  part  she  gave  herself  up  to 
quiet  retrospect  and  enjoyment  with  her  friends 
of  the  life  she  had  had  a  glimpse  of,  and  the  ex 
perience  she  had  stored,  —  a  restful,  happy  pe 
riod.  In  August  of  the  same  year  she  was  stricken 
with  a  severe  and  dangerous  malady,  from  which 
she  slowly  recovered,  only  to  go  through  a  ter 
rible  ordeal  and  affliction.  Her  father's  health, 
which  had  long  been  failing,  now  broke  down 
completely,  and  the  whole  winter  was  one  long 
strain  of  acute  anxiety,  which  culminated  in  his 
death,  in  March,  1885.  The  blow  was  a  crushing 
one  for  Emma.  Truly,  the  silver  cord  was  loosed, 
and  the  golden  bowl  was  broken.  Life  lost  its 
meaning  and  its  charm.  Her  father's  sympathy 
and  pride  in  her  work  had  been  her  chief  incen 
tive  and  ambition,  and  had  spurred  her  on  when 
her  own  confidence  and  spirit  failed.  Never  after 
wards  did  she  find  complete  and  spontaneous  ex 
pression.  She  decided  to  go  abroad  again  as  the 
best  means  of  regaining  composure  and  strength, 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  33 

and  sailed  once  more  in  May  for  England,  where 
she  was  welcomed  now  by  the  friends  she  had 
made,  almost  as  to  another  home.  She  spent 
the  summer  very  quietly  at  Richmond,  an  ideally 
beautiful  spot  in  Yorkshire,  where  she  soon  felt 
the  beneficial  influence  of  her  peaceful  surround 
ings.  "The  very  air  seems  to  rest  one  here," 
she  writes  ;  and  inspired  by  the  romantic  love 
liness  of  the  place,  she  even  composed  the  first 
few  chapters  of  a  novel,  begun  with  a  good  deal 
of  dash  and  vigor,  but  soon  abandoned,  for  she 
was  still  struggling  with  depression  and  gloom. 

"  I  have  neither  ability,  energy,  nor  purpose," 
she  writes.  "  It  is  impossible  to  do  anything, 
so  I  am  forced  to  set  it  aside  for  the  present ; 
whether  to  take  it  up  again  or  not  in  the  future 
remains  to  be  seen." 

In  the  autumn  she  goes  on  the  Continent, 
visiting  the  Hague,  which  "  completely  fasci 
nates  "  her,  and  where  she  feels  "  stronger  and 
more  cheerful "  than  she  has  "  for  many  a  day." 
Then  Paris,  which  this  time  amazes  her  "  with 
its  splendor  and  magnificence.  All  the  ghosts  of 
the  Revolution  are  somehow  laid,"  she  writes, 
and  she  spends  six  weeks  here  enjoying  to  the 
full  the  gorgeous  autumn  weather,  the  sights,  the 
picture  galleries,  the  bookshops,  the  whole  bril 
liant  panorama  of  the  life  ;  and  early  in  Decem 
ber  she  starts  for  Italy. 

And  now  once  more  we  come  upon  that  keen 


34  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

zest  of  enjoyment,  that  pure  desire  and  delight 
of  the  eyes,  which  are  the  prerogative  of  the 
poet,  —  and  Emma  Lazarus  was  a  poet.  The 
beauty  of  the  world,  — what  a  rapture  and  in 
toxication  it  is,  and  how  it  bursts  upon  her  in  the 
very  land  of  beauty,  "  where  Dante  and  where 
Petrarch  trod  !  "  A  magic  glow  colors  it  all ;  no 
mere  blues  and  greens  any  more,  but  a  splendor 
of  purple  and  scarlet  and  emerald  ;  "  each  tower, 
castle,  and  village  shining  like  a  jewel ;  the 
olive,  the  fig,  and  at  your  feet  the  roses,  growing 
in  mid-December."  A  day  in  Pisa  seems  like 
a  week,  so  crowded  is  it  with  sensations  and  un 
forgettable  pictures.  Then  a  month  in  Florence, 
which  is  still  more  entrancing  with  its  inexhaus 
tible  treasures  of  beauty  and  art  ;  and  finally 
Rome,  the  climax  of  it  all,  — 

"  wiping  out  all  other  places  and  impressions,  and  opening 
a  whole  new  world  of  sensations.  I  am  wild  with  the 
excitement  of  this  tremendous  place.  I  have  been  here  a 
week,  and  have  seen  the  Vatican  and  the  Capitoline  Mu 
seums,  and  the  Sistine  Chapel,  and  St.  Peter's,  besides 
the  ruins  on  the  streets  and  on  the  hills,  and  the  graves 
of  Shelley  and  Keats. 

"It  is  all  heart-breaking.  I  don't  only  mean  those 
beautiful  graves  overgrown  with  acanthus  and  violets, 
but  the  mutilated  arches  and  columns  and  dumb  appeal 
ing  fragments  looming  up  in  the  glowing  sunshine  under 
the  Roman  blue  sky.' ' 

True  to  her  old  attractions,  it  is  pagan  Rome 
that  appeals  to  her  most  strongly,  — 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  35 

"  and  the  far-away  past,  that  seems  so  sad  and  strange 
and  near.  I  am  even  out  of  humor  with  pictures  ;  a  bit 
of  broken  stone  or  a  fragment  of  a  bas-relief,  or  a  Co 
rinthian  column  standing  out  against  this  lapis-lazuli  sky, 
or  a  tremendous  arch,  are  the  only  things  I  can  look  at 
for  the  moment,  —  except  the  Sistine  Chapel,  which  is  as 
gigantic  as  the  rest,  and  forces  itself  upon  you  with  equal 
might." 

Already,  in  February,  spring  is  in  the  air ; 
"the  almond  -  trees  are  in  bloom,  violets  cover 
the  grass,  and  oh !  the  divine,  the  celestial,  the 
unheard-of  beauty  of  it  all !  "  It  is  almost  a 
pang  to  her,  "  with  its  strange  mixture  of  long 
ing  and  regret  and  delight,"  and  in  the  midst  of 
it  she  says,  "  I  have  to  exert  all  my  strength  not 
to  lose  myself  in  morbidness  and  depression." 

Early  in  March  she  leaves  Rome,  consoled 
with  the  thought  of  returning  the  following 
winter.  In  June  she  was  in  England  again,  and 
spent  the  summer  at  Malvern.  Disease  was  no 
doubt  already  beginning  to  prey  upon  her,  for 
she  was  oppressed  at  times  by  a  languor  and 
heaviness  amounting  almost  to  lethargy.  When 
she  returned  to  London,  however,  in  September, 
she  felt  quite  well  again,  and  started  for  another 
tour  in  Holland,  which  she  enjoyed  as  much  as 
before.  She  then  settled  in  Paris  to  await  the 
time  when  she  could  leave  for  Italy.  But  she 
was  attacked  at  once  with  grave  and  alarming 
symptoms,  that  betokened  a  fatal  end  to  her 
malady.  Entirely  ignorant,  however,  of  the 


36  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

danger  that  threatened  her,  she  kept  up  courage 
and  hope,  made  daily  plans  for  the  journey,  and 
looked  forward  to  setting  out  at  any  moment. 
But  the  weeks  passed  and  the  months  also ; 
slowly  and  gradually  the  hope  faded.  The  jour 
ney  to  Italy  must  be  given  up ;  she  was  not  in 
condition  to  be  brought  home,  and  she  reluc 
tantly  resigned  herself  to  remain  where  she  was 
and  "convalesce,"  as  she  confidently  believed, 
in  the  spring.  Once  again  came  the  analogy, 
which  she  herself  pointed  out  now,  to  Heine  on 
his  mattress-grave  in  Paris.  She,  too,  the  last 
time  she  went  out,  dragged  herself  to  the  Louvre, 
to  the  feet  of  the  Venus,  "  the  goddess  without 
arms,  who  could  not  help."  Only  her  indomi 
table  will  and  intense  desire  to  live  seemed  to 
keep  her  alive.  She  sunk  to  a  very  low  ebb,  but, 
as  she  herself  expressed  it,  she  "  seemed  to  have 
always  one  little  window  looking  out  into  life," 
and  in  the  spring  she  rallied  sufficiently  to  take 
a  few  drives  and  to  sit  on  the  balcony  of  her 
apartment.  She  came  back  to  life  with  a  fe 
verish  sort  of  thirst  and  avidity.  "  No  such  cure 
for  pessimism,"  she  says,  "  as  a  severe  illness ; 
the  simplest  pleasures  are  enough,  —  to  breathe 
the  air  and  see  the  sun." 

Many  plans  were  made  for  leaving  Paris,  but 
it  was  finally  decided  to  risk  the  ocean  voyage 
and  bring  her  home,  and  accordingly  she  sailed 
July  23d,  arriving  in  New  York  on  the  last  day 
of  that  month. 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  37 

She  did  not  rally  after  this  ;  and  now  began 
her  long  agony,  full  of  every  kind  of  suffering, 
mental  and  physical.  Only  her  intellect  seemed 
kindled  anew,  and  none  but  those  who  saw  her 
during  the  last  supreme  ordeal  can  realize  that 
wonderful  flash  and  fire  of  the  spirit  before  its 
extinction.  Never  did  she  appear  so  brilliant. 
"Wasted  to  a  shadow,  and  between  acute  attacks 
of  pain,  she  talked  about  art,  poetry,  the  scenes 
of  travel,  of  which  her  brain  was  so  full,  and  the 
phases  of  her  own  condition,  with  an  eloquence 
for  which  even  those  who  knew  her  best  were 
quite  unprepared.  Every  faculty  seemed  sharp 
ened  and  every  sense  quickened  as  the  l(  strong 
deliveress  "  approached,  and  the  ardent  soul  was 
released  from  the  frame  that  could  no  longer 
contain  it. 

We  cannot  restrain  a  feeling  of  suddenness 
and  incompleteness  and  a  natural  pang  of  won 
der  and  regret  for  a  life  so  richly  and  so  vitally 
endowed  thus  cut  off  in  its  prime.  But  for  us 
it  is  not  fitting  to  question  or  repine,  but  rather 
to  rejoice  in  the  rare  possession  that  we  hold. 
What  is  any  life,  even  the  most  rounded  and  com 
plete,  but  a  fragment  and  a  hint  ?  What  Emma 
Lazarus  might  have  accomplished,  had  she  been 
spared,  it  is  idle  and  even  ungrateful  to  specu 
late.  What  she  did  accomplish  has  real  and 
peculiar  significance.  It  is  the  privilege  of  a 
favored  few  that  every  fact  and  circumstance  of 


38  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

their  individuality  shall  add  lustre  and  value  to 
what  they  achieve.  To  be  born  a  Jewess  was  a 
distinction  for  Emma  Lazarus,  and  she  in  turn 
conferred  distinction  upon  her  race.  To  be  born 
a  woman  also  lends  a  grace  and  a  subtle  magnet 
ism  to  her  influence.  Nowhere  is  there  contra 
diction  or  incongruity.  Her  works  bear  the  im 
print  of  her  character,  and  her  character  of  her 
works ;  the  same  directness  and  honesty,  the 
same  limpid  purity  of  tone,  and  the  same  at 
mosphere  of  things  refined  and  beautiful.  The 
vulgar,  the  false,  and  the  ignoble,  —  she  scarcely 
comprehended  them,  while  on  every  side  she  was 
open  and  ready  to  take  in  and  respond  to  what 
ever  can  adorn  and  enrich  life.  Literature  was 
no  mere  "  profession  "  for  her,  which  shut  out 
other  possibilities  ;  it  was  only  a  free,  wide  hori 
zon  and  background  for  culture.  She  was  pas 
sionately  devoted  to  music,  which  inspired  some 
of  her  best  poems ;  and  during  the  last  years  of 
her  life,  in  hours  of  intense  physical  suffering, 
she  found  relief  and  consolation  in  listening  to 
the  strains  of  Bach  and  Beethoven.  When  she 
went  abroad,  painting  was  revealed  to  her,  and 
she  threw  herself  with  the  same  ardor  and  en 
thusiasm  into  the  study  of  the  great  masters ; 
her  last  work  (left  unfinished)  was  a  critical 
analysis  of  the  genius  and  personality  of  Rem 
brandt. 

And  now,  at  the  end,  we  ask,  Has  the  grave 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  39 

really  closed  over  all  these  gifts  ?  Has  that 
eager,  passionate  striving  ceased,  that  hunger  and 
thirst  which  we  call  life,  and  "is  the  rest  si 
lence  ?  " 

Who  knows  ?  But  would  we  break,  if  we 
could,  that  repose,  that  silence  and  mystery  and 
peace  everlasting  ? 


EPOCHS. 

"  The  epochs  of  our  life  are  not  in  the  visible  facts,  but  in  the 
silent  thought  by  the  wayside  as  we  walk."  —  EMEBSON. 


I.    YOUTH. 

SWEET  empty  sky  of  June  without  a  stain, 
Faint,  gray-blue  dewy  mists  on  far-off  hills, 

Warm,  yellow  sunlight  flooding  mead  and  plain, 
That  each  dark  copse  and  hollow  overfills  ; 
The  rippling  laugh  of  unseen,  rain-fed  rills, 

Weeds  delicate  -  flowered,  white  and   pink  and 
gold, 

A  murmur  and  a  singing  manifold. 

The  gray,  austere  old  earth  renews  her  youth 
With  dew-lines,  sunshine,  gossamer,  and  haze. 

How  still  she  lies  and  dreams,  and  veils  the  truth, 
While  all  is  fresh  as  in  the  early  days ! 
What  simple  things  be  these  the  soul  to  raise 

To  bounding  joy,  and  make  young  pulses  beat, 

With  nameless  pleasure  finding  life  so  sweet. 

On  such  a  golden  morning  forth  there  floats, 
Betwe-en  the  soft  earth  and  the  softer  sky, 

In  the  warm  air  adust  with  glistening  motes, 
The  mystic  winged  and  flickering  butterfly, 
A  human  soul',  that  hovers  giddily 


EPOCHS.  41 

Among  the  gardens  of  earth's  paradise, 
Nor  dreams  of  fairer  fields  or  loftier  skies. 

II.    REGRET. 

Thin  summer  rain  on  grass  and  bush  and  hedge, 
Reddening  the  road  and  deepening  the  green 
On  wide,   blurred    lawn,   and   in   close  -  tangled 

sedge ; 

Veiling   in  gray  the   landscape  stretched   be 
tween 
These  low  broad  meadows  and  the  pale  hills 

seen 
But  dimly  on  the  far  horizon's  edge. 

In  these  transparent-clouded,  gentle  skies, 

Wherethrough   the   moist   beams  of   the   soft 
June  sun 

Might  any  moment  break,  no  sorrow  lies, 
No  note  of  grief  in  swollen  brooks  that  run, 
No  hint  of  woe  in  this  subdued,  calm  tone 

Of  all  the  prospect  unto  dreamy  eyes. 

Only  a  tender,  unnamed  half -regret 

For  the  lost  beauty  of  the  gracious  morn  ; 

A  yearning  aspiration,  fainter  yet, 

For  brighter  suns  in  joyous  days  unborn, 
Now  while  brief  showers  ruffle  grass  and  corn, 

And  all  the  earth  lies  shadowed,  grave,  and  wet ; 

Space  for  the  happy  soul  to  pause  again 
From  pure  content  of  all  unbroken  bliss, 


42  EPOCHS. 

To  dream  the  future  void  of  grief  and  pain, 
And  muse  upon  the  past,  in  reveries 
More  sweet  for  knowledge  that  the  present  is 

Not  all  complete,  with  mist  and  clouds  and  rain. 

III.   LOXGING. 

Look  westward  o'er  the  steaming  rain -washed 

slopes, 
Now  satisfied  with  sunshine,  and  behold 

Those  lustrous  clouds,  as  glorious  as  our  hopes, 
Softened  with  feathery  fleece  of  downy  gold, 
In  all  fantastic,  huddled  shapes  uprolled, 

Floating  like  dreams,  and  melting  silently, 

In  the  blue  upper  regions  of  pure  sky. 

The  eye  is  filled  with  beauty,  and  the  heart 
Rejoiced  with  sense  of  life  and  peace  renewed ; 

And  yet  at  such  an  hour  as  this,  upstart 

Vague  myriad  longings,  restless,  unsubdued, 
And  causeless  tears  from  melancholy  mood, 

Strange  discontent  with  earth's  and  nature's  best, 

Desires  and  yearnings  that  may  find  no  rest. 

IV.   STORM. 

Serene  was  morning  with  clear,  winnowed  air, 
But  threatening  soon  the  low,  blue  mass  of 
cloud 

Rose  in  the  west,  with  mutterings  faint  and  rare 
At  first,  but  waxing  frequent  and  more  loud. 
Thick  sultry  mists  the  distant  hill-tops  shroud ; 


EPOCHS.  43 

The    sunshine    dies ;    athwart    black    skies    of 

lead 
Flash  noiselessly  thin  threads  of  lightning  red. 

Breathless  the  earth   seems  waiting   some  wild 

blow, 

Dreaded,  but  far  too  close  to  ward  or  shun. 
Scared  birds  aloft  fly  aimless,  and  below 

Naught  stirs  in  fields  whence  light  and  life  are 

gone, 
Save  floating  leaves,  with  wisps  of  straw  and 

down, 

Upon  the  heavy  air  ;  'neath  blue-black  skies, 
Livid  and  yellow  the  green  landscape  lies. 

And  all  the  while  the  dreadful  thunder  breaks, 

Within  the  hollow  circle  of  the  hills, 
With  gathering  might,  that  angry  echoes  wakes, 
And  earth  and  heaven  with   unused   clamor 

fills. 
Overhead    still    flame   those    strange    electric 

thrills. 
A   moment   more,  —  behold !    yon   bolt    struck 

home, 
And  over  ruined  fields  the  storm  hath  come ! 

V.    SURPRISE. 

When  the  stunned  soul  can  first  lift  tired  eyes 
On   her   changed   world   of  ruin,  waste,  and 
wrack, 


44  EPOCHS. 

Ah,  what  a  pang  of  aching  sharp  surprise 

Brings   all   sweet   memories  of   the  lost   past 

back, 

With  wild  self -pitying  grief  of  one  betrayed, 
Duped    in   a   land  of   dreams   where   Truth   is 

dead! 

Are  these  the  heavens   that   she   deemed  were 
kind? 

Is  this  the  world  that  yesterday  was  fair  ? 
What  painted  images  of  folk  half-blind 

Be  these  who  pass  her  by,  as  vague  as  air  ? 
What  go  they  seeking  ?  there  is  naught  to  find. 

Let  them  come  nigh  and  hearken  her  despair. 

A  mocking  lie  is  all  she  once  believed, 

And  where  her  heart  throbbed,  is  a  cold  dead 
stone. 

This  is  a  doom  she  never  preconceived, 
Yet  now  she  cannot  fancy  it  undone. 

Part  of  herself,  part  of  the  whole  hard  scheme, 

All  else  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

VI.    GRIEF. 

There  is  a  hungry  longing  in  the  soul, 
A  craving  sense  of  emptiness  and  pain, 

She  may  not  satisfy  nor  yet  control, 

For  all  the  teeming  world  looks  void  and  vain. 

No  compensation  in  eternal  spheres, 

She  knows  the  loneliness  of  all  her  years. 


EPOCHS.  45 

There  is  no  comfort  looking  forth  nor  back, 
The  present  gives  the  lie  to  all  her  past. 

Will  cruel  time  restore  what  she  doth  lack  ? 
Why  was  no  shadow  of  this  doom  forecast  ? 

Ah !    she  hath  played  with  many  a  keen-edged 
thing ; 

Naught  is  too  small  and  soft  to  turn  and  sting. 

In  the  unnatural  glory  of  the  hour, 

Exalted  over  time,  and  death,  and  fate, 

No  earthly  task  appears  beyond  her  power, 
No  possible  endurance  seemeth  great. 

She  knows  her  misery  and  her  majesty, 

And  recks  not  if  she  be  to  live  or  die. 

VII.   ACCEPTANCE. 

Yea,  she  hath  looked  Truth  grimly  face  to  face, 
And  drained  unto  the  lees  the  proffered  cup. 

This  silence  is  not  patience,  nor  the  grace 
Of  resignation,  meekly  offered  up, 

But  mere  acceptance  fraught  with  keenest  pain, 

Seeing  that  all  her  struggles  must  be  vain. 

Her  future  clear  and  terrible  outlies, — 

This  burden  to  be  borne  through  all  her  days, 

This  crown  of   thorns  pressed  down  above  her 

eyes, 
This  weight  of  trouble  she  may  never  raise. 

No  reconcilement  doth  she  ask  nor  wait ; 

Knowing  such  things  are,  she  endures  her  fate. 


46  EPOCHS. 

No  brave  endeavor  of  the  broken  will 
To  cling  to  such  poor  strays  as  will  abide 

(Although  the  waves  be  wild  and  angry  still) 
After  the  lapsing  of  the  swollen  tide. 

No  fear  of  further  loss,  no  hope  of  gain, 

Naught  but  the  apathy  of  weary  pain. 

VIII.    LONELINESS. 

All  stupor  of  surprise  hath  passed  away ; 

She  sees,  with  clearer  vision  than  before, 
A  world  far  off  of  light  and  laughter  gay, 

Herself  alone  and  lonely  evermore. 
Folk  come  and  go,  and  reach  her  in  no  wise, 
Mere  flitting  phantoms  to  her  heavy  eyes. 

All  outward  things,  that  once  seemed  part  of  her, 
Fall  from  her,  like  the  leaves  in  autumn  shed. 

She  feels  as  one  embalmed  in  spice  and  myrrh, 
With  the  heart  eaten  out,  a  long  time  dead ; 

Unchanged  without,  the  features  and  the  form ; 

Within,  devoured  by  the  thin  red  worm. 

By  her  own  prowess  she  must  stand  or  fall, 

This  grief  is  to  be  conquered  day  by  day. 
Who  could  befriend  her  ?  who  could  make  this 

small, 
Or  her  strength  great?  she  meets  it  as  she 

may. 

A  weary  struggle  and  a  constant  pain, 
She  dreams  not  they  may  ever  cease  nor  wane. 


EPOCHS.  47 

IX.   SYMPATHY. 

It  comes  not  in  such  wise  as  she  had  deemed, 

Else  might  she  still  have  clung  to  her  despair. 
More    tender,   grateful    than    she    could    have 

dreamed, 
Fond  hands  passed  pitying  over   brows  and 

hair, 
And  gentle  words  borne   softly  through   the 

air, 

Calming  her  weary  sense  and  wildered  mind, 
By  welcome,  dear  communion  with  her  kind. 

Ah !  she  forswore  all  words  as  empty  lies  ; 

What   speech   could  help,    encourage,    or  re 
pair  ? 

Yet  when  she  meets  these  grave,  indulgent  eyes, 
Fulfilled  with  pity,  simplest  words  are  fair, 
Caressing,  meaningless,  that  do  not  dare 

To  compensate  or  mend,  but  merely  soothe 

With  hopeful  visions  after  bitter  Truth. 

One  who  through  conquered  trouble  had  grown 

wise, 
To  read  the  grief  unspoken,  unexpressed, 

The  misery  of  the  blank  and  heavy  eyes,  — 
Or  through  youth's  infinite  compassion  guessed 
The  heavy  burden,  —  such  a  one  brought  rest, 

And  bade  her  lay  aside  her  doubts  and  fears, 

While  the  hard  pain  dissolved  in  blessed  tears. 


48  EPOCHS. 


X.    PATIEXCE. 

The  passion  of  despair  is  quelled  at  last ; 

The  cruel  sense  of  undeserved  wrong, 
The  wild  self-pity,  these  are  also  past ; 

She  knows  not  what  may  come,   but  she  is 

strong ; 

She  feels  she  hath  not  aught  to  lose  nor  gain, 
Her  patience  is  the  essence  of  all  pain. 

As  one  who  sits  beside  a  lapsing  stream, 
She  sees  the  flow  of  changeless  day  by  day, 

Too  sick  and  tired  to  think,  too  sad  to  dream, 
Nor  cares  how  soon  the  waters  slip  away, 

Nor  where  they  lead  ;  at  the  wise  God's  decree, 

She  will  depart  or  bide  indifferently. 

There  is  a  deeper  pathos  in  the  mild 
And  settled  sorrow  of  the  quiet  eyes, 

Than  in  the  tumults  of  the  anguish  wild, 

That  made  her  curse  all  things  beneath  the 
skies  ; 

No  question,  no  reproaches,  no  complaint, 

Hers  is  the  holy  calm  of  some  meek  sairrt. 

XI.    HOPE. 

Her  languid  pulses  thrill  with  sudden  hope, 
That  will  not  be  forgot  nor  cast  aside, 

And  life  in  statelier  vistas  seems  to  ope, 
inimitably  lofty,  long,  and  wide. 


EPOCHS.  49 

What  doth  she  know  ?    She  is  subdued  and  mild, 
Quiet  and  docile  "as  a  weandd  child." 

If  grief  came  in  such  unimagined  wise, 

How  may  joy  dawn  ?     In  what   undreamed 
of  hour, 

May  the  light  break  with  splendor  of  surprise, 
Disclosing  all  the  mercy  and  the  power  ? 

A  baseless  hope,  yet  vivid,  keen,  and  bright, 

As  the  wild  lightning  in  the  starless  night. 

She  knows  not  whence  it  came,  nor  where  it 
passed, 

But  it  revealed,  in  one  brief  flash  of  flame, 
A  heaven  so  high,  a  world  so  rich  and  vast, 

That,  full  of  meek  contrition  and  mute  shame, 
In  patient  silence  hopefully  withdrawn, 
She  bows  her  head,  and  bides  the  certain  dawn. 

XII.    COMPENSATION. 

'T  is  not  alone  that  black  and  yawning  void 
That  makes  her  heart  ache  with  this  hungry 
pain, 

But  the  glad  sense  of  life  hath  been  destroyed, 
The  lost  delight  may  never  come  again. 

Yet  myriad  serious  blessings  with  grave  grace 

Arise  on  every  side  to  fill  their  place. 

For  much  abides  in  her  so  lonely  life,  — 
The  dear  companionship  of  her  own  kind, 


50  EPOCHS. 

Love  where  least  looked  for,  quiet  after  strife, 

Whispers  of  promise  upon  every  wind, 
And  quickened  insight,  in  awakened  eyes, 
For  the  new  meaning  of  the  earth  and  skies. 

The  nameless  charm  about  all  things  hath  died, 
Subtle  as  aureole  round  a  shadow's  head, 

Cast  on  the  dewy  grass  at  morning-tide  ; 
Yet  though  the  glory  and  the  joy  be  fled, 

'T  is  much  her  own  endurance  to  have  weighed, 

And  wrestled  with  God's  angels,  unafraid. 

XIII.    FAITH. 

She  feels  outwearied,  as  though  o'er  her  head 
A  storm  of  mighty  billows  broke  and  passed. 

Whose  hand  upheld  her  ?    Who  her  footsteps  led 
To  this  green  haven  of  sweet  rest  at  last  ? 

What   strength  was   hers,  unreckoned  and   un 
known  ? 

What  love  sustained  when  she  was  most  alone  ? 

Unutterably  pathetic  her  desire, 

To  reach,  with  groping  arms  outstretched  in 

prayer, 
Something  to  cling  to,  to  uplift  her  higher 

From  this  low  world  of  coward  fear  and  care, 
Above  disaster,  that  her  will  may  be 
At  one  with  God's,  accepting  his  decree. 

Though  by  no  reasons  she  be  justified, 
Yet  strangely  brave  in  Evil's  very  face, 


EPOCHS.  51 

She  deems  this  want  must  needs  be  satisfied, 
Though  here  all  slips  from  out  her  weak  em 
brace. 

And  in  blind  ecstasy  of  perfect  faith, 
With  her  own  dream  her  prayer  she  answereth. 

XIV.   WORK. 

Yet  life  is  not  a  vision  nor  a  prayer, 

But  stubborn  work ;  she  may  not  shun  her 

task. 
After  the  first  compassion,  none  will  spare 

Her  portion  and  her  work  achieved,  to  ask. 
She  pleads  for  respite,  —  she  will  come  ere  long 
When,  resting  by  the  roadside,  she  is  strong. 

Nay,  for  the  hurrying  throng  of  passers-by 

Will   crush    her   with    their    onward  -  rolling 
stream. 

Much  must  be  done  before  the  brief  light  die ; 
She  may  not  loiter,  rapt  in  this  vain  dream. 

With  unused  trembling  hands,  and  faltering  feet, 

She  staggers  forth,  her  lot  assigned  to  meet. 

But  when  she  fills  hei'  days  with  duties  done, 

Strange  vigor  comes,  she  is  restored  to  health. 
New  aims,  new  interests  rise  with  each  new  sun, 
And  life  still  holds  for  her  unbounded  wealth. 
All  that  seemed  hard  and  toilsome  now  proves 

small, 

And  naught  may  daunt  her,  —  she  hath  strength 
for  all. 


52  EPOCHS. 


XV.   VICTOKY. 
How  strange,  in  some  brief  interval  of  rest, 

Backward  to  look  on  her  far-stretching  past. 
To  see  how  much  is  conquered  and  repressed, 

How  much  is  gained  in  victory  at  last ! 
The  shadow  is  not  lifted,  —  but  her  faith, 
Strong   from  life's  miracles,  now  turns  toward 
death. 

Though  much  be  dark  where  once  rare  splendor 

shone, 
Yet  the  new  light  has  touched  high  peaks  un- 


In  her  gold,  mist-bathed  dawn,  and  one  by  one 
New  outlooks   loom  from   many  a  mountain 

crest. 

She  breathes  a  loftier,  purer  atmosphere, 
And   life's  entangled   paths   grow  straight   and 

clear. 

Nor  will  Death  prove  an  all-unwelcome  guest ; 

The  struggle  has  been  toilsome  to  this  end, 
Sleep  will  be  sweet,  and  after  labor  rest, 

And  all  will  be  atoned  with  him  to  friend. 
Much  must  be  reconciled,  much  justified, 
And  yet  she  feels  she  will  be  satisfied. 


EPOCHS.  53 

XVI.    PEACE. 

The  calm  outgoing  of  a  long,  rich  day, 

Checkered  with  storm  and  sunshine,  gloom  and 
light, 

Now  passing  in  pure,  cloudless  skies  away, 
Withdrawing  into  silence  of  blank  night. 
Thick  shadows  settle  on  the  landscape  bright, 

Like  the  weird  cloud  of  death  that  faUs  apace 

On  the  still  features  of  the  passive  face. 

Soothing  and  gentle  as  a  mother's  kiss, 

The   touch  that   stopped   the   beating  of  the 
heart. 

A  look  so  blissfully  serene  as  this, 

Not  all  the  joy  of  living  could  impart. 
Patient  to  bide,  yet  willing  to  depart, 

With  dauntless  faith  and  courage  therewithal, 

The  Master  found  her  ready  at  his  call. 

On  such  a  golden  evening  forth  there  floats, 
Between  the  grave  earth  and  the  glowing  sky 

In  the  clear  air,  unvexed  with  hazy  motes, 
The  mystic-winged  and  flickering  butterfly, 
A  human  soul,  that  drifts  at  liberty, 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  to  what  strange  paradise, 

To  what  undreamed-of  fields  and  lofty  skies  ! 


54  HOW  LONG? 


HOW  LONG? 

How  long,  and  yet  how  long, 
Our  leaders  will  we  hail  from  over  seas, 
Masters  and  kings  from  feudal  monarchies, 

And  mock  their  ancient  song 
With  echoes  weak  of  foreign  melodies  ? 

That  distant  isle  mist-wreathed, 
Mantled  in  unimaginable  green, 
Too  long  hath  been  our  mistress  and  our  queen. 

Our  fathers  have  bequeathed 
Too  deep  a  love  for  her,  our  hearts  within. 

She  made  the  whole  world  ring 
With  the  brave  exploits  of  her  children  strong, 
And  with  the  matchless  music  of  her  song. 

Too  late,  too  late  we  cling 
To  alien  legends,  and  their  strains  prolong. 

This  fresh  young  world  I  see, 
With  heroes,  cities,  legends  of  her  own ; 
With  a  new  race  of  men,  and  overblown 

By  winds  from  sea  to  sea, 
Decked  with  the  majesty  of  every  zone. 

I  see  the  glittering  tops 

Of  snow-peaked  mounts,  the  wid'ning  vale's  ex 
panse, 
Large  prairies  where  free  herds  of  horses  prance, 


HEROES.  55 

Exhaustless  wealth  of  crops, 
In  vast,  magnificent  extravagance. 

These  grand,  exuberant  plains, 
These  stately  rivers,  each  with  many  a  mouth, 
The  exquisite  beauty  of  the  soft-aired  south, 

The  boundless  seas  of  grains, 
Luxuriant  forests'  lush  and  splendid  growth. 

The  distant  siren-song 
Of  the  green  island  in  the  eastern  sea, 
Is  not  the  lay  for  this  new  chivalry. 

It  is  not  free  and  strong 
To  chant  on  prairies  'neath  this  brilliant  sky. 

The  echo  faints  and  fails ; 
It  suiteth  not,  upon  this  western  plain, 
Our  voice  or  spirit ;  we  should  stir  again 

The  wilderness,  and  make  the  vales 
Resound  unto  a  yet  unheard-of  strain. 


HEROES. 

IN  rich  Virginian  woods, 
The  scarlet  creeper  reddens  over  graves, 
Among  the  solemn  trees  enlooped  with  vines ; 
Heroic  spirits  haunt  the  solitudes,  — 
The  noble  souls  of  half  a  million  braves, 

Amid  the  murmurous  pines. 


56  HEROES. 

Ah !  who  is  left  behind, 
Earnest  and  eloquent,  sincere  and  strong, 
To  consecrate  their  memories  with  words 
Not  all  unmeet  ?  with  fitting  dirge  and  song 
To  chant  a  requiem  purer  than  the  wind, 

And  sweeter  than  the  birds  ? 

Here,  though  all  seems  at  peace, 
The  placid,  measureless  sky  serenely  fair, 
The  laughter  of  the  breeze  among  the  leaves, 
The  bars  of  sunlight  slanting  through  the  trees, 
The  reckless  wild-flowers  blooming  everywhere, 

The  grasses'  delicate  sheaves,  — 

Nathless  each  breeze  that  blows, 
Each  tree  that  trembles  to  its  leafy  head 
With  nervous  life,  revives  within  our  mind, 
Tender  as  flowers  of  May,  the  thoughts  of  those 
Who  lie  beneath  the  living  beauty,  dead,  — 

Beneath  the  sunshine,  blind. 

For  brave  dead  soldiers,  these : 
Blessings  and  tears  of  aching  thankfulness, 
Soft  flowers  for  the  graves  in  wreaths  enwove, 
The  odorous  lilac  of  dear  memories, 
The  heroic  blossoms  of  the  wilderness, 

And  the  rich  rose  of  love. 

But  who  has  sung  their  praise, 
Not  less  illustrious,  who  are  living  yet  ? 


HEROES.  57 

Armies  of  heroes,  satisfied  to  pass 
Calmly,  serenely  from  the  whole  world's  gaze, 
And  cheerfully  accept,  without  regret, 
Their  old  life  as  it  was, 

With  all  its  petty  pain, 
Its  irritating  littleness  and  care ; 
They  who  have  scaled  the  mountain,  with  con 
tent 

Sublime,  descend  to  live  upon  the  plain  ; 
Steadfast  as  though  they  breathed  the  mountain- 
air 
Still,  wheresoe'er  they  went. 

They  who  were  brave  to  act, 
And  rich  enough  their  action  to  forget ; 
Who,  having  filled  their  day  with  chivalry, 
Withdraw  and  keep  their  simpleness  intact, 
And  all  unconscious  add  more  lustre  yet 

Unto  their  victory. 

On  the  broad  Western  plains 
Their  patriarchal  life  they  live  anew ; 
Hunters  as  mighty  as  the  men  of  old, 
Or  harvesting  the  plenteous,  yellow  grains, 
Gathering  ripe  vintage  of  dusk  bunches  blue, 

Or  working  mines  of  gold ; 

Or  toiling  in  the  town, 
Armed  against  hindrance,  weariness,  defeat, 


58  HEROES. 

With  dauntless  purpose  not  to  swerve  or  yield, 
And  calm,  defiant  strength,  they  struggle  on, 
As  sturdy  and  as  valiant  in  the  street, 
As  in  the  camp  and  field. 

And  those  condemned  to  live, 
Maimed,  helpless,  lingering  still  through  suffer 
ing  years, 

May  they  not  envy  now  the  restful  sleep 
Of  the  dear  fellow-martyrs  they  survive  ? 
Not  o'er  the  dead,  but  over  these,  your  tears, 

0  brothers,  ye  may  weep ! 

New  England  fields  I  see, 
The  lovely,  cultured  landscape,  waving  grain, 
Wide,  haughty  rivers,  and  pale,  English  skies. 
And  lo  !  a  farmer  ploughing  busily, 
Who  lifts  a  swart  face,  looks  upon  the  plain,  — 

1  see,  in  his  frank  eyes, 

The  hero's  soul  appear. 

Thus  in  the  common  fields  and  streets  they  stand  ; 
The  light  that  on  the  past  and  distant  gleams, 
They  cast  upon  the  present  and  the  near, 
With  antique  virtues  from  some  mystic  land, 

Of  knightly  deeds  and  dreams. 


ADMETUS.  59 

ADMETUS. 

TO   MY   FRIEXD,    RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

HE  who  could  beard  the  lion  in  his  lair, 
To  bind  him  for  a  girl,  and  tame  the  boar, 
And  drive  these  beasts  before  his  chariot, 
Might  wed  Alcestis.     For  her  low  brows'  sake, 
Her  hairs'  soft  undulations  of  warm  gold, 
Her  eyes'  clear  color  and  pure  virgin  mouth, 
Though  many  would  draw  bow  or  shiver  spear, 
Yet  none  dared  meet  the  intolerable  eye, 
Or  lipless  tusk,  of  lion  or  of  boar. 
This  heard  Admetus,  King  of  Thessaly, 
Whose  broad,  fat  pastures  spread   their  ample 

fields 

Down  to  the  sheer  edge  of  Amphrysus'  stream, 
"Who  laughed,  disdainful,  at  the  father's  pride, 
That  set  such  value  on  one  milk-faced  child. 

One  morning,  as  he  rode  alone  and  passed 
Through  the  green  twilight  of  Thessalian  woods, 
Between  two  pendulous  branches  interlocked, 
As  through  an  open  casement,  he  descried 
A  goddess,  as  he  deemed,  —  in  truth  a  maid. 
On  a  low  bank  she  fondled  tenderly 
A  favorite  hound,  her  floral  face  inclined 
Above  the  glossy,  graceful  animal, 
That  pressed  his  snout  against  her  cheek  and 

gazed 
Wistfully,  with  his  keen,  sagacious  eyes. 


60  ADMETUS. 

One  arm  with  lax  embrace  the  neck  enwreathed, 
With  polished  roundness   near  the  sleek,   gray 

skin. 

Admetus,  fixed  with  wonder,  dared  not  pass, 
Intrusive  on  her  holy  innocence 
And  sacred  girlhood,  but  his  fretful  steed 
Snuffed  the  large  air,  and  champed  and  pawed 

the  ground; 

And  hearing  this,  the  maiden  raised  her  head. 
No  let  or  hindrance  then  might  stop  the  king, 
Once  having  looked  upon  those  supreme  eyes. 
The  drooping  boughs  disparting,  forth  he  sped, 
And  then  drew  in  his  steed,  to  ask  the  path, 
Like  a  lost  traveller  in  an  alien  land. 
Although  each  river-cloven  vale,  with  streams 
Arrowy  glancing  to  the  blue  -ZEgean, 
Each  hallowed  mountain,  the  abode  of  gods, 
Pelion  and  Ossa  fringed  with  haunted  groves, 
The  height,  spring-crowned,  of  dedicate  Olympus, 
And  pleasant  sun-fed  vineyards,  were  to  him 
Familiar  as  his  own  face  in  the  stream, 
Nathless  he  paused  and  asked  the  maid  what 

path 

Might  lead  him  from  the  forest.     She  replied, 
But  still  he  tarried,  and  with  sportsman's  praise 
Admired  the  hound   and  stooped  to  stroke  its 

head, 

And  asked  her  if  she  hunted.     Nay,  not  she : 
Her  father  Pelias  hunted  in  these  woods, 
Where  there  was  royal   game.     He  knew   her 

now, — 


ADMETUS.  61 

Alcestis,  —  and  he  left  her  with  due  thanks  : 

No  goddess,  but  a  mortal,  to  be  won 

By  such  a  simple  feat  as  driving  boars 

And  lions  to  his  chariot.     What  was  that 

To  him  who  saw  the  boar  of  Calydon, 

The  sacred  boar  of  Artemis,  at  bay 

In  the  broad  stagnant  marsh,  and  sent  his  darts 

In  its  tough,  quivering  flank,  and  saw  its  death, 

Stung  by  sure  arrows  of  Arcadian  nymph  ? 

To  river-pastures  of  his  flocks  and  herds 
Admetus    rode,     where    sweet  -  breathed    cattle 

grazed, 

Heifers  and  goats  and  kids,  and  foolish  sheep 
Dotted  cool,  spacious  meadows  with  bent  heads, 
And  necks'  soft  wool  broken  in  yellow  flakes, 
Nibbling  sharp-toothed  the   rich,   thick-growing 

blades. 

One  herdsman  kept  the  innumerable  droves  — 
A  boy  yet,  young  as  immortality  — 
In  listless  posture  on  a  vine-grown  rock. 
Around  him  huddled  kids  and  sheep  that  left 
The  mother's  udder  for  his  nighest  grass, 
Which  sprouted  with  fresh  verdure  where  he  sat. 
And  yet  dull  neighboring  rustics  never  guessed 
A  god  had  been  among  them  till  he  went, 
Although  with  him  they  acted  as  he  willed, 
Renouncing  shepherds'  silly  pranks  and  quips, 
Because  his  very  presence  made  them  grave. 
Amphryssius,  after  their  translucent  stream, 


62  ADMETU8. 

They  called  him,  but  Admetus  knew  his  name,  — 
Hyperion,  god  of  sun  and  song  and  silver  speech, 
Condemned  to  serve  a  mortal  for  his  sin 
To  Zeus  in  sending  violent  darts  of  death, 
And  raising  hand  irreverent,  against 
*  The  one-eyed  forgers  of  the  thunderbolt. 
For  shepherd's  crook  he  held  the  living  rod 
Of  twisted  serpents,  later  Hermes'  wand. 
Him  sought  the  king,  discovering  soon  hard  by, 
Idle,  as  one  in  nowise  bound  to  time, 
Watching  the  restless  grasses  blow  and  wave, 
The  sparkle  of  the  sun  upon  the  stream, 
Regretting  nothing,  living  with  the  hour  : 
For  him,  who  had  his  light  and  song  within, 
Was  naught  that  did  not  shine,  and   all  things 

sang. 

Admetus  prayed  for  his  celestial  aid 
To  win  Alcestis,  which  the  god  vouchsafed, 
Granting  with   smiles,   as  grant  all  gods,  who 

smite 

With  stern  hand,  sparing  not  for  piteousness, 
But  give  their  gifts  in  gladness. 

Thus  the  king 

Led  with  loose  rein  the  beasts  as  tame  as  kine, 
'  And  townsfolk  thronged  within  the  city  streets, 
As   round  a   god ;    and   mothers   showed   their 

babes, 

And  maidens  loved  the  crowned  intrepid  youth, 
And  men  would  worship,  though  the  very  god 


ADMETUS.  63 

"Who  wrought  the  wonder  dwelled  unnoted  nigh, 

Divinely  scornful  of  neglect  or  praise. 

Then  Pelias,  seeing  this  would  be  his  son, 

As  he  had  vowed,  called  for  his  wife  and  child. 

With  Anaxibia,  Alcestis  came, 

A  warm  flush  spreading  o'er  her  eager  face 

In  looking  on  the  rider  of  the  woods, 

And  knowing  him  her  suitor  and  the  king. 

Admetus  won  Alcestis  thus  to  wife, 
And  these  with  mated  hearts  and  mutual  love 
Lived  a  life  blameless,  beautiful :  the  king 
Ordaining  justice  in  the  gates ;  the  queen, 
With  grateful  offerings  to  the  household  gods, 
Wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  pure  in  heart. 
One  child  she  bore,  —  Eumelus,  —  and  he  throve. 
Yet  none  the  less  because  they  sacrificed 
The   firstlings   of    their    flocks    and    fruits   and 

flowers, 

Did  trouble  come  ;  for  sickness  seized  the  king. 
Alcestis  watched  with  many-handed  love, 
But  unavailing  service,  for  he  lay 
With  languid  limbs,  despite  his  ancient  strength 
Of  sinew,  and  his  skill  with  spear  and  sword. 
His  mother  came,  Clymene,  and  with  her 
His  father,  Pheres  :  his  unconscious  child 
They  brought  him,  while  forlorn  Alcestis  sat 
Discouraged,  with  the  face  of  desolation. 
The  jealous   gods  would  bind  his  mouth  from 

speech, 
And  smite  his  vigorous  frame  with  impotence  ; 


64  ADMETVS. 

And  ruin  with  bitter  ashes,  worms,  and  dust, 

The  beauty  of  his  crowned,  exalted  head. 

He   knew   her   presence,  —  soon   he   would   not 

know, 

Nor  feel  her  hand  in  his  lie  warm  and  close, 
Nor  care  if  she  were  near  him  any  more. 
Exhausted  with  long  vigils,  thus  the  queen 
Held  hard  and  grievous  thoughts,  till  heavy  sleep 
Possessed  her  weary  senses,  and  she  dreamed. 
And  even  in  her  dream  her  trouble  lived, 
For  she  was  praying  in  a  barren  field 
To  all  the  gods  for  help,  when  came  across 
The  waste  of  air  and  land,  from  distant  skies, 
A  spiritual  voice  divinely  clear, 
Whose  unimaginable  sweetness  thrilled 
Her  aching  heart  with  tremor  of  strange  joy : 
"Arise,  Alcestis,  cast  away  white  fear. 
A   god   dwells  with  you  :    seek,  and  you  shall 

find." 

Then  quiet  satisfaction  filled  her  soul 
Almost  akin  to  gladness,  and  she  woke. 
"Weak  as  the  dead,  Admetus  lay  there  still ; 
But  she,  superb  with  confidence,  arose. 
And  passed  beyond  the  mourners'  curious  eyes, 
Seeking  Amphryssius  in  the  meadow-lands. 
She  found  him  with  the  godlike  mien  of  one 
Who,  roused,  awakens  unto  deeds  divine  : 
"  I  come,  Hyperion,  with  incessant  tears, 
To  crave  the  life  of  my  dear  lord  the  king. 
Pity  me,  for  I  see  the  future  years 


ADMETUS.  65 

Widowed  and  laden  with  disastrous  days. 
And  ye,  the  gods,  will  miss  him  when  the  fires 
Upon  your  shrines,  unfed,  neglected  die. 
Who  will  pour  large  libations  in  your  names, 
And  sacrifice  with  generous  piety  ? 
Silence  and  apathy  will  greet  you  there 
Where  once  a  splendid  spirit  offered  praise. 
Grant  me  this  boon  divine,  and  I  will  beat 
With  prayer  at  morning's  gates,  before  they  ope 
Unto  thy  silver-hoofed  and  flame-eyed  steeds. 
Answer  ere  yet  the  irremeable  stream 
Be  crossed :  answer,  O  god,  and  save ! " 

She  ceased, 
With  full  throat  salt  with  tears,  and  looked  on 

him, 

And  with  a  sudden  cry  of  awe  fell  prone, 
For,  lo !  he  was  transmuted  to  a  god ; 
The  supreme  aureole  radiant  round  his  brow, 
Divine  refulgence  on  his  face,  —  his  eyes 
Awful  with  splendor,  and  his  august  head 
With  blinding  brilliance  crowned  by  vivid  flame. 
Then  in  a  voice  that  charmed  the  listening  air : 
"  Woman,  arise  !  I  have  no  influence 
On  Death,  who  is  the  servant  of  the  Fates. 
Howbeit  for  thy  passion  and  thy  prayer, 
The  grace  of  thy  fair  womanhood  and  youth, 
Thus  godlike  will  I  intercede  for  thee, 
And  sue  the  insatiate  sisters  for  this  life. 
Yet  hope  not  blindly :  loth  are  these  to  change 
Their  purpose  ;  neither  will  they  freely  give, 


66  AD  MET  US. 

But  haggling  lend  or  sell :  perchance  the  price 
Will  countervail  the  boon.     Consider  this. 
Now  rise  and  look  upon  me."     And  she  rose, 
But  by  her  stood  no  godhead  bathed  in  light, 
But  young  Amphryssius,  herdsman  to  the  king, 
Benignly  smiling. 

Fleet  as  thought,  the  god 

Fled  from  the  glittering  earth  to  blackest  depths 
Of  Tartarus ;  and  none  might  say  he  sped 
On  wings  ambrosial,  or  with  feet  as  swift 
As  scouring  hail,  or  airy  chariot 
Borne  by  flame-breathing  steeds  ethereal ; 
But  with  a  motion  inconceivable 
Departed  and  was  there.     Before  the  throne 
Of  Ades,  first  he  hailed  the  long-sought  queen, 
Stolen  with  violent  hands  from  grassy  fields 
And  delicate  airs  of  sunlit  Sicily, 
Pensive,  gold-haired,  but  innocent-eyed  no  more 
As  when  she  laughing  plucked  the  daffodils, 
But  grave  as  one  fulfilling  a  strange  doom. 
And  low  at  Ades'  feet,  wrapped  in  grim  murk 
And  darkness  thick,  the  three  gray  women  sat, 
Loose-robed  and  chapleted  with  wool  and  flowers, 
Purple  narcissi  round  their  horrid  hair. 
Intent  upon  her  task,  the  first  one  held 
The  slender  thread  that  at  a  touch  would  snap ; 
The  second  weaving  it  with  warp  and  woof 
Into   strange   textures,  some   stained   dark   and 

foul, 
Some  sanguine-colored,  and  some  black  as  night, 


AD  MET  US.  67 

And  rare  ones  white,  or  with  a  golden  thread 
Running  throughout  the  web :  the  farthest  hag 
"With  glistening  scissors  cut  her  sisters'  work. 
To  these  Hyperion,  but  they  never  ceased, 
Nor  raised  their  eyes,  till  with  soft,  moderate 

tones, 

But  by  their  powerful  persuasiveness 
Commanding  all  to  listen  and  obey, 
He  spoke,   and  all  hell  heard,  and  these  three 

looked 
And  waited  his  request : 

"  I  come,  a  god, 

At  a  pure  mortal  queen's  request,  who  sues 
For  life  renewed  unto  her  dying  lord, 
Admetus  ;  and  I  also  pray  this  prayer." 
"  Then  cease,  for  when  hath  Fate  been  moved 

by  prayer  ?  " 
"But  strength  and  upright  heart  should  serve 

with  you." 

"  Nay,  these  may  serve  with  all  but  Destiny." 
"  I  ask  ye  not  forever  to  forbear, 
But  spare  a  while,  —  a  moment  unto  us, 
A  lifetime   unto   men."       "The   Fates   swerve 

not 

For  supplications,  like  the  pliant  gods. 
Have  they  not  willed  a  life's  thread  should  be 

cut? 

With  them  the  will  is  changeless  as  the  deed. 
O  men  !  ye  have  not  learned  in  all  the  past, 
Desires  are  barren  and  tears  yield  no  fruit. 


68  ADMETUS. 

How  long  will  ye  besiege  the  thrones  of  gods 
With  lamentations?     When   lagged  Death   for 

all 
Your   timorous   shirking?     We   work   not   like 

you, 

Delaying  and  relenting,  purposeless, 
With  unenduring  issues  ;  but  our  deeds, 
Forever  interchained  and  interlocked, 
Complete  each  other  and  explain  themselves." 
"  Ye  will  a  life  :  then  why  not  any  life  ?  " 
"  What  care  we  for  the  king  ?     He  is  not  worth 
These  many  words  ;  indeed,  we  love  not  speech. 
We  care  not  if  he  live,  or  lose  such  life 
As  men  are  greedy  for,  —  filled  full  with  hate, 
Sins  beneath  scorn,  and  only  lit  by  dreams, 
Or  one  sane  moment,  or  a  useless  hope,  — 
Lasting   how   long  ?  —  the   space    between   the 

green 

And  fading  yellow  of  the  grass  they  tread." 
But  he  withdrawing  not :  "  Will  any  life 
Suffice  ye  for  Admetus  ?  "     "  Yea,"  the  crones 
Three   times    repeated.      "We    know   no   such 

names 

As  king  or  queen  or  slave  :  we  want  but  life. 
Begone,  and  vex  us  in  our  work  no  more." 

With  broken  blessings,  inarticulate  joy 
And  tears,  Alcestis  thanked  Hyperion, 
And  worshipped.     Then  he  gently  :  "  Who  will 
die, 


ADMETUS.  69 

So  that  the  king  may  live  ?  "     And  she  :  "  You 

ask? 
Nay,  who  will  live  when  life  clasps  hands  with 

shame, 

And  death  with  honor  ?     Lo,  you  are  a  god  ; 
You  cannot  know  the  highest  joy  of  life,  — 
To  leave  it  when  't  is  worthier  to  die. 
His  parents,  kinsmen,  courtiers,  subjects,  slaves, — 
For  love  of  him  myself  would  die,  were  none 
Found  ready ;  but  what  Greek  would  stand  to 

see 

A  woman  glorified,  and  falter  ?     Once, 
And  only  once,  the  gods  will  do  this  thing 
In  all  the  ages  :  such  a  man  themselves 
Delight  to  honor,  —  holy,  temperate,  chaste, 
With  reverence  for  his  daemon  and  his  god." 
Thus  she  triumphant  to  the  very  door 
Of  King  Admetus'  chamber.     All  there  saw 
Her  ill-timed  gladness  with  much  wonderment. 
But   she :    "  No   longer   mourn !     The    king   is 

saved  : 
The  Fates  will  spare  him.     Lift  your  voice  in 

praise  ; 

Sing  paeans  to  Apollo  ;  crown  your  brows 
With  laurel ;  offer  thankful  sacrifice  !  " 
"  O  Queen,  what  mean  these  foolish  words  mis 
placed  ? 

And  what  an  hour  is  this  to  thank  the  Fates  ?  " 
"  Thrice  blessed  be  the  gods  !  —  for  God  himself 
Has  sued  for  me,  —  they  are  not  stern  and  deaf. 


70  AD  MET  US. 

Cry,  and  they  answer :  commune  with  your  soul, 
And  they  send  counsel :    weep  with  rainy  grief, 
And  these  will  sweeten  you  your  bitterest  tears. 
On  one  condition  King  Admetus  lives, 
And  ye,  on  hearing,  will  lament  no  more, 
Each  emulous  to  save."     Then  —  for  she  spake 
Assured,  as  having  heard  an  oracle  — 
They  asked  :    "  What  deed  of  ours  may  serve 

the  king  ?  " 

"  The  Fates  accept  another  life  for  his, 
And  one  of  you  may  die."     Smiling,  she  ceased. 
But    silence    answered    her.      "  What  !    do   ye 

thrust 

Your  arrows  in  your  hearts  beneath  your  cloaks, 
Dying  like  Greeks,  too  proud  to  own  the  pang  ? 
This  ask  I  not.     In  all  the  populous  land 
But  one  need  suffer  for  immortal  praise. 
The  generous  Fates  have  sent  no  pestilence, 
Famine,  nor  war :  it  is  as  though  they  gave 
Freely,  and  only  make  the  boon  more  rich 
By  such  slight  payment.     Now  a  people  mourns, 
And  ye  may  change  the  grief  to  jubilee, 
Filling  the  cities  with  a  pleasant  sound. 
But  as  for  me,  what  faltering  words  can  tell 
My  joy,  in  extreme  sharpness  kin  to  pain? 
A  monument  you  have  within  my  heart, 
Wreathed    with    kind   love   and    dear   remem 
brances  ; 

And  I  will  pray  for  you  before  I  crave 
Pardon  and  pity  for  myself  from  God. 


ADMETU8.  71 

Your  name  will  be  the  highest  in  the  land, 
Of tenest,  fondest  on  my  grateful  lips, 
After  the  name  of  him  you  die  to  save. 
What !    silent    still  ?     Since    when    has   virtue 

grown 

Less  beautiful  than  indolence  and  ease  ? 
Is  death  more  terrible,  more  hateworthy, 
More  bitter  than  dishonor  ?     Will  ye  live 
On  shame  ?     Chew  and  find  sweet  its  poisoned 

fruits  ? 
What  sons  will  ye  bring  forth  —  mean-souled  like 

you, 
Or,  like  your   parents,    brave  —  to  blush  like 

girls, 

And  say,  '  Our  fathers  were  afraid  to  die  ! ' 
Ye  will  not  dare  to  raise  heroic  eyes 
Unto  the  eyes  of  aliens.     In  the  streets 
Will  women  and  young  children  point  at  you 
Scornfully,  and  the  sun  will  find  you  shamed, 
And  night  refuse  to  shield  you.     What  a  life 
Is  this  ye  spin  and  fashion  for  yourselves ! 
And  what  new  tortures  of  suspense  and  doubt 
Will  death  invent  for  such  as  are  afraid! 
Acastus,  thou  my  brother,  in  the  field 
Foremost,  who  greeted  me  with  sanguine  hands 
From  ruddy  battle  with  a  conqueror's  face,  — 
These  honors  wilt  thou  blot  with  infamy  ? 
Nay,  thou  hast  won  no  honors  :  a  mere  girl 
Would  do  as  much  as  thou  at  such  a  time, 
In  clamorous  battle,  'midst  tumultuous  sounds, 


72  ADMETUS. 

Neighing  of   war-steeds,   shouts  of  sharp   com 
mand, 

Snapping  of  shivered  spears  ;  for  all  are  brave 
When  all  men  look  to  them  expectantly ; 
But  he  is  truly  brave  who  faces  death 
Within  his  chamber,  at  a  sudden  call, 
At  night,  when  no  man  sees,  —  content  to  die 
When  life  can  serve  no  longer  those  he  loves." 
Then  thus  Acastus :  "  Sister,  I  fear  not 
Death,  nor  the  empty  darkness  of  the  grave, 
And  hold  my  life  but  as  a  little  thing, 
Subject  unto  my  people's  call,  and  Fate. 
But  if  't  is  little,  no  greater  is  the  king's ; 
And  though  my  heart  bleeds  sorely,  I  recall 
Astydamia,  who  thus  would  mourn  for  me. 
We  are  not  cowards,  we  youth  of  Thessaly, 
And  Thessaly  —  yea,  all  Greece  —  knoweth  it ; 
Nor  will  we  brook  the  name  from  even  you, 
Albeit  a  queen,  and  uttering  these  wild  words 
Through    your   unwonted   sorrow."     Then    she 

knew 

That  he  stood  firm,  and  turning  from  him,  cried 
To  the  king's  parents  :  "  Are  ye  deaf  with  grief, 
Pheres,  Clymene  ?     Ye  can  save  your  son, 
Yet  rather  stand  and  weep  with  barren  tears. 
O,  shame!    to  think  that   such  gray,  reverend 

hairs 

Should  cover  such  unvenerable  heads ! 
What  would  ye  lose  ?  —  a  remnant  of  mere  life, 
A  few  slight  raveled  threads,  and  give  him  years 


AD  MET  US.  73 

To  fill  with  glory.     Who,  when  he  is  gone, 
Will   call   you    gentlest    names   this   side    of 

heaven,  — 

Father  and  mother  ?     Knew  ye  not  this  man 
Ere  he  was  royal,  —  a  poor,  helpless  child, 
Crownless  and  kingdomless  ?     One  birth  alone 
Sufficeth  not,  Clymene :  once  again 
You  must  give  life  with  travail  and  strong  pain. 
Has  he  not  lived  to  outstrip  your  swift  hopes  ? 
What  mother  can  refuse  a  second  birth 
To  such  a  son  ?     But  ye  denying  him, 
What  after-offering  may  appease  the  gods  ? 
What  joy  outweigh  the  grief  of  this  one  day  ? 
What  clamor  drown  the  hours'  myriad  tongues, 
Crying,  '  Your  son,  your  son  ?  where  is  your  son, 
Unnatural  mother,  timid,  foolish  man  ?  " 
Then   Pheres   gravely  :     "  These    are   graceless 

words 

From  you  our  daughter.  Life  is  always  life, 
And  death  comes  soon  enough  to  such  as  we. 
We  twain  are  old  and  weak,  have  served  our 

time, 

And  made  our  sacrifices.     Let  the  young 
Arise  now  in  their  turn  and  save  the  king." 
"  O  gods  !  look  on  your  creatures  !  do  ye  see  ? 
And  seeing,  have  ye  patience  ?     Smite  them  all, 
Unsparing,  with  dishonorable  death. 
Vile  slaves  !  a  woman  teaches  you  to  die. 
Intrepid,  with  exalted  steadfast  soul, 
Scorn  in  my  heart,  and  love  unutterable, 


74  AD  MET  US. 

I  yield  the  Fates  my  life,  and  like  a  god 
Command  them  to  revere  that  sacred  head. 
Thus  kiss  I  thrice  the  dear,  blind,  holy  eyes, 
And  bid  them  see ;  and  thrice  I  kiss  this  brow, 
And  thus  unfasten  I  the  pale,  proud  lips 
With  fruitful  kissings,  bringing  love  and  life, 
And  without  fear  or  any  pang,  I  breathe 
My  soul  in  him." 

"  Alcestis,  I  awake. 

I  hear,  I  hear  —  unspeak  thy  reckless  words ! 
For,  lo  !  thy  life-blood  tingles  in  my  veins, 
And  streameth  through  my  body  like  new  wine. 
Behold  !  thy  spirit  dedicate  revives 
My  pulse,  and  through  thy  sacrifice  I  breathe. 
Thy  lips  are  bloodless  :  kiss  me  not  again. 
Ashen  thy  cheeks,  faded  thy  flower-like  hands. 
O  woman !  perfect  in  thy  womanhood 
And  in  thy  wifehood,  I  adjure  thee  now 
As  mother,  by  the  love  thou  bearest  our  child, 
In  this  thy  hour  of  passion  and  of  love, 
Of  sacrifice  and  sorrow,  to  unsay 
Thy  words  sublime  !  "     "I  die  that  thou  mayest 

live." 

"  And  deemest  thou  that  I  accept  the  boon, 
Craven,  like  these  my  subjects  ?     Lo,  my  queen, 
Is  life  itself  a  lovely  thing,  —  bare  life  ? 
And  empty  breath  a  thing  desirable  ? 
Or  is  it  rather  happiness  and  love 
That  make  it  precious  to  its  inmost  core  ? 
When  these  are  lost,  are  there  not  swords  in 

Greece, 


AD  MET  US.  75 

And  flame  and  poison,  deadly  waves  and  plagues  ? 
No  man  has  ever  lacked  these  things  and  gone 
Unsatisfied.     It  is  not  these  the  gods  refuse 
(Nay,    never    clutch  my   sleeve    and  raise   thy 

lip).- 

Not  these  I  seek  ;  but  I  will  stab  myself, 
Poison  my  life  and  burn  my  flesh,  with  words, 
And  save  or  follow  thee.     Lo  !  hearken  now  : 
I  bid  the  gods  take  back  their  loathsome  gifts : 
I  spurn  them,  and  I  scorn  them,  and  I  hate. 
"Will  they  prove  deaf  to  this  as  to  my  prayers  ? 
"With  tongue  reviling,  blasphemous,  I  curse, 
With  mouth  polluted  from  deliberate  heart. 
Dishonored   be   their   names,    scorned   be   their 

priests, 

Ruined  their  altars,  mocked  their  oracles ! 
It  is  Admetus,  King  of  Thessaly, 
Defaming  thus  :  annihilate  him,  gods  ! 
So  that  his  queen,  who  worships  you,  may  live." 
He  paused  as  one  expectant ;  but  no  bolt 
From  the  insulted  heavens  answered  him, 
But  awful  silence  followed.     Then  a  hand, 
A  boyish  hand,  upon  his  shoulder  fell, 
And  turning,  he  beheld  his  shepherd  boy, 
Not  wrathful,  but  divinely  pitiful, 
"Who  spake  in  tender,  thrilling  tones  :   "  The  gods 
Cannot  recall  their  gifts.     Blaspheme  them  not : 
Bow  down  and  worship  rather.     Shall  he  curse 
Who   sees   not,    and   who   hears   not,  —  neither 

knows 


76  ADMETU8. 

Nor  understands?     Nay,  thou  shalt   bless   and 

pray,  — 

Pray,  for  the  pure  heart,  purged  by  prayer,  di 
vines 

And  seeth  when  the  bolder  eyes  are  blind. 
Worship  and  wonder,  —  these  befit  a  man 
At  every  hour  ;  and  mayhap  will  the  gods 
Yet  work  a  miracle  for  knees  that  bend 
And  hands  that  supplicate." 

Then  all  they  knew 

A  sudden  sense  of  awe,  and  bowed  their  heads 
Beneath  the  stripling's  gaze :  Admetus  fell, 
Crushed  by  that  gentle  touch,  and  cried  aloud : 
"  Pardon  and  pity !  I  am  hard  beset." 


There  waited  at  the  doorway  of  the  king 
One  grim  and  ghastly,  shadowy,  horrible, 
Bearing  the  likeness  of  a  king  himself, 
Erect  as  one  who  serveth  not,  —  upon 
His  head  a  crown,  within  his  fleshless  hands 
A  sceptre,  —  monstrous,  winged,  intolerable. 
To  him  a  stranger  coming  'neath  the  trees, 
Which  slid  down  flakes  of  light,  now  on  his  hair, 
Close-curled,  now  on  his  bared  and  brawny  chest, 
Now  on  his  flexile,  vine-like  veined  limbs, 
With  iron  network  of  strong  muscle  thewed, 
And  godlike  brows  and  proud  mouth  unrelaxed. 


ADMETUS.  11 

Firm  was  his  step ;  no  superfluity 

Of  indolent  flesh  impeded  this  man's  strength. 

Slender  and  supple  every  perfect  limb, 

Beautiful  with  the  glory  of  a  man. 

No  weapons  bare  he,  neither  shield :  his  hands 

Folded  upon  his  breast,  his  movements  free 

Of  all  incumbrance.     When  his  mighty  strides 

Had   brought    him   nigh   the   waiting    one,   he 

paused : 
"  Whose  palace  this  ?  and  who  art  thou,  grim 

shade  ?  " 

"  The  palace  of  the  King  of  Thessaly, 
And  my  name  is  not  strange  unto  thine  ears ; 
For  who  hath  told  men  that  I  wait  for  them, 
The   one   sure  thing   on   earth?     Yet   all  they 

know, 

Unasking  and  yet  answered.     I  am  Death, 
The  only  secret  that  the  gods  reveal. 
But  who  art  thou  who  darest  question  me  ?  " 
"  Alcides ;  and  that  thing  I  dare  not  do 
Hath   found   no   name.      Whom   here   awaitest 

thou  ?  " 

"  Alcestis,  Queen  of  Thessaly,  —  a  queen 
Who   wooed   me   as   the   bridegroom   woos   the 

bride, 

For  her  life  sacrificed  will  save  her  lord 
Admetus,  as  the  Fates  decreed.     I  wait 
Impatient,  eager  ;  and  I  enter  soon, 
With  darkening  wing,  invisible,  a  god, 
And  kiss  her  lips,  and  kiss  her  throbbing  heart, 


78  AD  MET  US. 

And  then  the  tenderest  hands  can  do  no  more 
Than  close  her  eyes  and  wipe  her  cold,  white 

brow, 

Inurn  her  ashes  and  strew  flowers  above." 
"  This  woman  is  a  god,  a  hero,  Death. 
In  this  her  sacrifice  I  see  a  soul 
Luminous,  starry :  earth  can  spare  her  not : 
It  is  not  rich  enough  in  purity 
To  lose  this  paragon.     Save  her,  O  Death ! 
Thou  surely  art  more  gentle  than  the  Fates, 
Yet  these  have  spared  her  lord,  and  never  meant 
That  she  should  suffer,  and  that  this  their  grace, 
Beautiful,  royal  on  one  side,  should  turn 
Sudden  and  show  a  fearful,  fatal  face." 
"  Nay,  have  they  not  ?     O  fond  and  foolish  man, 
Naught  comes  unlocked  for,  unforeseen  by  them. 
Doubt  when  they  favor  thee,  though  thou  mayest 

laugh 
When   they   have   scourged   thee  with   an   iron 

scourge. 

Behold,  their  smile  is  deadlier  than  their  sting, 
And  every  boon  of  theirs  is  double-faced. 
Yea,  I  am  gentler  unto  ye  than  these : 
I  slay  relentless,  but  when  have  I  mocked 
With  poisoned   gifts,  and   generous   hands  that 

smite 

Under  the  flowers  ?  for  my  name  is  Truth. 
Were  this  fair  queen  more  fair,  more  pure,  more 

chaste, 
I  would  not  spare  her  for  your  wildest  prayer 


AD  MET  US.  79 

Nor  her  best  virtue.     Is  the  earth's  mouth  full  ? 
Is  the  grave  satisfied  ?     Discrown  me  then, 
For  life  is  lord,  and  men  may  mock  the  gods 
With  immortality."     "  I  sue  no  more, 
But  I  command  thee  spare  this  woman's  life, 
Or  wrestle  with  Alcides."     "  Wrestle  with  thee, 
Thou  puny  boy !  "      And  Death   laughed   loud, 

and  swelled 
To  monstrous  bulk,  fierce-eyed,  with  outstretched 

wings, 
And  lightnings  round  his  brow ;  but  grave  and 

firm, 

Strong  as  a  tower,  Alcides  waited  him, 
And  these  began  to  wrestle,  and  a  cloud 
Impenetrable  fell,  and  all  was  dark. 


"  Farewell,  Admetus  and  my  little  son, 
Eumelus,  —  O  these  clinging  baby  hands  ! 
Thy  loss  is  bitter,  for  no  chance,  no  fame, 
No  wealth  of  love,  can  ever  compensate 
For  a  dead  mother.     Thou,  O  king,  fulfill 
The  double  duty  :  love  him  with  my  love, 
And  make  him  bold  to  wrestle,  shiver  spears, 
Noble  and  manly,  Grecian  to  the  bone  ; 
And  tell  him  that  his  mother  spake  with  gods. 
Farewell,    farewell !      Mine   eyes    are   growing 

blind  : 
The  darkness  gathers.     O  my  heart,  my  heart!  " 


80  ADMETU8. 

No  sound  made  answer  save  the  cries  of  grief 
From  all  the  mourners,  and  the  suppliance 
Of  strick'n  Admetus  :  "  O  have  mercy,  gods ! 
O  gods,  have  mercy,  mercy  upon  us  !  " 
Then  from  the  dying  woman's  couch  again 
Her  voice  was  heard,  but  with  strange  sudden 

tones : 

"  Lo,  I  awake,  — the  light  comes  back  to  me. 
What  miracle  is  this  ?  "     And  thunders  shook 
The  air,  and  clouds  of  mighty  darkness  fell, 
And  the  earth  trembled,  and  weird,  horrid  sounds 
Were  heard  of  rushing  wings  and  fleeing  feet, 
And  groans  ;  and  all  were  silent,  dumb  with  awe, 
Saving  the  king,  who  paused  not  in  his  prayer : 
"  Have  mercy,  gods  !  "  and  then  again,  "  O  gods, 
Have  mercy !  " 

Through  the  open  casement  poured 
Bright  floods  of  sunny  light ;  the  air  was  soft, 
Clear,  delicate  as  though  a  summer  storm 
Had  passed  away ;  and  those  there  standing  saw, 
Afar  upon  the  plain,  Death  fleeing  thence, 
And  at  the  doorway,  weary,  well-nigh  spent, 
Alcides,  flushed  with  victory. 


TANNHAUSER.  81 

TANNHAUSER. 

TO   MY   MOTHER.      MAT,    1870. 

THE  Landgrave  Hermann  held  a  gathering 
Of  minstrels,  minnesingers,  troubadours, 
At  Wartburg  in  his  palace,  and  the  knight, 
Sir  Tannhauser  of  France,  the  greatest  bard, 
Inspired  with  heavenly  visions,  and  endowed 
With  apprehension  and  rare  utterance 
Of  noble  music,  fared  in  thoughtful  wise 
Across  the  Hb'rsel  meadows.     Full  of  light, 
And  large  repose,  the  peaceful  valley  lay, 
In  the  late  splendor  of  the  afternoon, 
And  level  sunbeams  lit  the  serious  face 
Of  the  young  knight,  who  journeyed  to  the  west, 
Towards  the  precipitous  and  rugged  cliffs, 
Scarred,  grim,  and  torn  with  savage  rifts  and 

chasms, 

That  in  the  distance  loomed  as  soft  and  fair 
And  purple  as  their  shadows  on  the  grass. 
The  tinkling  chimes  ran  out  athwart  the  air, 
Proclaiming  sunset,  ushering  evening  in, 
Although  the  sky  yet  glowed  with  yellow  light. 
The  ploughboy,  ere  he  led  his  cattle  home, 
In  the  near  meadow,  reverently  knelt, 
And  doffed  his  cap,  and  duly  crossed  his  breast, 
Whispering  his  "  Ave  Mary,"  as  he  heard 
The  pealing  vesper-bell.     But  still  the  knight, 


82  TANNHAUSER. 

Unmindful  of  the  sacred  hour  announced, 

Disdainful  or  unconscious,  held  his  course. 

"  Would  that  I  also,  like  yon  stupid  wight, 

Could  kneel  and  hail  the  Virgin  and  believe  ! " 

He  murmured  bitterly  beneath  his  breath. 

"  Were  I  a  pagan,  riding  to  contend 

For  the  Olympic  wreath,  O  with  what  zeal, 

What  fire  of  inspiration,  would  I  sing 

The  praises  of  the  gods !     How  may  my  lyre 

Glorify  these  whose  very  life  I  doubt  ? 

The  world  is  governed  by  one  cruel  God, 

Who  brings  a  sword,  not  peace.    A  pallid  Christ, 

Unnatural,  perfect,  and  a  virgin  cold, 

They  give  us  for  a  heaven  of  living  gods, 

Beautiful,  loving,  whose  mere  names  were  song ; 

A  creed  of  suffering  and  despair,  walled  in 

On  every  side  by  brazen  boundaries, 

That  limit  the  soul's  vision  and  her  hope 

To  a  red  hell  or  an  unpeopled  heaven. 

Yea,  I  am  lost  already,  —  even  now 

Am  doomed  to  flaming  torture  for  my  thoughts. 

O   gods !    0   gods !    where   shall   my   soul   find 

r\     JJ 

peace : 

He  raised  his  wan  face  to  the  faded  skies, 
Now  shadowing  into  twilight ;  no  response 
Came  from  their  sunless  heights ;  no  miracle, 
As  in  the  ancient  days  of  answering  gods. 
With   a   long,    shuddering   sigh   he   glanced   to 

earth, 
Finding  himself  among  the  Horsel  cliffs. 


TANNHAUSER.  83 

Gray,  sullen,  gaunt,  they  towered  on  either  side ; 
Scant  shrubs  sucked   meagre   life   between   the 

rifts 

Of  their  huge  crags,  and  made  small  darker  spots 
Upon  their  wrinkled  sides  ;  the  jaded  horse 
Stumbled  upon  loose,  rattling,  fallen  stones, 
Amidst  the  gathering  dusk,  and  blindly  fared 
Through  the  weird,  perilous  pass.     As  darkness 

waxed, 

And  an  oppressive  mystery  enwrapped 
The  roadstead  and  the  rocks,  Sir  Tannhauser 
Fancied  he  saw  upon  the  mountain-side 
The  fluttering  of  white  raiment.     With  a  sense 
Of  a  wild  joy  and  horror,  he  gave  pause, 
For  his  sagacious  horse  that  reeked  with  sweat, 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  confirmed  his  thought, 
That  nothing  human  scaled  that  haunted  cliff. 
The   white   thing   seemed  descending,  —  now  a 

cloud 

It  looked,  and  now  a  rag  of  drifted  mist, 
Torn  in  the  jagged  gorge  precipitous, 
And  now  an  apparition  clad  in  white, 
Shapely  and  real,  —  then  he  lost  it  quite, 
Gazing  on  nothing  with  blank,  foolish  face. 
As  with  wide  eyes  he  stood,  he  was  aware 
Of  a  strange  splendor  at  his  very  side, 
A  presence  and  a  majesty  so  great, 
That  ere  he  saw,  he  felt  it  was  divine. 
He   turned,   and,   leaping   from   his  horse,  fell 

prone, 


84  TANNHAUSER. 

In  speechless  adoration,  on  the  earth, 
Before  the  matchless  goddess,  who  appeared 
With  no  less  freshness  of  immortal  youth 
Than  when  first  risen  from  foam   of  Paphian 

seas. 

He  heard  delicious  strains  of  melody, 
Such  as  his  highest  muse  had  ne'er  attained, 
Float  in  the  air,  while  in  the  distance  rang, 
Harsh  and  discordant,  jarring  with  those  tones, 
The  gallop  of  his  frightened  horse's  hoofs, 
Clattering  in  sudden  freedom  down  the  pass. 
A  voice  that  made  all  music  dissonance 
Then  thrilled  through  heart  and  flesh  of  that 

prone  knight, 

Triumphantly  :  "  The  gods  need  but  appear, 
And  their  usurped  thrones  are  theirs  again  !  " 
Then  tenderly  :  "  Sweet  knight,  I  pray  thee,  rise ; 
"Worship  me  not,  for  I  desire  thy  love. 
Look  on  me,  follow  me,  for  I  am  fain 
Of  thy  fair,  human  face."     He  rose  and  looked, 
Stirred  by  that  heavenly  flattery  to  the  soul. 
Her  hair,  unbraided  and  unfilleted, 
Rained  in  a  glittering  shower  to  the  ground, 
And   cast   forth   lustre.     Round   her    zone  was 

clasped 

The  scintillant  cestus,  stiff  with  flaming  gold, 
Thicker  with  restless   gems   than   heaven   with 

stars. 
She   might   have   flung   the   enchanted   wonder 

forth ; 


TANNHAUSER.  85 

Her  eyes,  her  slightest  gesture  would  suffice 
To  bind  all  men  in  blissful  slavery. 
She  sprang  upon  the  mountain's  dangerous  side, 
With   feet  that  left   their  print   in   flowers  di 
vine,  — 

Flushed  amaryllis  and  blue  hyacinth, 
Impurpled  amaranth  and  asphodel, 
Dewy  with  nectar,  and  exhaling  scents 
Richer  than  all  the  roses  of  mid-June. 
The  knight  sped  after  her,  with  wild  eyes  fixed 
Upon  her  brightness,  as  she  lightly  leapt 
From  crag  to  crag,  with  flying  auburn  hair, 
Like  a  gold  cloud,  that  lured  him  ever  on, 
Higher  and  higher  up  the  haunted  cliff. 
At  last  amidst  a  grove  of  pines  she  paused, 
Until  he  reached  her,  breathing  hard  with  haste, 
Delight,  and  wonder.     Then  upon  his  hand 
She  placed  her  own,  and  all  his  blood  at  once 
Tingled  and  hotly  rushed  to  brow  and  cheek, 
At  the  supreme  caress  ;  but  the  mere  touch 
Infused  fresh  life,  and  when  she  looked  at  him 
With  gracious  tenderness,  he  felt  himself 
Strong  suddenly  to  bear  the  blinding  light 
Of  those  great  eyes.     "  Dear  knight,"  she  mur 
mured  low, 

"  For  love  of  me,  wilt  thou  accord  this  boon,  — 
To  grace  my  weary  home  in  banishment  ?  " 
His  hungry  eyes  gave  answer  ere  he  spoke, 
In  tones  abrupt  that  startled  his  own  ears 
With  their  strange  harshness ;  but  with  thanks 
profuse 


86  TANNHAUSER. 

She  guided  him,  still  holding  his  cold  hand 

In  her  warm,  dainty  palm,  unto  a  cave, 

Whence  a  rare  glory  issued,  and  a  smell 

Of  spice  and  roses,  frankincense  and  balm. 

They  entering  stood  within  a  marble  hall, 

"With  straight,  slim,  pillars,  at  whose  farther  end 

The  goddess  led  him  to  a  spiral  flight 

Of  stairs,  descending  always  'midst  black  gloom 

Into  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth. 

Down  these,  with  fearful  swiftness,  they  made 

way, 

The  knight's  feet  touching  not  the  solid  stair, 
But  sliding  down  as  in  a  vexing  dream, 
Blind,  feeling  but  that  hand  divine  that  still 
Empowered  him  to  walk  on  empty  air. 
Then  he  was  dazzled  by  a  sudden  blaze, 
In  a  vast  palace  filled  with  reveling  folk. 
Cunningly  pictured  on  the  ivory  walls 
Were    rolling    hills,    cool    lakes,    and    boscage 

green, 

And  all  the  summer  landscape's  various  pomp. 
The  precious  canopy  aloft  was  carved 
In  semblance  of  the  pleached  forest  trees, 
Enameled  with  the  liveliest  green,  wherethrough 
A  light  pierced,  more  resplendent  than  the  day. 
O'er  the  pale,  polished  jasper  of  the  floor 
The  goddess  led  him  to  a  massy  throne 
Of  burnished  metal,  fretted  and  embossed 
With  all  the  marvelous  story  of  her  birth 
Painted  in  prodigal  splendor  of  rich  tincts, 


TANNHAUSER.  87 

And  carved  by  heavenly  artists,  —  crystal  seas, 
And  long-haired  Nereids  in  their  pearly  shells, 
And  all  the  wonder  of  her  lucent  limbs 
Sphered  in  a  vermeil  mist.     Upon  the  throne 
She  took  her  seat,  the  knight  beside  her  still, 
Sinking  on  couches  of  fresh  asphodel, 
And  the  dance  ceased,  and  the  flushed  revelers 

came 

In  glittering  phalanx  to  adore  their  queen. 
Beautiful  girls,  with  shining  delicate  heads, 
Crested  with  living  jewels,  fanned  the  air 
With  flickering  wings  from  naked  shoulders  soft. 
Then  with  preluding  low,  a  thousand  harps, 
And  citherns,  and  strange  nameless  instruments, 
Sent  through  the  fragrant  air  sweet  symphonies, 
And  the  winged  dancers  waved  in  mazy  rounds, 
"With  changing  lustres  like  a  summer  sea. 
Fair   boys,   with   charming    yellow   hair   crisp- 
curled, 

And  frail,  effeminate  beauty,  the  knight  saw, 
But  of  strong,  stalwart  men  like  him  were  none. 
He  gazed  thereon  bewitched,  until  the  hand 
Of  Venus,  erst  withdrawn,  now  fell  again 
Upon  his  own,  and  roused  him  from  his  trance. 
He  looked  on  her,  and  as  he  looked,  a  cloud 
Auroral,  flaming  as  at  sunrising, 
Arose  from  nothing,  floating  over  them, 
Dropping  rich  odors,  and  encircling  them 
In  luminous  folds,  like  that  vermilion  mist 
Penciled  upon  the  throne,  and  as  it  waxed 


88  TANNHAUSER. 

In  density  and  brightness,  all  the  throng 
Of  festal  dancers,  less  and  less  distinct, 
Grew  like  pale  spirits  in  a  vague,  dim  dream, 
And  vanished  altogether  ;  and  these  twain, 
Shut  from  the  world  in  that  ambrosial  cloud, 
Now  with  a  glory  inconceivable, 
Vivid  and  conflagrant,  looked  each  on  each. 

All  hours  came  laden  with  their  own  delights 

In  that  enchanted  palace,  wherein  Time 

Knew  no  divisions  harsh  of  night  and  day, 

But  light  was  always,  and  desire  of  sleep 

Was  satisfied  at  once  with  slumber  soft, 

Desire  of  food  with  magical  repast, 

By  unseen  hands  on  golden  tables  spread. 

But  these  the  knight  accepted  like  a  god, 

All  less  was  lost  in  that  excess  of  joy, 

The  crowning  marvel  of  her  love  for  him, 

Assuring  him  of  his  divinity. 

Meanwhile  remembrance  of  the  earth  appeared 

Like  the  vague  trouble  of  a  transient  dream,  — 

The  doubt,  the  scruples,  the  remorse  for  thoughts 

Beyond  his  own  control,  the  constant  thirst 

For  something  fairer  than  his  life,  more  real 

Than  airy  revelations  of  his  Muse. 

Here  was  his  soul's  desire  satisfied. 

All  nobler  passions  died  ;  his  lyre  he  flung 

Recklessly  forth,  with  vows  to  dedicate 

His  being  to  herself.     She  knew  and  seized 

The  moment  of  -her  mastery,  and  conveyed 

The  lyre  beyond  his  sight  and  memory. 


TANNHAUSER.  89 

With  blandishments  divine  she  changed  for  him, 

Each  hour,  her  mood  ;  a  very  woman  now, 

Fantastic,  voluble,  affectionate, 

And  jealous  of  the  vague,  unbodied  air, 

Exacting,  penitent,  and  pacified, 

All  in  a  breath.     And  often  she  appeared 

Majestic  with  celestial  wrath,  with  eyes 

That  shot  forth  fire,  and  a  heavy  brow, 

Portentous  as  the  lowering  front  of  heaven, 

When  the  reverberant,  sullen  thunder  rolls 

Among  the  echoing  clouds.    Thus  she  denounced 

Her  ancient,  fickle  worshippers,  who  left 

Her  altars  desecrate,  her  fires  unfed, 

Her  name  forgotten.     "  But  I  reign,  I  reign !  " 

She  would  shrill  forth,  triumphant ;  "  yea,  I  reign. 

Men  name  me  not,  but  worship  me  unnamed, 

Beauty  and  Love  within  their  heart  of  hearts ; 

Not  with  bent  knees  and  empty  breath  of  words, 

But  with  devoted  sacrifice  of  lives." 

Then  melting  in  a  moment,  she  would  weep 

Ambrosial  tears,  pathetic,  full  of  guile, 

Accusing  her  own  base  ingratitude, 

In  craving  worship,  when  she  had  his  heart, 

Her  priceless  knight,  her  peerless  paladin, 

Her  Tannhauser  ;  then,  with  an  artful  glance 

Of  lovely  helplessness,  entreated  him 

Not  to  desert  her,  like  the  faithless  world, 

For  these  unbeautiful  and  barbarous  gods, 

Or  she  would  never  cease  her  prayers  to  Jove, 

Until  he  took  from  her  the  heavy  curse 


90  TANNHAUSER. 

Of  immortality.     With  closer  vows, 

The  knight  then  sealed  his  worship  and  forswore 

All  other  aims  and  deeds  to  serve  her  cause. 

Thus  passed  unnoted  seven  barren  years 

Of  reckless  passion  and  voluptuous  sloth, 

Undignified  by  any  lofty  thought 

In  his  degraded  mind,  that  sometime  was 

Endowed  with  noble  capability. 

From  revelry  to  revelry  he  passed. 

Craving  more  pungent  pleasures  momently, 

And  new  intoxications,  and  each  hour 

The  siren  goddess  answered  his  desires. 

Once  when  she  left  him  with  a  weary  sense 

Of  utter  lassitude,  he  sat  alone, 

And,  raising  listless  eyes,  he  saw  himself 

In  a  great  burnished  mirror,  wrought  about 

With  cunning  imagery  of  twisted  vines. 

He  scarcely  knew  those  sunken,  red-rimmed  eyes, 

And  haggard  cheeks,  and  hollow-smiling  lips, 

For  his  who  in  the  flush  of  manhood  rode 

Among  the  cliffs,  and  followed  up  the  crags 

The  flying  temptress ;  and  there  fell  on  him 

A  horror  of  her  beauty,  a  disgust 

For  his  degenerate  and  corrupted  life, 

With  irresistible,  intense  desire, 

To  feel  the  breath  of  heaven  on  his  face. 

Then  as  Fate  willed,  who  rules  above  the  gods, 

He  saw,  within  the  glass,  behind  him  glide 

The  form  of  Venus.     Certain  of  her  power, 

She  had  laid  by,  in  fond  security, 


TANNBAUSER.  91 

The  enchanted  cestus,  and  Sir  Tannhauser, 
With  surfeited  regard,  beheld  her  now, 
No  fairer  than  the  women  of  the  earth, 
Whom  with  serenity  and  health  he  left, 
Duped  by  a  lovely  witch.     Before  he  moved, 
She  knew  her  destiny ;  and  when  he  turned, 
He  seemed  to  drop  a  mask,  disclosing  thus 
An  alien  face,  and  eyes  with  vision  true, 
That  for  long  time  with  glamour  had  been  blind. 
Hiding  the  hideous  rage  within  her  breast, 
With  girlish  simpleness  of  folded  hands, 
Auroral  blushes,  and  sweet,  shamefast  mien,. 
She  spoke :  "  Behold,  my  love,  I  have  cast  forth 
All  magic,  blandishments,  and  sorcery, 
For  I  have  dreamed  a  dream  so  terrible, 
That  I  awoke  to  find  my  pillow  stained 
With  tears  as  of  real  woe.     I  thought  my  belt, 
By  Vulcan   wrought   with    matchless   skill   and 

power, 

Was  the  sole  bond  between  us  ;  this  being  doffed, 
I  seemed  to  thee  an  old,  unlovely  crone, 
Wrinkled  by  every  year  that  I  have  seen. 
Thou  turnedst  from  me  with  a  brutal  sneer, 
So  that  I  woke  with  weeping.     Then  I  rose, 
And  drew  the  glittering  girdle  from  my  zone, 
Jealous  thereof,  yet  full  of  fears,  and  said, 
*  If  it  be  this  he  loves,  then  let  him  go ! 
I  have  no  solace  as  a  mortal  hath, 
No  hope  of  change  or  death  to  comfort  me 
Through  all  eternity ;  yet  he  is  free, 


92  TANNEAUSER. 

Though  I  could  hold  him  fast  with  heavy  chains, 

Bound  in  perpetual  imprisonment.' 

Tell  me  my  vision  was  a  baseless  dream ; 

See,  I  am  kneeling,  and  I  kiss  thy  hands,  — 

In  pity,  look  on  me,  before  thy  word 

Condemns  me  to  immortal  misery  !  " 

As  he  looked  down,  the  infernal  influence 

Worked  on  his  soul  again  ;  for  she  was  fair 

Beyond  imagination,  and  her  brow 

Seemed  luminous  with  high  self-sacrifice. 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  head,  warm,  shining,  soft, 

With  its  close-curling  gold,  and  love  revived. 

But  ere  he  spoke,  he  heard  the  distant  sound 

Of  one  sweet,  smitten  lyre,  and  a  gleam 

Of  violent  anger  flashed  across  the  face 

Upraised  to  his  in  feigned  simplicity 

And  singleness  of  purpose.     Then  he  sprang, 

Well-nigh  a  god  himself,  with  sudden  strength 

To  vanquish  and  resist,  beyond  her  reach, 

Crying,  "  My  old  Muse  calls  me,  and  I  hear  ! 

Thy  fateful  vision  is  no  baseless  dream ; 

I  will  be  gone  from  this  accursed  hall !  " 

Then  she,  too,  rose,  dilating  over  him, 

And  sullen  clouds  veiled  all  her  rosy  limbs, 

Unto  her  girdle,  and  her  head  appeared 

Refulgent,  and  her  voice  rang  wrathf Lilly : 

"  Have  I  cajoled  and  flattered  thee  till  now, 

To  lose  thee  thus  !    How  wilt  thou  make  escape  ? 

Once  being  mine,  thou  art  forever  mine : 

Yea,  not  my  lo,ve,  but  my  poor  slave  and  fool." 


TANNHAUSER.  93 

But  he,  with  both  hands  pressed  upon  his  eyes, 

Against  that  blinding  lustre,  heeded  not 

Her  thundered  words,  and  cried  in  sharp  despair, 

"  Help  me,  0  Virgin  Mary !  "  and  thereat, 

The  very  bases  of  the  hall  gave  way, 

The  roof  was  rived,  the  goddess  disappeared, 

And  Tannhauser  stood  free  upon  the  cliff, 

Amidst  the  morning  sunshine  and  fresh  air. 

Around   him  were   the   tumbled    blocks   and 

crags, 

Huge  ridges  and  sharp  juts  of  flinty  peaks, 
Black  caves,  and  masses  of  the  grim,  bald  rock. 
The  ethereal,  unfathomable  sky, 
Hung  over  him,  the  valley  lay  beneath, 
Dotted  with  yellow  hayricks,  that  exhaled 
Sweet,  healthy  odors  to  the  mountain-top. 
He  breathed  intoxicate  the  infinite  air, 
And  plucked  the  heather  blossoms  where  they 

blew, 

Reckless  with  light  and  dew,  in  crannies  green, 
And  scarcely  saw  their  darling  bells  for  tears. 
No  sounds  of  labor  reached  him  from  the  farms 
And  hamlets  trim,  nor  from  the  furrowed  glebe ; 
But  a  serene  and  sabbath  stillness  reigned, 
Till  broken  by  the  faint,  melodious  chimes 
Of  the  small  village  church  that  called  to  prayer. 
He  hurried  down  the  rugged,  scarped  cliff. 
And  swung  himself  from  shelving  granite  slopes 
To  narrow  foot-holds,  near  wide-throated  chasms, 


94  TANNHAUSER. 

Tearing  against  sharp  stones  his  bleeding  hands, 

With  long  hair  flying  from  his  dripping  brow, 

Uncovered  head,  and  white,  exalted  face. 

No  memory  had  he  of  his  smooth  ascent, 

No  thought  of  fear  upon  those  dreadful  hills  ; 

He  only  heard  the  bell,  inviting  him 

To  satisfy  the  craving  of  his  heart, 

For  worship  'midst  his  fellow-men.     He  reached 

The  beaten,  dusty  road,  and  passed  thereon 

The  pious  peasants  faring  towards  the  church, 

And  scarce  refrained   from   greeting  them  like 

friends 

Dearly  beloved,  after  long  absence  met. 
How  more  than  fair  the  sunburnt  wenches  looked, 
In   their  rough,  homespun  gowns  and  coifs  de 
mure, 

After  the  beauty  of  bare,  rosy  limbs, 
And  odorous,  loose  hair  !     He  noted  not 
Suspicious  glances  on  his  garb  uncouth, 
His  air  extravagant  and  face  distraught, 
With  bursts  of  laughter  from  the  red -cheeked 

boys, 

And  prudent  crossings  of  the  women's  breasts. 
He  passed  the  flowering  close  about  the  church, 
And  trod  the  well-worn  path,  with  throbbing 

heart, 

The  little  heather-bell  between  his  lips, 
And  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  good  green  grass. 
Thus  entered  he  the  sanctuary,  lit 
With  frequent  tapers,  and  with  sunbeams  stained 


TANNHAUSER.  95 

Through  painted  glass.      How  pure  and  innocent 
The  waiting  congregation  seemed  to  him, 
Kneeling,  or  seated  with  calm  brows  upraised ! 
With  faltering  strength,  he  cowered  down  alone, 
And  held  sincere  communion  with  the  Lord, 
For  one  brief  moment,  in  a  sudden  gush 
Of  blessed  tears.     The  minister  of  God 
Rose  to  invoke  a  blessing  on  his  flock, 
And  then  began  the  service,  —  not  in  words 
To  raise  the  lowly,  and  to  heal  the  sick, 
But  in  an  alien  tongue,  with  phrases  formed, 
And  meaningless  observances.     The  knight, 
Unmoved,  yet  thirsting  for  the  simple  word 
That   might   have   moved   him,  held   his   bitter 

thoughts, 

But  when  in  his  own  speech  a  new  priest  spake, 
Looked  up  with   hope   revived,  and   heard  the 

text: 

"  Go,  preach  the  Gospel  unto  all  the  world. 
He  that  believes  and  is  baptized,  is  saved. 
He  that  believeth  not,  is  damned  in  hell !  " 
He  sat  with  neck  thrust  forth  and  staring  eyes ; 
The  crowded  congregation  disappeared  ; 
He  felt  alone  in  some  black  sea  of  hell, 
"While  a  great  light  smote  one  exalted  face, 
Vivid  already  with  prophetic  fire, 
Whose   fatal   mouth   now   thundered    forth   his 

doom. 

He  longed  in  that  void  circle  to  cry  out, 
With  one  clear  shriek,  but  sense  and  voice  seemed 

bound, 


96  TANNHAUSER. 

And   his   parched   tongue   clave    useless   to  his 

mouth. 

As  the  last  words  resounded  through  the  church, 
And  once  again  the  pastor  blessed  his  flock, 
Who,  serious  and  subdued,  passed  slowly  down 
The  narrow  aisle,  none  noted,  near  the  wall, 
A  fallen  man  with  face  upon  his  knees, 
A  heap  of  huddled  garments  and  loose  hair, 
Unconscious  'mid  the  rustling,  murmurous  stir, 
'Midst  light  and  rural  smell  of  grass  and  flowers, 
Let  in  athwart  the  doorway.     One  lone  priest, 
Darkening  the  altar  lights,  moved  noiselessly, 
Now  with  the  yellow  glow  upon  his  face, 
Now  a  black  shadow  gliding  farther  on, 
Amidst  the  smooth,  slim  pillars  of  hewn  ash. 
But  from  the  vacant  aisles  he  heard  at  once 
A  hollow  sigh,  heaved  from  a  depth  profound. 
Upholding  his  last  light  above  his  head, 
And  peering  eagerly  amidst  the  stalls, 
He   cried,    "  Be    blest   who    cometh    in   God's 

name." 

Then  the  gaunt  form  of  Tannhauser  arose. 
"  Father,  I  am  a  sinner,  and  I  seek 
Forgiveness  and  help,  by  whatso  means 
I  can  regain  the  joy  of  peace  with  God." 
"  The  Lord  hath  mercy  on  the  penitent. 
1  Although  thy  sins  be  scarlet,'  He  hath  said, 
*  Will  I  not  make  them  white  as  wool  ?  '  Confess, 
And  I  will  shrive  you."     Thus  the  good  priest 

moved  • 


TANNHAUSER.  97 

Towards  the  remorseful  knight  and  pressed  his 

hand. 

But  shrinking  down,  he  drew  his  fingers  back 
From  the  kind  palm,  and  kissed  the  friar's  feet. 
"  Thy  pure  hand  is  anointed,  and  can  heal. 
The  cool,  calm  pressure  brings  back  sanity, 
And  what  serene,  past  joys  !  yet  touch  me  not, 
My  contact  is  pollution,  —  hear,  O  hear, 
While  I  disburden  my  charged  soul."     He  lay, 
Casting  about  for  words  and  strength  to  speak. 
"  O  father,  is  there  help  for  such  a  one," 
In  tones  of  deep  abasement  he  began, 
"  Who  hath  rebelled  against  the  laws  of  God, 
With  pride  no  less  presumptuous  than  his 
Who  lost  thereby  his  rank  in  heaven  ?  "     "  My 

son, 

There  is  atonement  for  all  sins,  —  or  slight 
Or  difficult,  proportioned  to  the  crime. 
Though  this  may  be  the  staining  of  thy  hands 
With  blood  of  kinsmen  or  of  fellow-men." 
"  My  hands  are  white,  —  my  crime  hath  found 

no  name, 
This  side  of  hell ;  yet  though  my  heart-strings 

snap 

To  live  it  over,  let  me  make  attempt. 
I  was  a  knight  and  bard,  with  such  a  gift 
Of  revelation  that  no  hour  of  life 
Lacked  beauty  and  adornment,  in  myself 
The  seat  and  centre  of  all  happiness. 
What  inspiration  could  my  lofty  Muse 


98  TANNHAUSER. 

Draw  from  those  common  and  familiar  themes, 

Painted  upon  the  windows  and  the  walls 

Of  every  church,  —  the  mother  and  her  child, 

The  miracle  and  mystery  of  the  birth, 

The  death,  the  resurrection  ?     Fool  and  blind  ! 

That  saw  not  symbols  of  eternal  truth 

In  that  grand  tragedy  and  victory, 

Significant  and  infinite  as  life. 

What  tortures  did  my  skeptic  soul  endure, 

At  war  against  herself  and  all  mankind  ! 

The  restless  nights  of  feverish  sleeplessness, 

With  balancing  of  reasons  nicely  weighed ; 

The  dawn  that  brought  no  hope  nor  energy, 

The  blasphemous  arraignment  of  the  Lord, 

Taxing  His  glorious  divinity 

With  all  the  grief  and  folly  of  the  world. 

Then  came  relapses  into  abject  fear, 

And    hollow   prayer   and   praise    from   craven 

heart. 

Before  a  sculptured  Venus  I  would  kneel, 
Crown  her  with  flowers,  worship  her,  and  cry, 
'  O  large  and  noble  type  of  our  ideal, 
At  least  my  heart  and  prayer  return  to  thee, 
Amidst  a  faithless  world  of  proselytes. 
Madonna  Mary,  with  her  virgin  lips, 
And  eyes  that  look  perpetual  reproach, 
Insults  and  is  a  blasphemy  on  youth. 
Is  she  to  claim  the  worship  of  a  man 
Hot  with  the  first  rich  flush  of  ripened  life  ?  ' 
Realities,  like -phantoms,  glided  by, 


TANNHAUSER.  99 

Unnoted  'midst  the  torments  and  delights 

Of  my  conflicting  spirit,  and  I  doffed 

The  modest  Christian  weeds  of  charity 

And  fit  humility,  and  steeled  myself 

In  pagan  panoply  of  stoicism 

And  self-sufficing  pride.     Yet  constantly 

I  gained  men's  charmed  attention  and  applause, 

With  the  wild  strains  I  smote  from  out  my  lyre, 

To  me  the  native  language  of  my  soul, 

To  them  attractive  and  miraculous, 

As  all  things  whose  solution  and  whose  source 

Remain  a  mystery.     Then  came  suddenly 

The  summons  to  attend  the  gathering 

Of  minstrels  at  the  Landgrave  Hermann's  court. 

Resolved  to  publish  there  my  pagan  creed 

In  harmonies  so  high  and  beautiful 

That  all  the  world   would   share  my   zeal   and 

faith, 

I  journeyed  towards  the  haunted  Horsel  cliffs. 
O  God  !  how  may  I  tell  you  how  she  came, 
The  temptress  of  a  hundred  centuries, 
Yet  fresh  as  April  ?     She  bewitched  my  sense, 
Poisoned  my  judgment  with  sweet  flatteries, 
And  for  I  may  not  guess  how  many  years 
Held  me  a  captive  in  degrading  bonds. 
There  is  no  sin  of  lust  so  lewd  and  foul, 
Which  I  learned  not  in  that  alluring  hell, 
Until  this  morn,  I  snapped  the  ignoble  tie, 
By  calling  on  the  Mother  of  our  Lord. 
O  for  the  power  to  stand  again  erect, 


100  TANNHAUSER. 

And  look  men  in  the  eyes !     What  penitence, 

What  scourging  of  the  flesh,  what  rigid  fasts, 

What  terrible  privations  may  suffice 

To  cleanse  me  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  ?  " 

Ill-omened  silence  followed  his  appeal. 

Patient  and  motionless  he  lay  awhile, 

Then  sprang  unto  his  feet  with  sudden  force, 

Confronting  in  his  breathless  vehemence, 

With  palpitating  heart,  the  timid  priest. 

"  Answer  me,  as  you  hope  for  a  response, 

One  day,  at  the  great  judgment-seat  yourself." 

"  I  cannot  answer,"  said  the  simple  priest, 

"  I  have  not  understood."     "  Just  God  !  is  this 

The  curse  Thou  layest  upon  me  ?     I  outstrip 

The  sympathy  and  brotherhood  of  men, 

So  far  removed  is  my  experience 

From  their  clean  innocence.     Inspire  me, 

Prompt   me  to  words   that   bring   me   near   to 

them ! 

Father,"  in  gentler  accents  he  resumed, 
"Thank  Heaven  at  your  every  orison 
That  sin  like  mine  you  cannot  apprehend. 
More  than  the  truth  perchance  I  have  confessed, 
But  I  have  sinned,  and  darkly,  —  this  is  true ; 
And  I  have  suffered,  and  am  suffering  now. 
Is  there  no  help  in  your  great  Christian  creed 
Of  liberal  charity,  for  such  a  one  ?  " 
"  My  son,"  the  priest  replied,  "  your  speech  dis 
traught 
Hath  quite  bewildered  me.     I  fain  would  hope 


TANNHAUSER.  101 

That  Christ's  large  charity  can  reach  your  sin, 
But  I  know  naught.     I  cannot  but  believe 
That  the  enchantress  who  first  tempted  you 
Must  be  the  Evil  one,  —  your  early  doubt 
Was  the  possession  of  your  soul  by  him. 
Travel  across  the  mountain  to  the  town, 
The  first  cathedral  town  upon  the  road 
That   leads   to    Rome,  —  a   sage   and   reverend 

priest, 
The  Bishop  Adrian,  bides  there.     Say  you  have 

come 

From  his  leal  servant,  Friar  Lodovick ; 
He  hath  vast  lore  and  great  authority, 
And  may  absolve  you  freely  of  your  sin." 

Over  the  rolling  hills,  through  summer  fields, 
By  noisy  villages  and  lonely  lanes, 
Through  glowing  days,  when  all  the  landscape 

stretched 

Shimmering  in  the  heat,  a  pilgrim  fared 
Towards  the  cathedral  town.     Sir  Tannhauser 
Had  donned  the  mournful  sackcloth,  girt  his  loins 
With  a  coarse  rope  that  ate  into  his  flesh, 
Muffled  a  cowl  about  his  shaven  head, 
Hung  a  great  leaden  cross  around  his  neck ; 
And  bearing  in  his  hands  a  knotty  staff, 
With  swollen,  sandaled  feet  he  held  his  course. 
He  snatched  scant  rest  at  twilight  or  at  dawn, 
When  his  forced  travel  was  least  difficult. 
But  most  he  journeyed  when  the  sky,  o'ercast, 


102  TANNHAUSER. 

Uprolled  its  threatening  clouds  of  dusky  blue, 
And  angry  thunder  grumbled  through  the  hills, 
And  earth  grew  dark  at  noonday,  till  the  flash 
Of  the  thin  lightning  through  the  wide  sky  leapt, 
And  tumbling  showers  scoured  along  the  plain. 
Then  folk  who  saw  the  pilgrim  penitent, 
Drenched,    weird,    and    hastening   as    to    some 

strange  doom, 
Swore  that  the  wandering  Jew  had  crossed  their 

land, 

And  the  Lord  Christ  had  sent  the  deadly  bolt 
Harmless  upon  his  cursed,  immortal  head. 
At  length  the  hill-side  city's  spires  and  roofs, 
With  all  its  western  windows  smitten  red 
By  a  rich  sunset,  and  with  massive  towers 
Of  its  cathedral  overtopping  all, 
Greeted  his  sight.     Some  weary  paces  more, 
And  as  the  twilight  deepened  in  the  streets, 
He  stood  within  the  minster.     How  serene, 
In  sculptured  calm  of  centuries,  it  seemed  ! 
How  cool  and  spacious  all  the  dim-lit  aisles, 
Still  hazy  with  the  fumes  of  frankincense ! 
The  vesper  had  been  said,  yet  here  and  there 
A  wrinkled  beldam,  or  a  mourner  veiled, 
Or  burly  burgher  on  the  cold  floor  knelt, 
And  still  the  organist,  with  wandering  hands, 
Drew  from  the  keys  mysterious  melodies, 
And  filled  the  church  with  flying  waifs  of  song, 
That  with  ethereal  beauty  moved  the  soul 
To  a  more  tender  prayer  and  gentler  faith 


TANNHAUSER.  103 

Than  choral  anthems  and  the  solemn  mass. 
A  thousand  memories,  sweet  to  bitterness, 
Rushed  on  the  knight  and  filled  his  eyes  with 

tears ; 

Youth's  blamelessness  and  faith  forever  lost, 
The  love  of  his  neglected  lyre,  his  art, 
Revived  by  these  aerial  harmonies. 
He  was  unworthy  now  to  touch  the  strings, 
Too  base  to  stir  men's  soul  to  ecstasy 
And  high  resolves,  as  in  the  days  agone ; 
And  yet,  with  all  his  spirit's  earnestness, 
He  yearned  to  feel  the  lyre  between  his  hands, 
To  utter  all  the  trouble  of  his  life 
Unto  the  Muse  who  understands  and  helps. 
Outworn  with  travel,  soothed  to  drowsiness 
By  dying  music  and  sweet-scented  air, 
His  limbs  relaxed,  and  sleep  possessed  his  frame. 
Auroral  light  the  eastern  oriels  touched, 
When  with  delicious  sense  of  rest  he  woke, 
Amidst  the  vast  and  silent  empty  aisles. 
"  God's  peace  hath  fallen  upon  me  in  this  place  ; 
This  is  my  Bethel ;  here  I  feel  again 
A  holy  calm,  if  not  of  innocence, 
Yet  purest  after  that,  the  calm  serene 
Of  expiation  and  forgiveness." 
He  spake,  and  passed  with  staff  and  wallet  forth 
Through  the  tall  portal  to  the  open  square, 
And  turning,  paused  to  look  upon  the  pile. 
The  northern  front  against  the  crystal  sky 
Loomed  dark  and  heavy,  full  of  sombre  shade, 


104  TANNHAUSER. 

With  each  projecting  huttress,  carven  cross, 
Gable  and  mullion,  tipped  with  laughing  light 
By  the  slant  sunbeams  of  the  risen  morn. 
The  noisy  swallows  wheeled  above  their  nests, 
Builded  in  hidden  nooks  about  the  porch. 
No  human  life  was  stirring  in  the  square, 
Save  now  and  then  a  rumbling  market-team, 
Fresh   from  the   fields  and   farms  without   the 

town. 

He  knelt  upon  the  broad  cathedral  steps, 
And  kissed  the  moistened  stone,  while  overhead 
The  circling  swallows  sang,  and  all  around 
The  mighty  city  lay  asleep  and  still. 

To  stranger's  ears  must  yet  again  be  made 
The  terrible  confession  ;  yet  again 
A  deathly  chill,  with  something  worse  than  fear, 
Seized  the  knight's  heart,  who  knew  his  every 

word 

Widened  the  gulf  between  his  kind  and  him. 
The  Bishop  sat  with  pomp  of  mitred  head, 
In  pride  of  proven  virtue,  hearkening  all 
With  cold,  official  apathy,  nor  made 
A  sign  of  pity  nor  encouragement. 
The  friar  understood  the  pilgrim's  grief, 
The  language  of  his  eyes ;  his  speech  alone 
Was  alien  to  these  kind,  untutored  ears. 
But  this  was  truly  to  be  misconstrued, 
To  tear  each  palpitating  word  alive 
From  out  the  depths  of  his  remorseful  soul, 


TANNHAU8ER.  105 

And  have  it  weighed  with  tho  precision  cool 
And  the  nice  logic  of  a  reasoning  mind. 
This  spiritual  Father  judged  his  crime 
As  the  mad  mischief  of  a  reckless  boy, 
That  called  for  strict,  immediate  punishment. 
But  Tannhiiuser,  who  felt  himself  a  man, 
Though  base,  yet   fallen  through  passions   and 

rare  gifts 

Of  an  exuberant  nature  rankly  rich, 
And  knew  his  weary  head  was  growing  gray 
With  a  life's  terrible  experience, 
Found  his  old  sense  of  proper  worth  revive ; 
But  modestly  he  ended :  "  Yet  I  felt, 
O  holy  Father,  in  the  church,  this  morn, 
A  strange  security,  a  peace  serene, 
As  though  e'en  yet  the  Lord  regarded  me 
With  merciful  compassion ;  yea,  as  though 
Even  so  vile  a  worm  as  I  might  work 
Mine  own  salvation,  through  repentant  prayers." 
"  Presumptuous  man,  it  is  no  easy  task 
To  expiate  such  sin  ;  a  space  of  prayer 
That  deprecates  the  anger  of  the  Lord, 
A  pilgrimage  through  pleasant  summer  lands, 
May  not  atone  for  years  of  impious  lust ; 
Thy  heart  hath  lied  to  thee  in  offering  hope." 
"  Is  there  no  hope  on  earth  ?  "  the  pilgrim  sighed. 
"None  through  thy  penance,"  said  the  saintly 

man. 

"  Yet  there  may  be  through  mediation,  help. 
There  is  a  man  who  by  a  blameless  life 


106  TANNHAUSER. 

Hath  won  the  right  to  intercede  with  God. 
No  sins  of  his  own  flesh  hath  he  to  purge,  — 
The  Cardinal  Filippo,  —  he  abides, 
Within  the  Holy  City.     Seek  him  out  ; 
This  is  my  only  counsel,  —  through  thyself 
Can  be  no  help  and  no  forgiveness." 

How  different  from  the  buoyant  joy  of  morn 
Was  this  discouraged  sense  of  lassitude, 
Wherewith  the  pilgrim,  'midst  a  summer  rain, 
Pursued    his    progress     through    the    cheerless 

squares ! 

The  Bishop's  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears, 
Measured  and  pitiless,  and,  blent  with  these, 
The  memory  of  the  goddess'  last  wild  cry,  — 
"  Once  being  mine,  thou  art  forever  mine." 
Was  it  the  truth,  despite  his  penitence, 
And  dedication  of  his  thought  to  God, 
That  still  some  portion  of  himself  was  hers, 
Some  lust  survived,  some  criminal  regret, 
For  her  corrupted  love  ?     He  searched  his  heart : 
All  was  remorse,  religious  and  sincere, 
And  yet  her  dreadful  curse  still  haunted  him ; 
For  all  men  shunned  him,  and  denied  him  help, 
Knowing  at  once  in  looking  on  his  face, 
Ploughed  with  deep  lines  and  prematurely  old, 
That  he  had  struggled  with  some  deadly  fiend, 
And  that  he  was  no  longer  kin  to  them. 
Just  past  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  he  stopped, 
To  strengthen  will  and  courage  to  proceed. 


TANNHAUSER.  107 

The  storm  had  broken  o'er  the  sultry  streets, 
But  now  the  lessening  clouds  were  flying  east, 
And  though  the  gentle  shower  still  wet  his  face, 
The  west  was  cloudless  while  the  sun  went  down, 
And  the  bright  seven-colored  arch  stood  forth, 
Against  the  opposite  dull  gray.     There  was 
A  beauty  in  the  mingled  storm  and  peace, 
Beyond  clear  sunshine,  as  the  vast,  green  fields 
Basked  in  soft  light,  though  glistening  yet  with 

rain. 

The  roar  of  all  the  town  was  now  a  buzz 
Less  than  the  insects'  drowsy  murmuring 
That  whirred  their  gauzy  wings  around  his  head. 
The  breeze  that  follows  on  the  sunsetting 
Was  blowing   whiffs   of    bruised   and   dripping 

grass 

Into  the  heated  city.     But  he  stood, 
Disconsolate  with  thoughts  of  fate  and  sin, 
Still  wrestling  with  his  soul  to  win  it  back 
From  her  who  claimed  it  to  eternity. 
Then  on  the  delicate  air  there  came  to  him 
The  intonation  of  the  minster  bells, 
Chiming  the  vespers,  musical  and  faint. 
He  knew  not  what  of  dear  and  beautiful 
There  was  in  those  familiar  peals,  that  spake 
Of  his  first  boyhood  and  his  innocence, 
Leading  him  back,  with  gracious  influence, 
To  pleasant  thoughts  and  tender  memories, 
And  last,  recalling  the  fair  hour  of  hope 
He  passed  that  morning  in  the  church.     Again, 


108  TANNHAUSER. 

The  glad  assurance  of  God's  boundless  love 
Filled  all  his  being,  and  he  rose  serene, 
And  journeyed  forward  with  a  calm  content. 

Southward  he  wended,  and  the  landscape  took 
A  warmer  tone,  the  sky  a  richer  light. 
The  gardens  of  the  graceful,  festooned  hops, 
With  their  slight  tendrils  binding  pole  to  pole, 
Gave  place  to  orchards  and  the  trellised  grape. 
The  hedges  were  enwreathed  with  trailing  vines, 
With    clustering,    shapely   bunches,    'midst    the 

growth 

Of  tangled  greenery.     The  elm  and  ash 
Less  frequent  grew  than  cactus,  cypresses, 
And  golden-fruited  or  large-blossomed  trees. 
The  far  hills  took  the  hue  of  the  dove's  breast, 
Veiled  in  gray  mist  of  olive  groves.     No  more 
He   passed    dark,   moated   strongholds  of   grim 

knights, 

But  terraces  with  marble-paven  steps, 
With  fountains  leaping  in  the  sunny  air, 
And  hanging  gardens  full  of  sumptuous  bloom. 
Then  cloisters  guarded  by  their  dead  gray  walls, 
Where  now  and  then  a  golden  globe  of  fruit 
Or  full-flushed  flower  peered  out  upon  the  road, 
Nodding  against  the  stone,  and  where  he  heard 
Sometimes  the  voices  of  the  chanting  monks, 
Sometimes  the  laugh  of  children  at  their  play, 
Amidst  the  quaint,  old  gardens.    But  these  sights 
Were  in  the  suburbs  of  the  wealthy  towns. 


TANNHAUSER.  109 

For  many  a  day  through  wildernesses  rank, 
Or  marshy,  feverous  meadow-lands  he  fared, 
The  fierce  sun  smiting  his  close-muffled  head  ; 
Or  'midst  the  Alpine  gorges  faced  the  storm, 
That  drave  adown  the  gullies  melted  snow 
And  clattering  boulders  from  the  mountain-tops. 
At  times,  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
Fair  prospects  opened,  with  the  boundless  stretch 
Of  restless,  tideless  waters  by  his  side, 
And  their  long  wash  upon  the  yellow  sand. 
Beneath  this  generous  sky  the  country-folk 
Could  lead  a  freer  life,  —  the  fat,  green  fields 
Offered  rich  pasturage,  athwart  the  air 
Rang  tinkling  cow-bells  and  the  shepherds'  pipes. 
The  knight  met  many  a  strolling  troubadour, 
Bearing  his  cithern,  flute,  or  dulcimer ; 
And  oft  beneath  some  castle's  balcony, 
At  night,  he  heard  their  mellow  voices  rise, 
Blent  with  stringed  instruments  or  tambourines, 
Chanting  some  lay  as  natural  as  a  bird's. 
Then  Nature  stole  with  healthy  influence 
Into  his  thoughts  ;  his  love  of  beauty  woke, 
His  Muse  inspired  dreams  as  in  the  past. 
But  after  this  came  crueler  remorse, 
And  he  would  tighten  round  his  loins  the  rope, 
And  lie  for  hours  beside  some  wayside  cross, 
And  feel  himself  unworthy  to  enjoy 
The  splendid  gift  and  privilege  of  life. 
Then  forth  he  hurried,  spurred  by  his  desire 
To  reach  the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills, 


110  TANNHAUSER. 

And  gain  his  absolution.     Some  leagues  more 
Would  bring  him  to  the  vast  Campagna  land, 
When  by  a  roadside  well  he  paused  to  rest. 
'T  was  noon,  and  reapers  in  the  field  hard  by 
Lay  'neath  the  trees  upon  the  sun-scorched  grass. 
But  from  their  midst  one  came  towards  the  well, 
Not  trudging  like  a  man  forespent  with  toil, 
But  frisking  like  a  child  in  holiday, 
With  light,  free  steps.    The  pilgrim  watched  him 

come, 

And  found  him  scarcely  older  than  a  child, 
A  large-mouthed  earthen  pitcher  in  his  hand, 
And  a  guitar  upon  his  shoulder  slung. 
A  wide  straw  hat  threw  all  his  face  in  shade, 
But  doffing  this,  to  catch  whatever  breeze 
Might  stir  among  the  branches,  he  disclosed 
A  charming  head  of  rippled,  auburn  hair, 
A  frank,  fair  face,  as  lovely  as  a  girl's, 
With  great,    soft   eyes,    as   mild   and  grave  as 

kine's. 

Above  his  head  he  slipped  the  instrument, 
And  laid  it  with  his  hat  upon  the  turf, 
Lowered  his  pitcher  down  the  well-head  cool, 
And  drew  it  dripping  upward,  ere  he  saw 
The  watchful  pilgrim,  craving  (as  he  thought) 
The  precious  draught.     "  Your  pardon,  holy  sir, 
Drink  first,"  he  cried,  "  before  I  take  the  jar 
Unto  my  father  in  the  reaping-field." 
Touched  by  the  cordial  kindness  of  the  lad, 
The  pilgrim  answered,  —  "  Thanks,  my  thirst  is 

quenched 


TANNHAUSER.  Ill 

From  mine  own   palm."     The    stranger   deftly 

poised 

The  brimming  pitcher  on  his  head,  and  turned 
Back  to  the  reaping-folk,  while  Tannhauser 
Looked  after  him  across  the  sunny  fields, 
Clasping  each  hand  about  his  waist  to  bear 
The   balanced    pitcher ;    then,    down    glancing, 

found 

The  lad's  guitar  near  by,  and  fell  at  once 
To   striking   its   tuned    strings  with   wandering 

hands, 

And  pensive  eyes  filled  full  of  tender  dreams. 
"  Yea,  holy  sir,  it  is  a  worthless  thing, 
And  yet  I  love  it,  for  I  make  it  speak." 
The  boy  again  stood  by  him,  and  dispelled 
His  train  of  fantasies  half  sweet,  half  sad. 
"That  was  not  in  my  thought,"  the  knight  re 
plied. 

"  Its  worth  is  more  than  rubies ;  whoso  hath 
The  art  to  make  this  speak  is  raised  thereby 
Above  all  loneliness  or  grief  or  fear." 
More  to  himself  than  to  the  lad  he  spake, 
Who,  understanding  not,  stood  doubtfully 
At  loss  for  answer ;  but  the  knight  went  on : 
"How  came  it  in  your  hands,   and  who  hath 

tuned 

Your  voice  to  follow  it."     "  I  am  unskilled, 
Good  father,  but  my  mother  smote  its  strings 
To  music  rare."     Diverted  from  one  theme, 
Pleased  with  the  winsome  candor  of  the  boy, 


112  TANNHAUSER. 

The  knight  encouraged  him  to  confidence ; 
Then  his  own  gift  of  minstrelsy  revealed, 
And  told  bright  tales  of  his  first  wanderings, 
When  in  lords'  castles  and  kings'  palaces 
Men  still  made  place  for  him,  for  in  his  land 
The  gift  was  rare  and  valued  at  its  worth, 
And  brought  great  victory  and  sounding  fame. 
Thus,  in  retracing  all  his  pleasant  youth, 
His  suffering  passed  as  though  it  had  not  been. 
Wide-eyed  and  open-mouthed  the  boy  gave  ear, 
His  fair  face  flushing  with  the  sudden  thoughts 
That   went   and   came,  —  then,   as   the   pilgrim 

ceased, 
Drew  breath  and  spake :  "  And  where  now  is 

your  lyre  ?  " 
The  knight  with  both  hands  hid  his  changed, 

white  face, 

Crying  aloud,  "  Lost !  lost !  forever  lost !  " 
Then,  gathering  strength,  he  bared  his  face  again 
Unto  the  frightened,  wondering  boy,  and  rose 
With   hasty  fear.     "Ah,   child,   you  bring  me 

back 

Unwitting  to  remembrance  of  my  grief, 
For  which  I  donned  eternal  garb  of  woe ; 
And  yet  I  owe  you  thanks  for  one  sweet  hour 
Of  healthy  human  intercourse  and  peace. 
'T  is  not  for  me  to  tarry  by  the  way. 
Farewell !  "     The  impetuous,  remorseful  boy, 
Seeing  sharp  pain  on  that  kind  countenance, 
Fell  at  his  feet-  and  cried,  "  Forgive  my  words, 


TANNHAUSER.  113 

Witless  but  innocent,  and  leave  me  not 
Without  a  blessing."     Moved  unutterably, 
The  pilgrim  kissed  with  trembling  lips  his  head, 
And  muttered,  "  At  this  moment  would  to  God 
That   I   were   worthy ! "     Then   waved    wasted 

hands 

Over  the  youth  in  act  of  blessing  him, 
But  faltered,  "  Cleanse  me  through  his  innocence, 
O  heavenly  Father  !  "  and  with  quickening  steps 
Hastened  away  upon  the  road  to  Rome. 
The   noon   was   past,    the   reapers    drew   broad 

swaths 

With  scythes  sun-smitten  'midst  the  ripened  crop. 
Thin  shadows  of  the  afternoon  slept  soft 
On   the   green   meadows  as   the  knight   passed 

forth. 

He  trudged  amidst  the  sea  of  poisonous  flowers 
On  the  Campagna's  undulating  plain, 
With  Rome,  the  many-steepled,  many-towered, 
Before  him,  regnant  on  her  throne  of  hills. 
A  thick  blue  cloud  of  haze  o'erhung  the  town, 
But  the  fast-sinking  sun  struck  fiery  light 
From  shining  crosses,  roofs,  and  flashing  domes. 
Across  his  path  an  arching  bridge  of  stone 
Was  raised  above  a  shrunken  yellow  stream, 
Hurrying  with  the  light  on  every  wave 
Towards  the  great  town  and  outward  to  the  sea. 
Upon  the  bridge's  crest  he  paused,  and  leaned 
Against  the  barrier,  throwing  back  his  cowl, 


114  TANNBAUSER. 

And  gazed  upon  the  dull,  unlovely  flood 
That  was  the  Tiber.     Quaggy  banks  lay  bare, 
Muddy  and  miry,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
And  myriad  insects  hovered  o'er  the  reeds, 
Whose   lithe,   moist   tips   by    listless    airs    were 

stirred. 

When  the  low  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  hills, 
He  found  himself  within  the  streets  of  Rome, 
Walking  as   in  a   sleep,  where   naught  seemed 

real. 

The  clattering  hubbub  of  the  market-place 
Was  over  now  ;  but  voices  smote  his  ear 
Of  garrulous  citizens  who  jostled  past. 
Loud  cries,  gay  laughter,  snatches  of  sweet  song, 
The  tinkling  fountains  set  in  gardens  cool 
About  the  pillared  palaces,  and  blent 
With  trickling  of  the  conduits  in  the  squares, 
The  noisy  teams  within  the  narrow  streets,  — 
All  these  the  stranger  heard  and  did  not  hear, 
While  ringing  bells  pealed  out  above  the  town, 
And  calm  gray  twilight  skies  stretched  over  it. 
Wide  open  stood  the  doors  of  every  church, 
And  through  the  porches  pressed  a  streaming 

throng. 

Vague  wonderment  perplexed  him,  at  the  sight 
Of  broken  columns  raised  to  Jupiter 
Beside  the  cross,  immense  cathedrals  reared 
Upon  a  dead  faith's  ruins  ;  all  the  whirl 
And  eager  bustle  of  the  living  town 
Filling  the  storied  streets,  whose  very  stones 


TANNHAUSER.  115 

Were  solemn  monuments,  and  spake  of  death. 
Although  he  wrestled  with  himself,  the  thought 
Of  that  poor,  past  religion  smote  his  heart 
With  a  huge  pity  and  deep  sympathy, 
Beyond  the  fervor  which  the  Church  inspired. 
Where  was  the  noble  race  who  ruled  the  world, 
Moulded  of  purest  elements,  and  stuffed 
With  sternest  virtues,  every  man  a  king, 
Wearing  the  purple  native  in  his  heart  ? 
These   lounging    beggars,    stealthy    monks    and 

priests, 

And  womanish  patricians  filled  their  place. 
Thus  Tan  nha  user,  still  half  an  infidel, 
Pagan  through  mind  and  Christian  through  the 

heart, 
Fared    thoughtfully    with    wandering,    aimless 

steps, 

Till  in  the  dying  glimmer  of  the  day 
He  raised  his  eyes  and  found  himself  alone 
Amid  the  ruined  arches,  broken  shafts, 
And  huge  arena  of  the  Coliseum. 
He  did  not  see  it  as  it  was,  dim-lit 
By   something  less    than   day    and   more   than 

night, 

With  wan  reflections  of  the  rising  moon 
Rather  divined  than  seen  on  ivied  walls, 
And    crumbled     battlements,    and    topless   col 
umns — 

But  by  the  light  of  all  the  ancient  days, 
Ringed  with  keen  eager  faces,  living  eyes, 


116  TANNHAUSER. 

Fixed  on  the  circus  with  a  savage  joy, 
Where  brandished  swords  flashed  white,  and  hu 
man  blood 
Streamed  o'er  the  thirsty  dust,  and  Death  was 

king. 

He  started,  shuddering,  and  drew  breath  to  see 
The  foul  pit  choked  with  weeds  and   tumbled 

stones, 
The   cross   raised    midmost,    and    the   peaceful 

moon 

Shining  o'er  all ;  and  fell  upon  his  knees, 
Restored  to  faith  in  one  wise,  loving  God. 
Day  followed  day,  and  still  he  bode  in  Rome, 
Waiting  his  audience  with  the  Cardinal, 
And  from  the  gates,  on  pretext  frivolous, 
Passed  daily  forth,  —  his  Eminency  slept,  — 
Again,  his  Eminency  was  fatigued 
By  tedious  sessions  of  the  Papal  court, 
And  thus  the  patient  pilgrim  was  referred 
Unto  a  later  hour.     At  last  the  page 
Bore  him  a  missive  with  Filippo's  seal, 
That  in  his  name  commended  Tannhauser 
Unto  the  Pope.     The  worn,  discouraged  knight 
Read  the  brief  scroll,  then  sadly  forth  again, 
Along  the  bosky  alleys  of  the  park, 
Passed  to  the  glare  and  noise  of  summer  streets. 
"  Good  God  !  "  he  muttered,   "  Thou  hast  ears 

for  all, 

And  sendest  help  and  comfort ;  yet  these  men, 
Thy  saintly  ministers,  must  deck  themselves 


TANNIIAUSER.  117 

With  arrogance,  and  from  their  large  delight 

In  all  the  beauty  of  the  beauteous  earth, 

And  peace  of  indolent,  untempted  souls, 

Deny  the  hungry  outcast  a  bare  word." 

Yet  even  as  he  nourished  bitter  thoughts, 

He  felt  a  depth  of  clear  serenity, 

Unruffled  in  his  heart  beneath  it  all. 

No  outward  object  now  had  farther  power 

To   wound   him  there,   for  brooding  o'er  those 

deeps 
Of  vast  contrition  was  a  boundless  hope. 

Yet  not  to  leave  a  human  chance  untried, 
He  sought  the  absolution  of  the  Pope. 
In  a  great  hall  with  airy  galleries, 
Thronged  with  high  dignitaries  of  the  Church, 
He  took  his  seat  amidst  the  humblest  friars. 
Through    open    windows    came    sweet    garden 

smells, 
Bright   morning    light,    and    twittered    song   of 

birds. 

Around  the  hah1  flashed  gold  and  sunlit  gems, 
And  splendid  wealth   of   color,  —  white  -  stoled 

priests, 

And  scarlet  cardinals,  and  bishops  clad 
In  violet  vestments,  —  while  beneath  the  shade 
Of  the  high  gallery  huddled  dusky  shapes, 
With  faded,  travel-tattered,  sombre  smocks, 
And  shaven  heads,  and  girdles  of  coarse  hemp  ; 
Some,  pilgrims  penitent  like  Tannhauser  ; 


118  TANNHAUSER. 

Some,  devotees  to  kiss  the  sacred  feet. 
The  brassy  blare  of  trumpets  smote  the  air, 
Shrill   pipes   and   horns   with    swelling    clamor 

came, 

And  through  the  doorway's  wide-stretched  tapes 
tries 

Passed  the  Pope's  trumpeters  and  mace-bearers, 
His  vergers  bearing  slender  silver  wands, 
Then  mitred  bishops,  red-clad  cardinals, 
The  stalwart  Papal  Guard  with  halberds  raised, 
And  then,  with  white  head  crowned  with  gold  in- 

geinmed, 

The  vicar  of  the  lowly  Galilean, 
Holding  his  pastoral  rod  of  smooth-hewn  wood, 
With  censers  swung  before  and  peacock  fans 
Waved  constantly  by  pages,  either  side. 
Attended  thus,  they  bore  him  to  his  throne, 
And  priests  and  laymen  fell  upon  their  knees. 
Then,  after  pause  of  brief  and  silent  prayer, 
The  pilgrims  singly  through  the  hall  defiled, 
To  kiss  the  borders  of  the  papal  skirts, 
Smiting  their  foreheads  on  the  paven  stone  ; 
Some  silent,  abject,  some  accusing  them 
Of  venial  sins  in  accents  of  remorse, 
Craving  his  grace,  and  passing  pardoned  forth. 
Sir  Tannhauser  came  last,  no  need  for  him 
To  cry  "  Peccavi,"  and  crook  suppliant  knees. 
His  gray  head  rather  crushed  than  bowed,  his 

face 
Livid  and  wasted,  his  deep  thoughtful  eyes, 


TANNIJAUSER.  119 

His  tall  gaunt  form  in  those  unseemly  weeds, 
Spake  more  than  eloquence.     His  hollow  voice 
Brake  silence,  saying,  "  I  am  Tannhauser. 
For  seven  years  I  lived  apart  from  men. 
Within  the  Venusberg."     A  horror  seized 
The  assembled  folk  ;  some  turbuleiitly  rose  ; 
Some  clamored,  "  From  the  presence  cast  him 

forth ! " 

But  the  knight  never  ceased  his  steady  gaze 
Upon  the  Pope.    At  last,  —  "I  have  not  spoken 
To  be  condemned,"  he  said,  "  by  such  as  these. 
Thou,  spiritual  Father,  answer  me. 
Look  thou  upon  me  with  the  eyes  of  Christ. 
Can  I  through  expiation  gain  my  shrift, 
And  work  mine  own  redemption  ?  "     "  Insolent 

man !  " 

Thundered  the  outraged  Pope,  "  is  this  the  tone 
Wherewith  thou  dost  parade  thy  loathsome  sin  ? 
Down  on  thy  knees,  and  wallow  on  the  earth ! 
Nay,  rather  go !  there  is  no  ray  of  hope, 
No  gleam,  through  cycles  of  eternity, 
For  the  redemption  of  a  soul  like  thine. 
Yea,  sooner  shall  my  pastoral  rod  branch  forth 
In  leaf  and  blossom,  and  green  shoots  of  spring, 
Than   Christ   will   pardon   thee."      And   as   he 

spoke, 

He  struck  the  rod  upon  the  floor  with  force 
That  gave  it  entrance  'twixt  two  loosened  tiles, 
So  that  it  stood,  fast-rooted  and  alone. 
The  knight  saw  naught,  he  only  heard  his  judge 


120  TANNHAUSER. 

Ring  forth  his  curses,  and  the  court  cry  out 
"  Anathema !  "  and  loud,  and  blent  therewith, 
Derisive  laughter  in  the  very  hall, 
And  a  wild  voice  that  thrilled  through  flesh  and 

heart : 

"  Once  being  mine,  thou  art  forever  mine!  " 
Half-mad  he  clasped  both  hands  upon  his  brow, 
Amidst  the  storm  of  voices,  till  they  died, 
And  all  was  silence,  save  the  reckless  song 
Of  a  young  bird  upon  a  twig  without. 
Then  a  defiant,  ghastly  face  he  raised, 
And   shrieked,  "  'T  is   false !     I   am   no  longer 

thine !  " 

And  through  the  windows  open  to  the  park, 
Rushed  forth,  beyond  the  sight  and  sound   of 
men. 

By  church  nor  palace  paused  he,  till  he  passed 
All  squares  and  streets,  and  crossed  the  bridge  of 

stone, 

And  stood  alone  amidst  the  broad  expanse 
Of  the  Campagna,  twinkling  in  the  heat. 
He  knelt  upon  a  knoll  of  turf,  and  snapped 
The  cord  that  held  the  cross  about  his  neck, 
And  far  from  him  the  leaden  burden  flung. 
"  O  God  !     I  thank  Thee,  that  my  faith  in  Thee 
Subsists  at  last,  through  all  discouragements. 
Between  us  must  no  type  nor  symbol  stand, 
No  mediator,  were  he  more  divine 
Than  the  incarnate  Christ.    All  forms,  all  priests, 


TANNHAU8ER.  121 

I  part  aside,  and  hold  communion  free 
Beneath  the  empty  sky  of  noon,  with  naught 
Between    my   nothingness   and    thy   high   hea 
vens  — 

Spirit  with  spirit.     O,  have  mercy,  God  ! 
Cleanse  me  from  lust  and  bitterness  and  pride, 
Have  mercy  in  accordance  with  my  faith." 
Long  time  he  lay  upon  the  scorching  grass, 
"With  his  face  buried  in  the  tangled  weeds. 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  struggles  of  his  soul 
Against  its  demons  in  that  sacred  hour, 
The  solitude,  the  anguish,  the  remorse  ? 
When  shadows  long  and  thin  lay  on  the  ground, 
Shivering  with  fever,  helpless  he  arose, 
But  with  a  face  divine,  ineffable, 
Such  as  we  dream  the  face  of  Israel, 
When  the  Lord's  wrestling  angel,  at  gray  dawn, 
Blessed  him,  and  disappeared. 

Upon  the  marsh, 

All  night,  he  wandered,  striving  to  emerge 
From  the  wild,  pathless  plain,  —  now  limitless 
And  colorless  beneath  the  risen  moon ; 
Outstretching  like  a  sea,  with  landmarks  none, 
Save  broken  aqueducts  and  parapets, 
And  ruined  columns  glinting  'neath  the  moon. 
His  dress  was  dank  and  clinging  with  the  dew ; 
A  thousand  insects  fluttered  o'er  his  head, 
"With  buzz  and  drone  ;  unseen  cicadas  chirped 
Among  the  long,  rank  grass,  and  far  and  near 
The  fire-flies  flickered  through  the  summer  air. 


122  TANNHAUSER. 

Vague  thoughts  and  gleams  prophetic  filled  his 

brain. 
"  Ah,  fool !  "  he  mused,  "  to  look  for  help  from 

men. 

Had  they  the  will  to  aid,  they  lack  the  power. 
In  mine  own  flesh  and  soul  the  sin  had  birth, 
Through  mine  own  anguish  it  must  be  atoned. 
Our  saviours  are  not  saints  and  ministers, 
But  tear-strung  women,  children  soft  of  heart, 
Or  fellow-sufferers,  who,  by  some  chance  word, 
Some  glance  of  comfort,  save  us  from  despair. 
These  I  have  found,  thank  heaven  !  to  strengthen 

trust 

In  mine  own  kind,  when  all  the  world  grew  dark. 
Make  me  not  proud  in  spirit,  O  my  God ! 
Yea,  in  thy  sight  I  am  one  mass  of  sin, 
One  black  and  foul  corruption,  yet  I  know 
My  frailty  is  exceeded  by  thy  love. 
Neither  is  this  the  slender  straw  of  hope, 
Whereto  I,  drowning,  cling,  but  firm  belief, 
That  fills  my  inmost  soul  with  vast  content. 
As  surely  as  the  hollow  faiths  of  old 
Shriveled  to  dust  before  one  ray  of  Truth, 
So  will  these  modern  temples  pass  away, 
Piled  upon  rotten  doctrines,  baseless  forms, 
And  man  will  look  in  his  own  breast  for  help, 
Yea,  search  for  comfort  his  own  inward  reins, 
Revere  himself,  and  find  the  God  within. 
Patience  and  patience !  "     Through  the  sleepless 

night 


TANNHAUSER.  123 

He  held  such  thoughts  ;  at  times  before  his  eyes 

Flashed  glimpses  of  the  Church  that  was  to  be, 

Sublimely  simple  in  the  light  serene 

Of  future  ages  ;  then  the  vision  changed 

To  the  Pope's  hall,  thronged  with  high  priests, 

who  hurled 

Their  curses  on  him.     Staggering,  he  awoke 
Unto  the  truth,  and  found  himself  alone, 
Beneath   the    awful   stars.     When   dawn's   first 

chill 
Crept   through   the    shivering   grass  and   heavy 

leaves, 

Giddy  and  overcome,  he  fell  and  slept 
^Upon    the    dripping   weeds,   nor   dreamed    nor 

stirred, 

Until  the  wide  plain  basked  in  noon's  broad  light. 
He  dragged  his  weary  frame  some  paces  more, 
Unto  a  solitary  herdsman's  hut, 
Which,  in  the  vagueness  of  the  moonlit  night, 
Was  touched  with  lines  of  beauty,  till  it  grew 
Fair  as  the  ruined  works  of  ancient  art, 
Now  squat  and  hideous  with  its  wattled  roof, 
Decaying  timbers,  and  loose  door  wide  oped, 
Half-fallen  from  the  hinge.     A  drowsy  man, 
Bearded  and  burnt,  in  shepherd  habit  lay, 
Stretched   on    the    floor,    slow  -  munching,    half 

asleep, 

His  frugal  fare  ;  for  thus,  at  blaze  of  noon, 
The  shepherds  sought  a  shelter  from  the  sun, 
Leaving  their  vigilant  dogs  beside  their  flock. 


124  TANNUAUSER. 

The  knight  craved  drink  and  bread,  and  with 

respect 

For  pilgrim  weeds,  the  Roman  herdsman  stirred 
His  lazy  length,  and  shared  with  him  his  meal. 
Refreshed    and    calm,    Sir    Tannhauser    passed 

forth, 

Yearning  with  morbid  fancy  once  again 
To  see  the  kind  face  of  the  minstrel  boy 
He  met  beside  the  well.     At  set  of  sun 
He  reached    the  place ;    the  reaping-folk  were 

gone, 

The  day's  toil  over,  yet  he  took  his  seat. 
A  milking-girl  with  laden  buckets  full, 
Came  slowly  from  the  pasture,  paused  and  drank. 
From  a  near  cottage  ran  a  ragged  boy, 
And  rilled  his  wooden  pail,  and  to  his  home 
Returned  across  the  fields.     A  herdsman  came, 
And   drank   and   gave   his   dog   to   drink,    and 

passed, 

Greeting  the  holy  man  who  sat  there  still, 
Awaiting.     But  his  feeble  pulse  beat  high 
When  he  descried  at  last  a  youthful  form, 
Crossing  the  field,  a  pitcher  on  his  head, 
Advancing  towards  the  well.     Yea,  this  was  he, 
The  same  grave  eyes,  and  open,  girlish  face. 
But  he  saw  not,  amidst  the  landscape  brown, 
The  knight's  brown  figure,  who,  to  win  his  ear, 
Asked  the  lad's  name.     "  My  name  is  Salvator, 
To  serve  you,  sir,"  he  carelessly  replied, 
With  eyes  and  'hands  intent  upon  his  jar, 


TANNHAUSER.  125 

Brimming   and   bubbling.      Then   he    cast    one 

glance 

Upon  his  questioner,  and  left  the  well, 
Crying  with  keen  and  sudden  sympathy, 
"  Good  Father,  pardon  me,  I  knew  you  not. 
Ah !  you  have  travelled  overmuch  :  your  feet 
Are  grimed  with   mud   and  wet,   your    face  is 

changed, 
Your    hands    are    dry  with    fever."      But  the 

knight : 

"  Nay,  as  I  look  on  thee,  I  think  the  Lord 
Wills  not  that  I  should  suffer  any  more." 
"Then  you  have  suffered   much,"    sighed    Sal- 

vator, 
With  wondering  pity.     "  You  must  come   with 

me  ; 

My  father  knows  of  you,  I  told  him  all. 
A  knight  and  minstrel  who  cast  by  his  lyre, 
His  health  and  fame,  to  give  himself  to  God,  — 
Yours  is  a  life  indeed  to  be  desired  ! 
If  you  will  lie  with  us  this  night,  our  home 
Will  verily  be  blessed."     By  kindness  crushed, 
Wandering    in    sense    and  words,    the    broken 

knight 

Resisted  naught,  and  let  himself  be  led 
To  the  boy's  home.     The  outcast  and  accursed 
Was  welcomed  now  by  kindly  human  hands  ; 
Once  more  his  blighted  spirit  was  revived 
By  contact  with  refreshing  innocence. 
There,  when  the  morning  broke  upon  the  world, 


126  TANNHAUSER. 

The  humble  hosts  no  longer  knew  their  guest. 
His  fleshly  weeds  of  sin  forever  doffed, 
Tannhiiuser  lay  and  smiled,  for  in  the  night 
The  angel  came  who  brings  eternal  peace. 


Far  into  Wartburg,  through  all  Italy, 
In  every  town  the  Pope  sent  messengers, 
Riding  in  furious  haste  ;  among  them,  one 
Who  bore  a  branch  of  dry  wood  burst  in  bloom ; 
The  pastoral    rod   had   borne   green   shoots   of 

spring, 
And  leaf  and  blossom.     God  is  merciful. 


NOTE.  —  In  spite  of  my  unwillingness  to  imply  any 
possible  belief  of  mine  that  the  preceding-  unrhymed  nar 
ratives  can  enter  into  competition  with  the  elaborate 
poems  of  the  author  of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise,"  yet  the 
similarity  of  subjects,  and  the  imputation  of  plagiarism 
already  made  in  private  circles,  induce  me  to  remark 
that  "  Admetus  "  was  completed  before  the  publication 
of  the  "Love  of  Alcestis,"  and  "  Tannhauser  "  before 
the  "  Hill  of  Venus." 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 


MATINS.  127 

LINKS. 

THE  little  and  the  great  are  joined  in  one 

By  God's  great  force.     The   wondrous    golden 

sun 

Is  linked  unto  the  glow-worm's  tiny  spark ; 
The  eagle  soars  to  heaven  in  his  flight ; 
And  in  those  realms  of  space,  all  bathed  in  light, 
Soar  none  except  the  eagle  and  the  lark. 


MATINS. 

GRAY  earth,  gray  mist,  gray  sky : 
Through  vapors  hurrying  by, 
Larger  than  wont,  on  high 

Floats  the  horned,  yellow  moon. 
Chill  airs  are  faintly  stirred, 
And  far  away  is  heard, 
Of  some  fresh-awakened  bird, 

The  querulous,  shrill  tune. 

The  dark  mist  hides  the  face 
Of  the  dim  land :  no  trace 
Of  rock  or  river's  place 

In  the  thick  air  is  drawn ; 
But  dripping  grass  smells  sweet, 
And  rustling  branches  meet, 
And  sounding  waters  greet 

The  slow,  sure,  sacred  dawn. 


128  MATINS. 

Past  is  the  long  black  night, 
With  its  keen  lightnings  white, 
Thunder  and  floods  :  new  light 

The  glimmering  low  east  streaks. 
The  dense  clouds  part :  between 
Their  jagged  rents  are  seen 
Pale  reaches  blue  and  green, 

As  the  mirk  curtain  breaks. 

Above  the  shadowy  world, 
Still  more  and  more  unfurled, 
The  gathered  mists  upcurled 

Like  phantoms  melt  and  pass. 
In  clear-obscure  revealed, 
Brown  wood,  gray  stream,  dark  field 
Fresh,  healthy  odors  yield 

Wet  furrows,  flowers,  and  grass. 

The  sudden,  splendid  gleam 
Of  one  thin,  golden  beam 
Shoots  from  the  feathered  rim 

Of  yon  hill  crowned  with  woods. 
Down  its  embowered  side, 
As  living  waters  slide, 
So  the  great  morning  tide 

Follows  in  sunny  floods. 

From  bush  and  hedge  and  tree 
Joy,  unrestrained  -and  free, 
Breaks  .forth  in  melody, 
Twitter  and  chirp  and  song  : 


MATINS.  129 

Alive  the  festal  air 
With  gauze-winged  creatures  fair, 
That  flicker  everywhere, 
Dart,  poise,  and  flash  along. 

The  shining  mists  are  gone, 
Slight  films  of  gold  swift-blown 
Before  the  strong,  bright  sun 

Or  the  deep-colored  sky  : 
A  world  of  life  and  glow 
Sparkles  and  basks  below, 
Where  the  soft  meads  a-row, 

Hoary  with  dew-fall,  lie. 

Does  not  the  morn  break  thus, 
Swift,  bright,  victorious, 
With  new  skies  cleared  for  us, 

Over  the  soul  storm-tost  ? 
Her  night  was  long  and  deep, 
Strange  visions  vexed  her  sleep, 
Strange  sorrows  bade  her  weep  : 

Her  faith  in  dawn  was  lost. 

No  halt,  no  rest  for  her, 
The  immortal  wanderer 
From  sphere  to  higher  sphere, 

Toward  the  pure  source  of  .day. 
The  new  light  shames  her  fears, 
Her  faithlessness,  her  tears, 
As  the  new  sun  appears 

To  light  her  godlike  way. 


130  SAINT  ROMUALDO. 


SAINT  ROMUALDO. 

I  GIVE  God  thanks  that  I,  a  lean  old  man, 
Wrinkled,  infirm,  and  crippled  with  keen  pains 
By  austere  penance  and  continuous  toil, 
Now  rest  in  spirit,  and  possess  "  the  peace 
Which  passeth  understanding."     Th'  end  draws 

nigh, 

Though  the  beginning  is  as  yesterday, 
And  a  broad  lifetime   spreads  'twixt   this   and 

that  — 

A  favored  life,  though  outwardly  the  butt 
Of  ignominy,  malice,  and  affront, 
Yet  lighted  from  within  by  the  clear  star 
Of  a  high  aim,  and  graciously  prolonged 
To  see  at  last  its  utmost  goal  attained. 
I  speak  not  of  mine  Order  and  my  House, 
Here    founded    by   my   hands   and    filled   with 

saints  — 

A  white  society  of  snowy  souls, 
Swayed  by  my  voice,  by  mine  example  led ; 
For  this  is  but  the  natural  harvest  reaped 
From  labors  such  as  mine  when  blessed  by  God. 
Though  I  rejoice  to  think  my  spirit  still 
Will  work  my  purposes,  through  worthy  hands, 
After  my  bones  are  shriveled  into  dust, 
Yet  have  I  gleaned  a  finer,  sweeter  fruit 
Of  holy  satisfaction,  sure  and  real, 
Though  subtler  than  the  tissue  of  the  air  — 


SAINT  ROMUALDO.  131 

The  power  completely  to  detach  the  soul 
From  her  companion  through  this  life,  the  flesh; 
So  that  in  blessed  privacy  of  peace, 
Communing  with  high  angels,  she  can  hold, 
Serenely  rapt,  her  solitary  course. 

Ye   know,  O   saints  of  heaven,  what  I  have 

borne 

Of  discipline  and  scourge  ;  the  twisted  lash 
Of  knotted  rope  that  striped  my  shrinking  limbs ; 
Vigils  and  fasts  protracted,  till  my  flesh 
Wasted  and  crumbled  from  mine  aching  bones, 
And  the  last  skin,  one  woof  of  pain  and  sores, 
Thereto  like  yellow  parchment  loosely  clung  ; 
Exposure  to  the  fever  and  the  frost, 
When  'mongst  the  hollows  of  the  hills  I  lurked 
From  persecution  of  misguided  folk, 
Accustoming  my  spirit  to  ignore 
The  burden  of  the  cross,  while  picturing 
The  bliss  of  disembodied  souls,  the  grace 
Of  holiness,  the  lives  of  sainted  men, 
And  entertaining  all  exalted  thoughts, 
That  nowise  touched  the  trouble  of  the  hour, 
Until  the  grief  and  pain  seemed  far  less  real 
Than  the  creations  of  my  brain  inspired. 
The  vision,  the  beatitude,  were  true  : 
The  agony  was  but  an  evil  dream. 
I  speak  not  now  as  one  who  hath  not  learned 
The  purport  of  those  lightly-bandied  words, 
Evil  and  Fate,  but  rather  one  who  knows 


132  SAINT  ROMUALDO. 

The  thunders  of  the  terrors  of  the  world. 
No  mortal  chance  or  change,  no  earthly  shock, 
Can  move  or  reach  my  soul,  securely  throned 
On  heights  of  contemplation  and  calm  prayer, 
Happy,  serene,  no  less  with  actual  joy 
Of  present  peace  than  faith  in  joys  to  come. 

This  soft,  sweet,  yellow  evening,  how  the  trees 
Stand  crisp  against  the  clear,  bright-colored  sky  ! 
How  the  white  mountain-tops  distinctly  shine, 
Taking  and  giving  radiance,  and  the  slopes 
Are  purpled  with  rich  floods  of  peach-hued  light ! 
Thank  God,  my  filmy,  old  dislustred  eyes 
Find  the  same  sense  of  exquisite  delight, 
My  heart  vibrates  to  the  same  touch  of  joy 
In   scenes  like  this,  as  when  my  pulse  danced 

high, 
And  youth  coursed  through  my  veins  !     This  the 

one  link 

That  binds  the  wan  old  man  that  now  I  am 
To  the  wild  lad  who  followed  up  the  hounds 
Among  Ravenna's  pine-woods  by  the  sea. 
For  there  how  oft  would  I  lose  all  delight 
In  the  pursuit,  the  triumph,  or  the  game, 
To  stray  alone  among  the  shadowy  glades, 
And  gaze,  as  one  who  is  not  satisfied 
With  gazing,  at  the  large,  bright,  breathing  sea, 
The  forest  glooms,  and  shifting  gleams  between 
The  fine  dark  fringes  of  the  fadeless  trees, 
On  gold-green  turf,   sweet-brier,  and  wild  pink 

rose ! 


SAINT  ROMUALDO.  133 

How  rich  that  buoyant  air  with  changing  scent 
Of   pungent   pine,  fresh   flowers,  and   salt   cool 

seas  ! 

And  when  all  echoes  of  the  chase  had  died, 
Of  horn  and  halloo,  bells  and  baying  hounds, 
How  mine  ears  drank  the  ripple  of  the  tide 
On  that  fair  shore,  the  chirp  of  unseen  birds, 
The  rustling  of  the  tangled  undergrowth, 
And  the  deep  lyric  murmur  of  the  pines, 
When  through  their  high  tops  swept  the  sudden 

breeze  ! 
There    was   my  world,    there   would   my  heart 

dilate, 

And  my  aspiring  soul  dissolve  in  prayer 
Unto  that  Spirit  of  Love  whose  energies 
Were  active  round  me,  yet  whose  presence, 

sphered 

In  the  unsearchable,  unbodied  air, 
Made  itself  felt,  but  reigned  invisible. 
This  ere  the  day  that  from  my  past  divides 
My  present,  and  that  made  me  what  I  am. 
Still  can  I  see  the  hot,  bright  sky,  the  sea 
inimitably  sparkling,  as  they  showed 
That   morning.     Though  I  deemed  I   took   no 

note 

Of  heaven  or  earth  or  waters,  yet  my  mind 
Retains  to-day  the  vivid  portraiture 
Of  every  line  and  feature  of.  the  scene. 
Light-hearted  'midst  the  dewy  lanes  I  fared 
Unto  the  sea,  whose  jocund  gleam  I  caught 


134  SAINT  ROMUALDO. 

Between  the  slim  boles,  when  I  heard  the  clink 
Of  naked  weapons,  then  a  sudden  thrust 
Sickening  to  hear,  and  then  a  stifled  groan  ; 
And  pressing  forward  I  beheld  the  sight 
That  seared  itself  for  ever  on  my  brain  — 
My  kinsman,  Ser  Ranieri,  on  the  turf, 
Fallen  upon  his  side,  his  bright  young  head 
Among   the  pine-spurs,  and   his    cheek   pressed 

close 

Unto  the  moist,  chill  sod  :  his  fingers  clutched 
A  handful  of  loose  weeds  and  grass  and  earth, 
Uprooted  in  his  anguish  as  he  fell, 
And   slowly   from   his   heart   the   thick   stream 

flowed, 

Fouling  the  green,  leaving  the  fair,  sweet  face 
Ghastly,  transparent,  with  blue,  stony  eyes 
Staring  in  blankness  on  that  other  one 
Who  triumphed  over  him.     With  hot  desire 
Of  instant  vengeance  I  unsheathed  my  sword 
To  rush  upon  the  slayer,  when  he  turned 
In  his  first  terror  of  blood-guiltiness. 

Within    my   heart   a    something    snapped    and 

brake. 

What  was  it  but  the  chord  of  rapturous  joy 
For  ever  stilled  ?     I  tottered  and  would  fall, 
Had  I  not  leaned  against  the  friendly  pine  ; 
For  all  realities  of  life,  unmoored 
From  their  firm  anchorage,  appeared  to  float 
Like  hollow  phantoms  past  my  dizzy  brain. 


SAINT  ROMUALDO.  135 

The  strange  delusion  wrought  upon  my  soul 

That  this  had  been  enacted  ages  since. 

This  very  horror  curdled  at  my  heart, 

This    net   of    trees    spread    round,   these    iron 

heavens, 

Were  closing  over  me  when  I  had  stood, 
Unnumbered  cycles  back,  and  fronted  him, 
My  father  ;  and  he  felt  mine  eyes  as  now, 
Yet  saw  me  not ;  and  then,  as  now,  that  form, 
The  one  thing  real,  lay  stretched  between  us  both. 
The  fancy  passed,  and  I  stood  sane  and  strong 
To  grasp  the  truth.     Then  I  remembered  all  — 
A  few  fierce  words  between  them  yester  eve 
Concerning  some  poor  plot  of  pasturage, 
Soon  silenced  into  courteous,  frigid  calm : 
This  was  the  end.     I  could  not  meet  him  now, 
To  curse  him,  to  accuse  him,  or  to  save, 
And  draw  him  from  the  red  entanglement 
Coiled  by  his  own  hands  round  his  ruined  life. 
God  pardon  me  !     My  heart  that  moment  held 
No  drop  of  pity  toward  this  wretched  soul ; 
And   cowering   down,   as  though  his  guilt  were 

mine, 

I  fled  amidst  the  savage  silences 
Of  that  grim  wood,  resolved  to  nurse  alone 
My  boundless  desolation,  shame,  and  grief. 

There,  in  that  thick -leaved  twilight  of  high 

noon, 
The  quiet  of  the  still,  suspended  air, 


136  SAINT  ROMUALDO. 

Once  more  my  wandering  thoughts  were  calmly 

ranged, 

Shepherded  by  my  will.     I  wept,  I  prayed 
A  solemn  prayer,  conceived  in  agony, 
Blessed  with  response  instant,  miraculous  ; 
For  in  that  hour  my  spirit  was  at  one 
With  Him  who  knows  and  satisfies  her  needs. 
The  supplication  and  the  blessing  sprang 
From  the  same  source,  inspired  divinely  both. 
I   prayed   for  light,    self-knowledge,    guidance, 

truth, 
And   these   like   heavenly   manna   were    rained 

down 

To  feed  my  hungered  soul.     His  guilt  was  mine. 
What  angel  had  been  sent  to  stay  mine  arm 
Until  the  fateful  moment  passed  away 
That  would  have  ushered  an  eternity 
Of  withering  remorse  ?     I  found  the  germs 
In  mine  own  heart  of  every  human  sin. 
That  waited  but  occasion's  tempting  breath 
To  overgrow  with  poisoned  bloom  my  life. 
What  God  thus  far  had  saved  me  from  myself  ? 
Here  was  the  lofty  truth  revealed,  that  each 
Must  feel  himself  in  all,  must  know  where'er 
The  great  soul  acts  or  suffers  or  enjoys, 
His  proper  soul  in  kinship  there  is  bound. 
Then  my  life-purpose  dawned  upon  my  mind, 
Encouraging  as  morning.     As  I  lay, 
Crushed  by  the  weight  of  universal  love, 
Which  mine   own   thoughts   had    heaped   upon 

myself, 


SAINT  ROMUALDO.  137 

I  heard  the  clear  chime  of  a  slow,  sweet  bell. 
I  knew  it  —  whence  it  came  and  what  it  sang. 
From  the  gray  convent  nigh  the  wood  it  pealed, 
And   called   the   monks   to   prayer.      Vigil  and 

prayer, 

Clean  lives,  white  days  of  strict  austerity  : 
Such  were  the  offerings  of  these  holy  saints. 
How  far  might  such  not  tend  to  expiate 
A  riotous  world's  indulgence  ?      Here  my  life, 
Doubly  austere  and  doubly  sanctified, 
Might  even  for  that  other  one  atone, 
So  bound  to  mine,  till  both  should  be  forgiven. 

They  sheltered  me,  not  questioning  the  need 
That  led  me  to  their  cloistered  solitude. 
How  rich,  how  freighted  with  pure  influence, 
With  dear  security  of  perfect  peace, 
Was  the  first  day  I  passed  within  those  walls ! 
The  holy  habit  of  perpetual  prayer, 
The  gentle  greetings,  the  rare  temperate  speech, 
The  chastening  discipline,  the  atmosphere 
Of  settled  and  profound  tranquillity, 
Were  even  as  living  waters  unto  one 
Who  perisheth  of  thirst.      Was  this  the  world 
That  yesterday  seemed  one  huge  battlefield 
For  brutish  passions  ?     Could  the  soul  of  man 
Withdraw  so  easily,  and  erect  apart 
Her  own  fair  temple  for  her  own  high  ends  ? 
But  this  serene  contentment  slowly  waned 
As  I  discerned  the  broad  disparity 


138  SAINT  ROMUALDO. 

Betwixt  the  form  and  spirit  of  the  laws 

That  bound  the  order  in  strait  brotherhood. 

Yet  when  I  sought  to  gain  a  larger  love, 

More  rigid  discipline,  severer  truth, 

And  more  complete  surrender  of  the  soul 

Unto  her  God,  this  was  to  my  reproach, 

And  scoffs  and  gibes  beset  me  on  all  sides. 

In  mine  own  cell  I  mortified  my  flesh, 

I  held  aloof  from  all  my  brethren's  feasts 

To  wrestle  with  my  viewless  enemies, 

Till  they  should  leave  their  blessing  on  my  head  ; 

For  nightly  was  I  haunted  by  that  face, 

White,  bloodless,  as  I  saw  it  'midst  the  ferns, 

Now  staring  out  of  darkness,  and  it  held 

Mine  eyes  from  slumber  and  my  brain  from  rest 

And  drove  me  from  my  straw  to  weep  and  pray. 

Rebellious  thoughts  such  subtle  torture  wrought 

Upon  my  spirit  that  I  lay  day-long 

In  dumb  despair,  until  the  blessed  hope 

Of  mercy  dawned  again  upon  my  soul, 

As  gradual  as  the  slow  gold  moon  that  mounts 

The  airy  steps  of  heaven.     My  faith  arose 

With  sure  perception  that  disaster,  wrong, 

And  every  shadow  of  man's  destiny 

Are  merely  circumstance,  and  cannot  touch 

The  soul's  fine  essence :  they  exist  or  die 

Only  as  she  affirms  them  or  denies. 

This  faith  sustains  me  even  to  the  end : 
It  floods  my  heart  with  peace  as  surely  now 


SAINT  ROMUALDO.  139 

As  on  that  day  the  friars  drove  me  forth, 
Urging  that  my  asceticism,  too  harsh, 
Endured   through   pride,  would   bring   into   re 
proach 

Their  customs  and  their  order.     Then  began 
My  exile  in  the  mountains,  where  I  bode 
A  hunted  man.     The  elements  conspired 
Against  me,  and  I  was  the  seasons'  sport, 
Drenched,    parched,   and    scorched    and    frozen 

alternately, 
Burned  with  shrewd  frosts,  prostrated  by  fierce 

heats, 

Shivering  'neath  chilling  dews  and  gusty  rains, 
And  buffeted  by  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Yet  was  this  period  my  time  of  joy : 
My  daily  thoughts  perpetual  converse  held 
With  angels  ministrant ;  mine  ears  were  charmed 
With  sweet  accordance  of  celestial  sounds, 
Song,  harp  and  choir,  clear  ringing  through  the 

air. 

And  visions  were  revealed  unto  mine  eyes 
By  night  and  day  of  Heaven's  very  courts, 
In  shadowless,  undimmed  magnificence. 
I  gave  God  thanks,  not  that  He  sheltered  me, 
And  fed  me  as  He  feeds  the  fowls  of  air  — 
For  had  I  perished,  this  too  had  been  well  — 
But  for  the  revelation  of  His  truth, 
The  glory,  the  beatitude  vouchsafed 
To  exalt,  to  heal,  to  quicken,  to  inspire  ; 
So  that  the  pinched,  lean  excommunicate 


140  SAINT  ROMUALDG. 

Was  crowned  with  joy  more  solid,  more  secure, 
Than  all  the  comfort  of  the  vales  could  bring. 
Then   the   good    Lord    touched    certain    fervid 

hearts, 

Aspiring  toward  His  love,  to  come  to  me, 
Timid  and  few  at  first ;  but  as  they  heard 
From  mine  own  lips  the  precious  oracles, 
That  soothed  the  trouble  of  their  souls,  appeased 
Their  spiritual  hunger,  and  disclosed 
All  of  the  God  within  them  to  themselves, 
They  flocked  about  me,  and  they  hailed  me  saint, 
And  sware  to  follow  and  to  serve  the  good 
Which  my  word  published  and  my  life  declared. 
Thus  the  lone  hermit  of  the  mountain-top 
Descended  leader  of  a  band  of  saints, 
And  midway  'twixt  the  summit  and  the  vale 
I  perched  my  convent.     Yet  I  bated  not 
One  whit  of  strict  restraint  and  abstinence. 
And  they  who  love  me  and  who  serve  the  truth 
Have  learned  to  suffer  with  me,  and  have  won 
The  supreme  joy  that  is  not  of  the  flesh, 
Foretasting  the  delights  of  Paradise. 
This  faith,  to  them  imparted,  will  endure 
After  my  tongue  hath  ceased  to  utter  it, 
And  the  great  peace  hath  settled  on  my  soul. 


AFTERNOON.  141 

AFTERNOON. 

SMALL,  shapeless  drifts  of  cloud 
Sail  slowly  northward  in  the  soft-hued  sky, 
With    blue    half -tints    and  rolling    summits 

bright, 

By  the  late  sun  caressed ;  slight  hazes  shroud 
All  things  afar  ;  shineth  each  leaf  anigh 
With  its  own  warmth  and  light. 

O'erblown  by  Southland  airs, 
The  summer  landscape  basks  in  utter  peace : 
In  lazy  streams  the  lazy  clouds  are  seen ; 
Low  hills,  broad  meadows,  and  large,  clear-cut 

squares 

Of  ripening  corn-fields,  rippled  by  the  breeze, 
With  shifting  shade  and  sheen. 

Hark !  and  you  may  not  hear 
A  sound  less  soothing  than  the  rustle  cool 

Of  swaying  leaves,  the  steady  wiry  drone 
Of  unseen  crickets,  sudden  chirpings  clear 
Of  happy  birds,  the  tinkle  of  the  pool, 
Chafed  by  a  single  stone. 

What  vague,  delicious  dreams, 
Born  of  this  golden  hour  of  afternoon, 

And  air  balm-freighted,  fill  the  soul  with  bliss, 
Transpierced    like   yonder   clouds  with   lustrous 
gleams, 


142  PHANTASIES. 

Fantastic,  brief  as  they,  and,  like  them,  spun 
Of  gilded  nothingness  ! 

All  things  are  well  with  her. 
'T  is  good  to  be  alive,  to  see  the  light 

That  plays  upon  the  grass,  to  feel  (and  sigh 
With  perfect  pleasure)  the  mild  breezes  stir 
Among  the  garden  roses,  red  and  white, 
With  whiffs  of  fragrancy. 

There  is  no  troublous  thought, 
No  painful  memory,  no  grave  regret, 

To  mar  the  sweet  suggestions  of  the  hour : 
The  soul,  at  peace,  reflects  the  peace  without, 
Forgetting  grief  as  sunset  skies  forget 
The  morning's  transient  shower. 


PHANTASIES 

(AFTER  ROBERT  SCHUMANN). 

I.  EVENING. 

REST,  beauty,  stillness  :  not  a  waif  of  cloud 
From  gray-blue  east  sheer  to  the  yellow  west  — 
No  film  of  mist  the  utmost  slopes  to  shroud. 

The  earth  lies  grave,  by  quiet  airs  caressed, 
And  shepherdeth  her  shadows,  but  each  stream, 
Free  to  the  sky,  is  by  that  glow  possessed, 


PHANTASIES.  143 

And  traileth  with  the  splendors  of  a  dream 
Athwart  the  dusky  land.     Uplift  thine  eyes ! 
Unbroken  by  a  vapor  or  a  gleam, 

The  vast  clear  reach  of  mild,  wan  twilight  skies. 
But  look  again,  and  lo,  the  evening  star ! 
Against  the  pale  tints  black  the  slim  elms  rise, 

The  earth  exhales  sweet  odors  nigh  and  far, 
And  from  the  heavens  fine  influences  fall. 
Familiar  things  stand  not  for  what  they  are  : 

What  they  suggest,  foreshadow,  or  recall 
The  spirit  is  alert  to  apprehend, 
Imparting  somewhat  of  herself  to  ah1. 

Labor  and  thought  and  care  are  at  an  end : 

The  soul  is  filled  with  gracious  reveries, 

And  with  her  mood  soft  sounds  and  colors  blend  ; 

For  simplest  sounds  ring  forth  like  melodies 
In  this  weird-lighted  air  —  the  monotone 
Of  some  far  bell,  the  distant  farmyard  cries, 

A  barking  dog,  the  thin,  persistent  drone 
Of  crickets,  and  the  lessening  call  of  birds. 
The  apparition  of  yon  star  alone 

Breaks  on  the  sense  like  music.  Beyond  words 
The  peace  that  floods  the  soul,  for  night  is  here, 
And  Beauty  still  is  guide  and  harbinger. 


144  PHANTASIES. 


H.   ASPIRATION. 

Dark  lies  the  earth,  and  bright  with  worlds  the 
sky: 

That  soft,  large,  lustrous  star,  that  first  out 
shone, 

Still  holds  us  spelled  with  potent  sorcery. 

Dilating,  shrinking,  lightening,  it  hath  won 
Our  spirit  with  its  strange  strong  influence, 
And  sways  it  as  the  tides  beneath  the  moon. 

What    impulse     this,    o'ermastering   heart    and 

sense  ? 
Exalted,    thrilled,    the    freed    soul    fain    would 

soar 
Unto  that  point  of  shining  prominence, 

Craving  new  fields  and  some  unheard-of  shore, 

Yea,  all  the  heavens,  for  her  activity, 

To  mount  with  daring  flight,  to  hover  o'er 

Low  hills  of  earth,  flat  meadows,  level  sea, 
And  earthly  joy  and  trouble.  In  this  hour 
Of  waning  light  and  sound,  of  mystery, 

Of  shadowed  love  and  beauty-veiled  power, 

She  feels  her  wings:   she  yearns  to  grasp  her 

own, 
Knowing  the  utmost  good  to  be  her  dower. 


PHANTASIES.  145 

A  dream !  a  dream !  for  at  a  touch  't  is  gone. 
O  mocking  spirit !  thy  mere  fools  are  we, 
Unto  the  depths  from  heights  celestial  thrown. 

From  these  blind  gropings  toward  reality, 
This  thirst  for  truth,  this  most  pathetic  need 
Of  something  to  uplift,  to  justify, 

To  help  and  comfort  while  we  faint  and  bleed, 
May  we   not   draw,  wrung    from    the    last  de 
spair, 
Some  argument  of  hope,  some  blessed  creed, 

That   we   can   trust    the   faith   which   whispers 

prayer, 

The  vanishings,  the  ecstasy,  the  gleam, 
The  nameless  aspiration,  and  the  dream  ? 

HI.   WHEREFORE  ? 

Deep  languor  overcometh  mind  and  frame : 
A  listless,  drowsy,  utter  weariness, 
A  trance  wherein  no  thought  finds  speech  or 
name, 

The  overstrained  spirit  doth  possess. 

She  sinks  with  drooping  wing  —  poor  unfledged 
bird, 

That  fain  had  flown !  —  in  fluttering  breathless- 
ness. 


146  PHANTASIES. 

To  what  end  those  high  hopes  that  wildly  stirred 
The  beating  heart  with  aspirations  vain  ? 
Why  proffer  prayers  unanswered  and  unheard 

To  blank,  deaf  heavens  that  will  not  heed  her 

pain? 

Where  lead  these  lofty,  soaring  tendencies, 
That  leap  arid  fly  and  poise,  to  fall  again, 

Yet  seem  to  link  her  with  the  utmost  skies  ? 
What   mean  these   clinging   loves  that  bind  to 

earth, 
And  claim  her  with  beseeching,  wistful  eyes  ? 

This  little  resting-place  'twixt  death  and  birth, 

Why  is  it  fretted  with  the  ceaseless  flow 

Of  flood  and  ebb,  with  overgrowth  and  dearth, 

And  vext  with  dreams,  and  clouded  with  strange 

woe? 

Ah !  she  is  tired  of  thought,  she  yearns  for  peace, 
Seeing  all  things  one  equal  end  must  know. 

Wherefore  this  tangle  of  perplexities, 

The  trouble  or  the  joy  ?  the  weary  maze 

Of  narrow  fears  and  hopes  that  may  not  cease  ? 

A  chill  falls  on  her  from  the  skyey  ways, 
Black  with  the  night-tide,  where  is  none  to  hear 
The  ancient  cry,  the  Wherefore  of  our  days. 


PHANTASIES.  147 

IV.   FANCIES. 

The  ceaseless  whirr  of  crickets  fills  the  ear 
From    underneath   each    hedge   and    bush   and 

tree, 
Deep  in  the  dew-drenched  grasses  everywhere. 

The  simple  sound  dispels  the  fantasy 

Of  gloom  and  terror  gathering  round  the  mind. 

It  seems  a  pleasant  thing  to  breathe,  to  be, 

To  hear  the  many-voiced,  soft  summer  wind 
Lisp    through    the    dark    thick    leafage     over 
head  — 
To  see  the  rosy  half-moon  soar  behind 

The  black  slim-branching   elms.     Sad  thoughts 

have  fled, 

Trouble  and  doubt,  and  now  strange  reveries 
And  odd  caprices  fill  us  in  their  stead. 

From  yonder  broken  disk  the  redness  dies, 
Like  gold  fruit  through  the  leaves  the  half-sphere 

gleams, 
Then  over  the  hoar  tree-tops  climbs  the  skies, 

Blanched  ever  more  and  more,  until  it  beams 
Whiter  than  crystal.  Like  a  scroll  unfurled, 
And  shadowy  as  a  landscape  seen  in  dreams, 


148  PHANTASIES. 

Reveals  itself  the  sleeping,  quiet  world, 
Painted  in  tender  grays  and  whites  subdued  — 
The   speckled   stream  with   flakes  of  light   im- 
pearled, 

The  wide,  soft  meadow  and  the  massive  wood. 

Naught  is  too  wild  for  our  credulity 

In  this  weird  hour :  our  finest  dreams  hold  good. 

Quaint  elves  and  frolic  flower-sprites  we  see, 
And  fairies  weaving  rings  of  gossamer, 
And  angels  floating  through  the  filmy  air. 

V.   IN   THE   NIGHT. 

Let  us  go  in :  the  air  is  dank  and  chill 

With  dewy  midnight,  and  the  moon  rides  high 

O'er  ghostly  fields,  pale  stream,  and  spectral  hill. 

This   hour   the  dawn   seems  farthest  from  the 

sky 

So  weary  long  the  space  that  h'es  between 
That  sacred  joy  and  this  dark  mystery 

Of  earth  and  heaven  :  no  glimmering  is  seen, 
In  the  star-sprinkled  east,  of  coming  day, 
Nor,  westward,  of  the  splendor  that  hath  been. 

Strange  fears  beset  us,  nameless  terrors  sway 
The  brooding  soul,  that  hungers  for  her  rest, 
Outworn  with  changing  moods,  vain  hopes'  delay, 


PHANTASIES.  149 

With  conscious  thought  o'erburdened  and  op 
pressed. 

The  mystery  and  the  shadow  wax  too  deep  ; 

She  longs  to  merge  both  sense  and  thought  in 
sleep. 

VI.  FAERIE. 

From  the  oped  lattice  glance  once  more  abroad 
While  the  ethereal  moontide  bathes  with  light 
Hill,  stream,  and  garden,  and  white-winding  road. 

All  gracious  myths  born  of  the  shadowy  night 
Recur,  and  hover  in  fantastic  guise, 
Airy  and  vague,  before  the  drowsy  sight. 

On  yonder  soft  gray  hill  Endymion  lies 

In  rosy  slumber,  and  the  moonlit  air 

Breathes  kisses  on  his  cheeks  and  lips  and  eyes. 

'Twixt  bush  and  bush  gleam  flower- white  limbs, 

left  bare, 

Of  huntress-nymphs,  and  flying  raiment  thin, 
Vanishing  faces,  and  bright  floating  hair. 

The  quaint  midsummer  fairies  and  their  kin, 
Gnomes,  elves,  and  trolls,  on  blossom,  branch,  and 

grass 
Gambol  and  dance,  and  winding  out  and  in 

Leave  circles  of  spun  dew  where'er  they  pass. 
Through  the  blue  ether  the  freed  Ariel  flies ; 
Enchantment  holds  the  air ;  a  swarming  mass 


150  PHANTASIES. 

Of  myriad  dusky,  gold-winged  dreams  arise, 
Throng    toward    the   gates   of    sense,    and    so 

possess 
The  soul,  and  lull  it  to  forgetfulness. 

VH.    CONFUSED    DREAMS. 

O  strange,  dim  other-world  revealed  to  us, 
Beginning  there  where  ends  reality, 
Lying  'twixt  life  and  death,  and  populous 

With  souls  from  either  sphere !  now  enter  we 
Thy  twisted  paths.  Barred  is  the  silver  gate, 
But  the  wild-carven  doors  of  ivory 

Spring  noiselessly  apart :  between  them  straight 
Flies  forth  a  cloud  of  nameless  shadowy  things, 
With  harpies,  imps,  and  monsters,  small  and  great, 

Blurring    the   thick   air   with    their    darkening 

wings. 

All  humors  of  the  blood  and  brain  take  shape, 
And  fright  us  with  our  own  imaginings. 

A  trouble  weighs  upon  us :  no  escape 
From  this  unnatural  region  can  there  be. 
Fixed  eyes  stare  on  us,  wide  mouths  grin  and 
gape, 

Familiar  faces  out  of  reach  we  see. 

Fain  would  we  scream,  to  shatter  with  a  cry 

The  tangled  woof  of  hideous  fantasy, 


PHANTASIES.  151 

When,  lo  !  the  air  grows  clear,  a  soft  fair  sky 
Shines  overhead  :  sharp  pain  dissolves  in  peace ; 
Beneath  the  silver  archway  quietly 

We  float  away  :  all  troublous  visions  cease. 
By  a  strange  sense  of  joy  we  are  possessed, 
Body  and  spirit  soothed  in  perfect  rest. 

VIIT.    THE  END   OF   THE   SONG. 

What  dainty  note  of  long-drawn  melody 
Athwart  our  dreamless   sleep   rings   sweet   and 

clear, 
Till  all  the  fumes  of  slumber  are  brushed  by, 

And  with  awakened  consciousness  we  hear 

The   pipe   of   birds?     Look  forth!     The  sane, 

white  day 
Blesses  the  hilltops,  and  the  sun  is  near. 

All  misty  phantoms  slowly  roll  away 

With  the  night's  vapors  toward  the  western  sky. 

The  Real  enchants  us,  the  fresh  breath  of  hay 

Blows  toward  us ;  soft  the  meadow-grasses  lie, 
Bearded  with  dew ;  the  air  is  a  caress  ; 
The  sudden  sun  o'ertops  the  boundary 

Of  eastern  hills,  the  morning  joyousness 

Thrills  tingling  through  the  frame  \  life's  pulse 

beats  strong ; 
Night's  fancies  melt  like  dew.     So  ends  the  song ! 


152        MONUMENT  TO  LORD  BYRON. 

ON  THE  PROPOSAL  TO  ERECT  A 
MONUMENT  IN  ENGLAND  TO  LORD 
BYRON. 

THE  grass  of  fifty  Aprils  hath  waved  green 

Above  the  spent  heart,  the  Olympian  head, 
The  hands  crost  idly,  the  shut  eyes  unseen, 
Unseeing,  the  locked    lips   whose  song    hath 

fled; 

Yet  mystic-lived,  like  some  rich,  tropic  flower, 
His   fame   puts   forth  fresh   blossoms   hour   by 

hour ; 

Wide  spread  the  laden  branches  dropping  dew 
On  the  low,  laureled  brow  misunderstood, 
That  bent  not,  neither  bowed,  until  subdued 
By   the   last   foe   who   crowned  while  he   o'er- 
threw. 

Fair  was  the  Easter  Sabbath  morn  when  first 

Men  heard  he  had  not  wakened  to  its  light : 
The  end  had  come,  and  time  had  done  its  worst, 
For   the   black   cloud  had    fallen    of  endless 

night. 

Then  in  the  town,  as  Greek  accosted  Greek, 
'T  was  not  the  wonted  festal  words  to  speak, 
"  Christ  is  arisen,"  but  "  Our  chief  is  gone," 
With  such  wan  aspect  and  grief-smitten  head 
As  when  the  awful  cry  of  "  Pan  is  dead  !  " 
Filled  echoing  hill  and  valley  with  its  moan. 


MONUMENT  TO  LORD  BYRON.         153 

"  I  am  more  fit  for  death  than  the  world  deems," 

So  spake  he  as  life's  light  was  growing  dim, 
And  turned  to  sleep  as  unto  soothing  dreams. 

What  terrors  could  its  darkness  hold  for  him, 
Familiar  with  all  anguish,  but  with  fear 
Still  unacquainted  ?     On  his  martial  bier 
They  laid  a  sword,  a  helmet,  and  a  crown  — 
Meed  of  the  warrior,  but  not  these  among 
His   voiceless   lyre,   whose   silent   chords   un 
strung 

Shall  wait  —  how  long  ?  —  for  touches  like  his 
own. 

An  alien  country  mourned  him  as  her  son, 

And  hailed  him  hero :  his  sole,  fitting  tomb 
Were  Theseus'  temple  or  the  Parthenon, 

Fondly  she  deemed.     His  brethren  bare  him 

home, 

Their  exiled  glory,  past  the  guarded  gate 
Where    England's    Abbey    shelters    England's 

great. 

Afar  he  rests  whose  very  name  hath  shed 
New  lustre  on  her  with  the  song  he  sings. 
So  Shakespeare  rests  who  scorned  to  lie  with 

kings, 
Sleeping  at  peace  midst  the  unhonored  dead. 

And  fifty  years  suffice  to  overgrow 

With  gentle  memories  the  foul  weeds  of  hate 
That  shamed  his  grave.     The  world  begins  to 
know 


154         MONUMENT  TO  LORD  BYRON. 

Her  loss,  and  view  with  other  eyes  his  fate. 

Even  as  the  cunning  workman  brings  to  pass 

The  sculptor's  thought  from  out  the  unwieldy 
mass 

Of  shapeless  marble,  so  Time  lops  away 
The  stony  crust  of  falsehood  that  concealed 
His  just  proportions,  and,  at  last  revealed, 

The  statue  issues  to  the  light  of  day, 

Most  beautiful,  most  human.     Let  them  fling 

The  first  stone  who  are  tempted  even  as  he, 
And  have  not  swerved.    When  did  that  rare  soul 
sing 

The  victim's  shame,  the  tyrant's  eulogy, 
The  great  belittle,  or  exalt  the  small, 
Or  grudge  his  gift,  his  blood,  to  disenthrall 
The  slaves  of  tyranny  or  ignorance  ? 

Stung  by  fierce  tongues  himself,  whose  rightful 
fame 

Hath  he  reviled  ?     Upon  what  noble  name 
Did  the  winged  arrows  of  that  barbed  wit  glance  ? 

The  years'  thick,  clinging  curtains  backward  pull, 
And  show  him  as  he  is,  crowned  with  bright 

beams, 
"  Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 

As  he  hath  been  or  might  be  ;  Sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality."1     He  needs 
No  monument  whose  name  and  song  and  deeds 
1  Cain,  Act  I.  Scene  1. 


ARABESQUE.  155 

Are  graven  in  all  foreign  hearts ;  but  she 
His  mother,  England,  slow  and  last  to  wake, 
Needs  raise  the  votive  shaft  for  her  fame's 
sake: 

Hers  is  the  shame  if  such  forgotten  be ! 
May,  1875. 


AEABESQUE. 

ON  a  background  of  pale  gold 
I  would  trace  with  quaint  design, 

Penciled  fine, 

Brilliant-colored,  Moorish  scenes, 
Mosques  and  crescents,  pages,  queens, 

Line  on  line, 

That  the  prose-world  of  to-day 
Might  the  gorgeous  Past's  array 

Once  behold. 

On  the  magic  painted  shield 
Rich  Granada's  Vega  green 

Should  be  seen ; 

Crystal  fountains,  coolness  flinging, 
Hanging  gardens'  skyward  springing 

Emerald  sheen  ; 
Ruddy  when  the  daylight  falls, 
Crowned  Alhambra's  beetling  walls 

Stand  revealed ; 


156  ARABESQUE. 

Balconies  that  overbrow 

Field  and  city,  vale  and  stream. 

In  a  dream 

Lulled  the  drowsy  landscape  basks ; 
Weary  toilers  cease  their  tasks. 

Mark  the  gleam 

Silvery  of  each  white-swathed  peak ! 
Mountain-airs  caress  the  cheek, 

Fresh  from  snow. 

Here  in  Lindaraxa's  bower 
The  immortal  roses  bloom ; 

In  the  room 

Lion-guarded,  marble-paven, 
Still  the  fountain  leaps  to  heaven. 

But  the  doom 

Of  the  banned  and  stricken  race 
Overshadows  every  place, 

Every  hour. 

Where  fair  Lindaraxa  dwelt 
Flits  the  bat  on  velvet  wings ; 

Mute  the  strings 
Of  the  broken  mandoline ; 
The  Pavilion  of  the  Queen 

Widely  flings 

Vacant  windows  to  the  night ; 
Moonbeams  kiss  the  floor  with  light 

Where  she  knelt. 


ARABESQUE.  157 

Through  these  halls  that  people  stepped 
Who  through  darkling  centuries 

Held  the  keys 

Of  all  wisdom,  truth,  and  art, 
In  a  Paradise  apart, 

Lapped  in  ease, 

Sagely  pondering  deathless  themes, 
While,  befooled  with  monkish  dreams, 

Europe  slept. 

Where  shall  they  be  found  to-day  ? 
Yonder  hill  that  frets  the  sky 

"  The  Last  Sigh 
Of  the  Moor  "  is  named  still. 
There  the  ill-starred  Boabdil 

Bade  good-by 
To  Granada  and  to  Spain, 
Where  the  Crescent  ne'er  again 

Holdeth  sway. 

Vanished  like  the  wind  that  blows, 
Whither  shall  we  seek  their  trace 

On  earth's  face  ? 
The  gigantic  wheel  of  fate, 
Crushing  all  things  soon  or  late, 

Now  a  race, 

Now  a  single  life  o'erruns, 
Now  a  universe  of  suns, 

Now  a  rose. 


158  AGAMEMNON1 S  TOMB. 


AGAMEMNON'S  TOMB. 

UPLIFT  the  ponderous,  golden  mask  of  death, 

And  let  the  sun  shine  on  him  as  it  did 
How  many  thousand  years  agone  !     Beneath 

This  worm-defying,  uncorrupted  lid, 
Behold  the  young,  heroic  face,  round-eyed, 
Of  one  who  in  his  full-flowered  manhood  died ; 

Of  nobler  frame  than  creatures  of  to-day, 
Swathed  in  fine  linen  cerecloths  fold  on  fold, 
With   carven  weapons   wrought  of  hronze   and 
gold, 

Accoutred  like  a  warrior  for  the  fray. 

We  gaze  in  awe  at  these  huge-modeled  limbs, 

Shrunk  in  death's  narrow  house,  but  hinting 

yet 
Their  ancient  majesty  ;  these  sightless  rims 

Whose  living  eyes  the  eyes  of  Helen  met ; 
The  speechless  lips  that  ah!  what  tales  might 

tell 
Of  the  earth's  morning-tide  when  gods  did  dwell 

Amidst  a  generous-fashioned,  god-like  race, 
Who  dwarf  our  puny  semblance,  and  who  won 
The  secret  soul  of  Beauty  for  their  own, 

While  all  our  art  but  crudely  apes  their  grace. 

We  gather  all  the  precious  relics  up, 

The  golden  buttons  chased  with  wondrous  craft, 


AGAMEMNON'S  TOMB.  159 

The  sculptured  trinkets  and  the  crystal  cup, 
The  sheathed,  bronze  sword,  the  knife  with 
brazen  haft. 

Fain  would  we  wrest  with   curious    eyes  from 
these 

Unnumbered  long-forgotten  histories, 
The  deeds  heroic  of  this  mighty  man, 

On  whom  once  more  the  living  daylight  beams, 

To  shame  our  littleness,  to  mock  our  dreams, 
And  the  abyss  of  centuries  to  span. 

Yet  could  we  rouse  him  from  his  blind  repose, 
How  might  we  meet  his  searching  question 
ings, 

Concerning  all  the  follies,  wrongs,  and  woes, 
Since   his  great  day  whom  men  call  King  of 

Kings, 

Victorious  Agamemnon  ?     How  might  we 
Those  large,  clear  eyes  confront,    which  scorn 
fully 

Would  view  us  as  a  poor,  degenerate  race, 
Base-souled   and    mean  -  proportioned  ?      What 

reply 

Give  to  the  beauty-loving  Greek's  heart-cry, 
Seeking  his  ancient  gods  in  vacant  space  ? 

What  should  he  find  within  a  world  grown  cold, 
Save  doubt  and  trouble  ?  To  his  sunny  creed 
A  thousand  gloomy,  warring  sects  succeed. 

How  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  might  he  be  told, 


160         SIC  SEMPER  LIBERATORIBUS! 

When    over    half   the   world   the   war-cloud 

lowers  ? 
How  would  he  mock  these  faltering  hopes  of 

ours, 

Who  knows  the  secret  now  of  death  and  fate ! 
Humbly  we  gaze  on  the  colossal  frame, 
And  mutely  we  accept  the  mortal  shame, 
Of  men  degraded  from  a  high  estate. 


SIC  SEMPER  LIBERATORIBUS ! 

MABCH  13,  1881. 

As  one  who  feels  the  breathless  nightmare  grip 
His  heart-strings,  and  through  visioned  horrors 

fares, 
Now  on  a  thin-ledged   chasm's   rock-crumbling 

lip, 

Now  on  a  tottering  pinnacle  that  dares 
The  front  of  heaven,  while  always  unawares 
Weird  monsters  start  above,  around,  beneath, 
Each  glaring  from  some  uglier  mask  of  death, 

So  the  White  Czar  imperial  progress  made 
Through  terror-haunted  days.     A  shock,  a  cry 
Whose   echoes   ring   the   globe  —  the  spectre 's 

laid. 

Hurled  o'er  the  abyss,  see  the  crowned  martyr  lie 
Resting   in   peace  — -  fear,    change,   and   death 

gone  by. 


SIC  SEMPER  L1BERATORIBUS.          161 

Fit   end   for   nightmare  —  mist   of   blood   and 

tears, 
Red  climax  to  the  slow,  abortive  years. 

The  world  draws  breath  —  one  long,  deep- 
shuddering  sigh, 

At  that  which  dullest  brain  prefigured  clear 

As  swift-sure  bolt  from  thunder-threatening  sky. 

How  heaven-anointed  humblest  lots  appear 

Beside  his  glittering  eminence  of  fear ; 

His  spiked  crown,  sackcloth  purple,  poisoned 
cates, 

His  golden  palace  honey-combed  with  hates. 

Well,  it  is  done  !    A  most  heroic  plan, 

Which  after  myriad  plots  succeeds  at  last 

In  robbing  of  his  life  one  poor  old  man, 

Whose  sole  offense  —  his  birthright  —  has  but 

passed 

To  fresher  blood,  with  younger  strength  recast. 
What  men  are  these,  who,  clamoring  to  be  free, 
Would  bestialize  the  world  to  what  they  be  ? 

Whose  sons  are  they  who  made  that'  snow- 
wreathed  head 

Their  frenzy's  target  ?  In  their  Russian  veins, 
What  alien  current  urged  on  to  smite  him  dead 
Whose  word  had  loosed  a  million  Russian 

chains  ? 

What  brutes  were  they  for  whom  such  speechless 
pains, 


162  DON  RAFAEL. 

So  royally  endured,  no  human  thrill 
Awoke,  in  hearts  drunk  with  the  lust  to  kill  ? 

Not  brutes  !    No  tiger  of  the  wilderness, 

No  jackal  of  the  jungle,  bears  such  brand 

As  man's  black  heart,  who  shrinks  not  to  confess 

The  desperate  deed  of  his  deliberate  hand. 

Our  kind,  our  kin,  have  done  this  thing.     We 

stand 
Bowed  earthward,  red  with  shame,  to  see  such 

wrong 
Prorogue    Love's    cause    and   Truth's   —  God 

knows  how  long ! 

DON  EAFAEL. 

"  I  WOULD  not  have,"  he  said, 
"Tears,  nor  the  black  pall,  nor  the  wormy 

grave, 
Grief's  hideous  panoply  I  would  not  have 

Round  me  when  I  am  dead. 

"  Music  and  flowers  and  light, 
And  choric  dances  to  guitar  and  flute, 
Be  these  around  me  when  my  lips  are  mute, 

Mine  eyes  are  sealed  from  sight. 

"  So  let  me  lie  one  day, 
One  long,  eternal  day,  in  sunshine  bathed, 
In  cerements  of  silken  tissue  swathed, 

Smothered  'neath  flowers  of  May. 


DON  RAFAEL.  163 

"  One  perfect  day  of  peace, 
Or  ere  clean  flame  consume  my  fleshly  veil, 
My  life  —  a  gilded  vapor  —  shall  exhale, 

Brief  as  a  sigh  —  and  cease. 

"  But  ere  the  torch  be  laid 
To  my  unshrinking  limbs  by  some  true  hand, 
Athwart  the  orange-fragrant  laughing  land, 

Bring  many  a  dark-eyed  maid 

"  From  the  bright,  sea-kissed  town  ; 
My  beautiful,  beloved  enemies, 
Gemmed  as  the  dew,  voluptuous  as  the  breeze, 

Each  in  her  festal  gown. 

"  All  those  through  whom  I  learned 
The  sweets  of  folly  and  the  pains  of  love, 
My  Rose,  my  Star,  my  Comforter,  my  Dove, 

For  whom,  poor  moth,  I  burned. 

"  Loves  of  a  day,  an  hour, 
Or  passions  (vowed  eternal)  of  a  year, 
Though  each  be  strange  to  each,  to  me  all  dear 

As  to  the  bee  the  flower. 

"  Around  me  they  shall  move 
In  languid  contra  dances,  and  shall  shed 
Their  smiling  eyebeams  as  I  were  not  dead, 

Bu   quick  to  flash  back  love. 


164  DON  RAFAEL. 

"  Something  not  alien  quite 
To  tender  ruth,  perchance  their  breast  shall  fill, 
Seeing  him  that  was  so  mobile  grown  so  still, 

The  fiery-veined  so  white. 

"  And  when  the  dance  is  o'er, 
The  pinched  guitar,  the  smitten  tambourine, 
Have  ceased  their  rhythmic  beat,  —  oh,  friends 
of  mine, 

On  my  rich  bier,  then  pour 

"  The  garlands  that  ye  wear, 
The  happy  rose  that  on  your  bosom  breathes, 
The  fresh-culled  clusters  and  the  dewy  wreaths 

That  crown  your  fragrant  hair. 

"  Though  blind,  I  still  shall  see, 
Though  dead,  shall  feel  your  presence  and  shall 

know, 

I  who  was  beauty's  life-long  slave,  shall  so 
Win  her  in  death  to  me. 

"  Thanks,  sisters,  and  farewell ! 
Back  to   your  joys.      My    brother  shall   make 

room 

For  my  tried  sword  upon  the  high-piled  bloom, 
And  fire  the  pinnacle. 

"  My  soul,  pure  flame,  shall  leap 
To  meet  its  parent  essence  once  again. 


DON  RAFAEL.  165 

My  body  dust  and  ashes  shall  remain, 

Tired  heart  and  brain  shall  sleep. 

"  Life  has  one  gate  alone, 
Obscure,  beset  with  peril  and  fierce  pain. 
Large  death  has  many  portals  to  his  fane, 

Why  choose  we  to  make  moan  ? 

"  Why  dwell  with  worms  and  clay 
When  we   may  soar  through   air  on    wings  of 

flame, 
Dissolve  to  small,  white  dust  our  perfect  frame, 

And  never  know  decay  ? 

"  A  brother's  pious  hand 
The  pure,  fire-winnowed  ashes  shall  inurn, 
And  lay  them  in  the  orange  grove  where  burn 

Globed  suns  that  scent  the  land. 

"  The  leaf  shall  be  more  green, 
Even  for  my  dust  —  more  snowy-soft  the  flower, 
More  juicy-sweet   the    fruit's    live   pulp  —  the 
bower 

Richer  that  I  have  been. 

"  For  I  would  not,"  he  said, 
"  Tears  and  the  black  pall  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Grief's  hideous  panoply  I  would  not  have 

Round  me  when  I  am  dead." 


166  OFF  ROUGH  POINT. 


OFF  ROUGH  POINT. 

WE  sat  at  twilight  nigh  the  sea, 

The  fog  hung  gray  and  weird. 
Through  the  thick  film  uncannily 

The  broken  moon  appeared. 

We  heard  the  billows  crack  and  plunge, 

We  saw  nor  waves  nor  ships. 
Earth  sucked  the  vapors  like  a  sponge, 

The  salt  spray  wet  our  lips. 

Closer  the  woof  of  white  mist  drew, 

Before,  behind,  beside. 
How  could  that  phantom  moon  break  through, 

Above  that  shrouded  tide  ? 

The  roaring  waters  filled  the  ear, 

A  white  blank  foiled  the  sight. 
Close-gathering  shadows  near,  more  near, 

Brought  the  blind,  awful  night. 

O  friends  who  passed  unseen,  unknown ! 

O  dashing,  troubled  sea  ! 
Still  stand  we  on  a  rock  alone, 

Walled  round  by  mystery. 


MATER  AMAB1LIS.  167 


MATER  AMABILIS. 

DOWN  the  goldenest  of  streams, 

Tide  of  dreams, 

The  fair  cradled  man-child  drifts  ; 
Sways  with  cadenced  motion  slow, 

To  and  fro, 
As  the  mother-foot  poised  lightly,  falls  and  lifts. 

He,  the  firstling,  —  he,  the  light 

Of  her  sight,  — 

He,  the  breathing  pledge  of  love, 
'Neath  the  holy  passion  lies, 

Of  her  eyes,  — 
Smiles  to  feel  the  warm,  life-giving  ray  above. 

She  believes  that  in  his  vision, 

Skies  elysian 

O'er  an  angel-people  shine. 
Back  to  gardens  of  delight, 

Taking  flight, 
His  auroral  spirit  basks  in  dreams  divine. 

But  she  smiles  through  anxious  tears  ; 

Unborn  years 

Pressing  forward,  she  perceives. 
Shadowy  muffled  shapes,  they  come 

Deaf  and  dumb, 

Bringing  what  ?  dry  chaff  and  tares,  or  full-eared 
sheaves  ? 


168  MATER  AMABILIS. 

What  for  him  shall  she  invoke  ? 

Shall  the  oak 

Bind  the  man's  triumphant  hrow  ? 
Shall  his  daring  foot  alight 

On  the  height  ? 
Shall  he  dwell  amidst  the  humble  and  the  low  ? 

Through  what  tears  and  sweat  and  pain, 

Must  he  gain 

Fruitage  from  the  tree  of  life  ? 
Shall  it  yield  him  bitter  flavor  ? 

Shall  its  savor 
Be  as  manna  midst  the  turmoil  and  the  strife  ? 

In  his  cradle  slept  and  smiled 

Thus  the  child 

Who  as  Prince  of  Peace  was  hailed. 
Thus  anigh  the  mother  breast, 

Lulled  to  rest, 
Child-Napoleon  down  the  lilied  river  sailed. 

Crowned  or  crucified  —  the  same 

Glows  the  flame 
Of  her  deathless  love  divine. 
Still  the  blessed  mother  stands, 

In  all  lands, 
As  she  watched  besicje  thy  cradle  and  by  mine. 

Whatso  gifts  the  years  bestow, 
Still  men  know, 


FOG.  169 


While  she  breathes,  lives  one  who 
(Stand  they  pure  or  sin-defiled) 

But  the  child 

Whom  she  crooned  to  sleep  and  rocked  upon  her 
knees. 


FOG. 

LIGHT  silken  curtain,  colorless  and  soft, 
Dreamlike  before  me  floating !  what  abides 

Behind  thy  pearly  veil's 

Opaque,  mysterious  woof  ? 

Where  sleek  red  kine,  and  dappled,  crunch  day 
long 

Thick,  luscious  blades  and  purple  clover-heads, 
Nigh  me  I  still  can  mark 
Cool  fields  of  beaded  grass. 

No  more ;  for  on  the  rim  of  the  globed  world 
I  seem  to  stand  and  stare  at  nothingness. 

But  songs  of  unseen  birds 

And  tranquil  roll  of  waves 

Bring  sweet  assurance  of  continuous  life 
Beyond  this  silvery  cloud.     Fantastic  dreams, 
Of  tissue  subtler  still 
Than  the  wreathed  fog,  arise, 


170  FOG. 

And  cheat  my  brain  with  airy  vanishings 
And  mystic  glories  of  the  world  beyond. 
A  whole  enchanted  town 
Thy  baffling  folds  conceal  — 

An  Orient  town,  with  slender-steepled  mosques, 

Turret  from  turret  springing,  dome  from  dome, 

Fretted  with  burning  stones, 

And  trellised  with  red  gold. 

Through  spacious  streets,  where  running  waters 

flow, 

Sun-screened  by  fruit-trees  and  the  broad-leaved 
palm, 

Past  the  gay-decked  bazaars, 
Walk  turbaned,  dark-eyed  men. 

Hark  f    you    can    hear    the    many   murmuring 

tongues, 

While  loud  the  merchants  vaunt  their  gorgeous 
wares. 

The  sultry  air  is  spiced 
With  fragrance  of  rich  gums, 

And  through  the  lattice  high  in  yon  dead  wall, 
See   where,  unveiled,  an   arch,  young,  dimpled 
face, 

Flushed  like  a  musky  peach, 
Peers  down  upon  the  mart ! 


FOG.  171 

From  her  dark,  ringleted  and  bird-poised  head 
She  hath  cast  back  the  milk-white  silken  veil : 

'Midst  the  blank  blackness  there 

She  blossoms  like  a  rose. 

Beckons   she   not  with  those   bright,  full-orbed 

eyes, 
And  open  arms  that  like  tvrin  moonbeams  gleam  ? 

Behold  her  smile  on  me 

With  honeyed,  scarlet  lips  ! 

Divine  Scheherazade  !  I  am  thine. 
I  come  !    I  come !  —  Hark  !    from  some  far-off 
mosque 

The  shrill  muezzin  calls 

The  hour  of  silent  prayer, 

And  from  the  lattice  he  hath  scared  my  love. 
The  lattice  vanisheth  itself  —  the  street, 

The  mart,  the  Orient  town ; 

Only  through  still,  soft  air 

That  cry  is  yet  prolonged.     I  wake  to  hear 
The  distant  fog-horn  peal :  before  mine  eyes 
Stands  the  white  wall  of  mist, 
Blending  with  vaporous  skies. 

Elusive  gossamer,  impervious 

Even  to  the  mighty  sun-god's  keen  red  shafts  ! 
With  what  a  jealous  art 
Thy  secret  thou  dost  guard  ! 


172  FOG, 

Well  do  I  know  deep  in  thine  inmost  folds, 
Within  an  opal  hollow,  there  abides 

The  lady  of  the  mist, 

The  Undine  of  the  air  — 

A  slender,  winged,  ethereal,  lily  form, 
Dove-eyed,  with  fair,  free-floating,  pearl-wreathed 
hair, 

In  waving  raiment  swathed 

Of  changing,  irised  hues. 

Where  her  feet,  rosy  as  a  shell,  have  grazed 
The  freshened  grass,  a  richer  emerald  glows : 

Into  each  flower-cup 

Her  cool  dews  she  distills. 

She  knows  the  tops  of  jagged  mountain-peaks, 
She  knows  the  green  soft  hollows  of  their  sides, 

And  unafraid  she  floats 

O'er  the  vast-circled  seas. 

She  loves  to  bask  within  the  moon's  wan  beams, 
Lying,  night-long,  upon  the  moist,  dark  earth, 
And  leave  her  seeded  pearls 
With  morning  on  the  grass. 

Ah !  that  athwart  these  dim,  gray  outer  courts 
Of  her  fantastic  palace  I  might  pass, 

And  reach  the  inmost  shrine 

Of  her  chaste  solitude, 


THE  ELIXIR.  173 

And  feel  her  cool  and  dewy  fingers  press 
My  mortal-fevered  brow,  while  in  my  heart 

She  poured  with  tender  love 

Her  healing  Lethe-balm ! 

See!    the   close   curtain  moves,   the    spell    dis 
solves  ! 

Slowly  it  lifts  :  the  dazzling  sunshine  streams 
Upon  a  newborn  world 
And  laughing  summer  seas. 

Swift,  snowy-breasted  sandbirds  twittering  glance 
Through  crystal  air.     On  the  horizon's  marge, 

Like  a  huge  purple  wraith, 

The  dusky  fog  retreats. 


THE  ELIXIR. 

"  OH  brew  me  a  potion  strong  and  good ! 

One  golden  drop  in  his  wine 
Shall  charm  his  sense  and  fire  his  blood, 

And  bend  his  will  to  mine." 

Poor  child  of  passion  !  ask  of  me 

Elixir  of  death  or  sleep, 
Or  Lethe's  stream  ;  but  love  is  free, 

And  woman  must  wait  and  weep. 


174  SONG. 


SONG. 

VENUS. 

FROSTY  lies  the  winter-landscape, 
In  the  twilight  golden-green. 

Down  the  Park's  deserted  alleys, 
Naked  elms  stand  stark  and  lean. 

Dumb  the  murmur  of  the  fountain, 
Birds  have  flown  from  lawn  and  hill. 

But  while  yonder  star 's  ascendant, 
Love  triumphal  reigneth  still. 

See  the  keen  flame  throb  and  tremble, 
Brightening  in  the  darkening  night, 

Breathing  like  a  thing  of  passion, 
In  the  sky's  smooth  chrysolite. 

Not  beneath  the  moon,  oh  lover, 
Thou  shalt  gain  thy  heart's  desire. 

Speak  to-night !     The  gods  are  with  thee 
Burning  with  a  kindred  fire. 


SPRING  LONGING.  175 


SPRING  LONGING. 

What  art  thou  doing  here,  O  Imagination  ?  Go  away, 
I  entreat  thee  by  the  gods,  as  thou  didst  come,  for  I 
want  thee  not.  But  thou  art  come  according  to  thy  old 
fashion.  I  am  not  angry  with  thee  —  only  go  away.  — 
Marcus  Antoninus. 

LILAC  hazes  veil  the  skies. 

Languid  sighs 

Breathes  the  mild,  caressing  air. 
Pink  as  coral's  branching  sprays, 

Orchard  ways 
With  the  blossomed  peach  are  fair. 

Sunshine,  cordial  as  a  kiss, 

Poureth  bliss 

In  this  craving  soul  of  mine, 
And  my  heart  her  flower-cup 

Lifteth  up, 
Thirsting  for  the  draught  divine. 

Swift  the  liquid  golden  flame 

Through  my  frame 
Sets  my  throbbing  veins  afire. 
Bright,  alluring  dreams  arise, 

Brim  mine  eyes 
With  the  tears  of  strong  desire. 

All  familiar  scenes  anear 
Disappear  — 


176  SPRING  LONGING. 

Homestead,  orchard,  field,  and  wold. 
Moorish  spires  and  turrets  fair 

Cleave  the  air, 
Arabesqued  on  skies  of  gold. 

Lo,  my  spirit,  this  May  morn, 

Outward  borne, 
Over  seas  hath  taken  wing: 
Where  the  mediaeval  town, 

Like  a  crown, 
Wears  the  garland  of  the  Spring. 

Light  and  sound  and  odors  sweet 

Fill  the  street ; 

Gypsy  girls  are  selling  flowers. 
Lean  hidalgos  turn  aside, 

Amorous-eyed, 
'Neath  the  grim  cathedral  towers. 

Oh,  to  be  in  Spain  to-day, 

Where  the  May 
Recks  no  whit  of  good  or  evil, 
Love  and  only  love  breathes  she ! 

Oh,  to  be 
'Midst  the  olive-rows  of  Seville ! 

Or  on  such  a  day  to  glide 

With  the  tide 
Of  the  berylline  lagoon, 


SPUING  LONGING.  177 

Through  the  streets  that  mirror  heaven, 

Crystal  paven, 
In  the  warm  Venetian  noon. 

At  the  prow  the  gondolier 

May  not  hear, 

May  not  see  our  furtive  kiss  ; 
But  he  lends  with  cadenced  strain 

The  refrain 
To  our  ripe  and  silent  bliss. 

Golden  shadows,  silver  light, 

Burnish  bright 

Air  and  water,  domes  and  skies ; 
As  in  some  ambrosial  dream, 

On  the  stream 
Floats  our  bark  in  magic  wise. 

Oh,  to  float  day  long  just  so ! 

Naught  to  know 
Of  the  trouble,  toil,  and  fret ! 
This  is  love,  and  this  is  May : 

Yesterday 
And  to-morrow  to  forget ! 

Whither  hast  thou,  Fancy  free, 

Guided  me, 

Wild  Bohemian  sister  dear? 
All  thy  gypsy  soul  is  stirred 

Since  yon  bird 
Warbled  that  the  Spring  was  here. 


178  THE  SOUTH. 

Tempt  no  more  !     I  may  not  follow, 

Like  the  swallow, 
Gayly  on  the  track  of  Spring. 
Bounden  by  an  iron  fate, 

I  must  wait, 
Dream  and  wonder,  yearn  and  sing. 


THE   SOUTH. 

NIGHT,  and  beneath  star-blazoned  summer  skies 
Behold  the  Spirit  of  the  musky  South, 

A  Creole  with  still-burning,  languid  eyes, 

Voluptuous  limbs  and  incense-breathing  mouth : 
Swathed  in  spun  gauze  is  she, 

From  fibres  of  her  own  anana  tree. 

Within  these  sumptuous  woods  she  lies  at  ease, 
By  rich  night-breezes,  dewy  cool,  caressed : 

'Twixt  cypresses  and  slim  palmetto  trees, 
Like  to  the  golden  oriole's  hanging  nest, 
Her  airy  hammock  swings, 

And  through  the  dark  her  mocking-bird  yet  sings. 

How  beautiful  she  is !     A  tulip-wreath 

Twines  round  her  shadowy,  free-floating  hair : 

Young,  weary,  passionate,  and  sad  as  death, 
Dark  visions  haunt  for  her  the  vacant  air, 
While  movelessly  she  lies 

With  lithe,  lax,  folded  hands  and  heavy  eyes. 


THE  SOUTH.  179 

Full  well  knows  she  how  wide  and  fair  extend 
Her  groves  bright-flowered,  her  tangled  ever 
glades, 
Majestic  streams  that  indolently  wend 

Through  lush  savanna  or  dense  forest  shades, 

Where  the  brown  buzzard  flies 
To  broad  bayous  'neath  hazy-golden  skies. 

Hers  is  the  savage  splendor  of  the  swamp, 

With  pomp  of  scarlet  and  of  purple  bloom, 
Where   blow   warm,    furtive   breezes   faint   and 

damp, 

Strange   insects   whir,    and   stalking    bitterns 
boom  — 

Where  from  stale  waters  dead 
Oft  looms  the  great-jawed  alligator's  head. 

Her  wealth,  her  beauty,  and  the  blight  on  these,  — 
Of  all  she  is  aware :  luxuriant  woods, 

Fresh,  living,  sunlit,  in  her  dream  she  sees  ; 
And  ever  midst  those  verdant  solitudes 
The  soldier's  wooden  cross, 

Overgrown  by  creeping  tendrils  and  rank  moss. 

Was  hers  a  dream  of  empire  ?  was  it  sin  ? 

And  is  it  well  that  all  was  borne  in  vain  ? 
She  knows  no  more  than  one  who  slow  doth  win, 

After  fierce  fever,  conscious  life  again, 

Too  tired,  too  weak,  too  sad, 
By  the  new  light  to  be  or  stirred  or  glad. 


180  THE  SOUTH. 

From  rich  sea-islands  fringing  her  green  shore, 
From  broad  plantations  where  swart  freemen 

bend 

Bronzed  backs  in  willing  labor,  from  her  store 
Of  golden  fruit,  from  stream,  from  town,  as 
cend 

Life-currents  of  pure  health  : 
Her   aims   shall    be   subserved   with    boundless 
wealth. 

Yet  now  how  listless  and  how  still  she  lies, 

Like  some  half-savage,  dusky  Indian  queen, 
Rocked  in  her  hammock  'neath  her  native  skies, 
With  the  pathetic,  passive,  broken  mien 

Of  one  who,  sorely  proved, 

Great-souled,  hath  suffered  much  and  much  hath 
loved ! 

But  look  !  along  the  wide-branched,  dewy  glade 
Glimmers  the  dawn :  the  light  palmetto-trees 
And  cypresses  reissue  from  the  shade, 

And  she  hath  wakened.    Through  clear  air  she 
sees 

The  pledge,  the  brightening  ray, 
And  leaps  from  dreams  to  hail  the  coming  day. 


SPRING  STAR.  181 


SPRING  STAR. 

I. 

OVER  the  lamp-lit  street, 
Trodden  by  hurrying  feet, 
Where  mostly  pulse  and  beat 

Life's  throbbing  veins, 
See  where  the  April  star, 
Blue-bright  as  sapphires  are, 
Hangs  in  deep  heavens  far, 

Waxes  and  wanes. 

Strangely  alive  it  seems, 
Darting  keen,  dazzling  gleams, 
Veiling  anon  its  beams, 

Large,  clear,  and  pure. 
In  the  broad  western  sky 
No  orb  may  shine  anigh, 
No  lesser  radiancy 

May  there  endure. 

Spring  airs  are  blowing  sweet : 
Low  in  the  dusky  street 
Star-beams  and  eye-beams  meet. 

Rapt  in  his  dreams, 
All  through  the  crowded  mart 
Poet  with  swift-stirred  heart, 
Passing  beneath,  must  start, 

Thrilled  by  those  gleams. 


182  SPJtlNG  STAR. 

Naught  doth  he  note  anear, 
Fain  through  Night's  veil  to  peer, 
Reach  that  resplendent  sphere, 

Reading  her  sign. 

Where  point  those  sharp,  thin  rays, 
Guiding  his  weary  maze, 
Blesseth  she  or  betrays, 

Who  may  divine  ? 

"  Guard  me,  celestial  light, 
Lofty,  serenely  bright : 
Lead  my  halt  feet  aright," 

Prayerful  he  speaks. 
"  For  a  new  ray  hath  shone 
Over  my  spirit  lone. 
Be  this  new  soul  the  one 
Whom  my  soul  seeks." 

II. 

Beside  her  casement  oped  the  maiden  sits, 
Where  the  mild  evening  spirit  of  the  Spring 

Gently  between  the  city's  homesteads  flits 

To  kiss  her  brows,  and  floats  on  languid  wing, 
Vague  longings  in  her  breast  awakening. 

While  her  heart  trembles  'neath  those  dim,  deep 
skies, 

As  the  quick  sea  that  'neath  the  globed  moon  lies. 

Where  her  eyes  rest  the  full-orbed  evening  star 
Burns  with  white  flame :  it  beckons,  shrinks, 
dilates. 


A  JUNE  NIGHT.  183 

She,  dazzled  by  that  shining  world  afar, 

May  not  withdraw  her  gaze  :  breathless  she 

waits. 

Some  promised  joy  from  Heaven's  very  gates 
Unto  her  soul  seems  proffered.  When  shall  be 
The  bright  fulfilment  of  that  star's  decree  ? 

Nor  glad  nor  sad  is  she  :  she  doth  not  know 
That  through  the  city's  throng  one  threads  his 

way, 

Thrilled  likewise  by  that  planet's   mystic  glow, 
And  hastes  to  seek  her.     What  sweet  change 

shall  sway 

Her  spirit  at  his  coming  ?    What  new  ray 
Upon  his  shadowy  life  from  her  shall  fall  ? 
The  silent  star  burns  on,  and  knoweth  all. 


A  JUNE  NIGHT. 

TEN  O'CLOCK  :  the  broken  moon 
Hangs  not  yet  a  half  hour  high, 

Yellow  as  a  shield  of  brass, 
In  the  dewy  air  of  June, 

Poised  between  the  vaulted  sky 
And  the  ocean's  liquid  glass. 

Earth  lies  in  the  shadow  still ; 

Low  black  bushes,  trees,  and  lawn 
Night's  ambrosial  dews  absorb  ; 


184  A  JUNE  NIGHT. 

Through  the  foliage  creeps  a  thrill, 
Whispering  of  yon  spectral  dawn 
And  the  hidden  climbing  orb. 

Higher,  higher,  gathering  light, 
Veiling  with  a  golden  gauze 

All  the  trembling  atmosphere, 
See,  the  rayless  disk  grows  white  ! 
Hark,  the  glittering  billows  pause  ! 
Faint,  far  sounds  possess  the  ear. 

Elves  on  such  a  night  as  this 
Spin  their  rings  upon  the  grass  ; 

On  the  beach  the  water-fay 
Greets  her  lover  with  a  kiss  ; 

Through  the  air  swift  spirits  pass, 
Laugh,  caress,  and  float  away. 

Shut  thy  lids  and  thou  shalt  see 
Angel  faces  wreathed  with  light, 

Mystic  forms  long  vanished  hence. 
Ah,  too  fine,  too  rare,  they  be 
For  the  grosser  mortal  sight, 
And  they  foil  our  waking  sense. 

Yet  we  feel  them  floating  near, 
Know  that  we  are  not  alone, 

Though  our  open  eyes  behold 
Nothing  save  the  moon's  bright  sphere, 
In  the  vacant  heavens  shown, 
And  the  ocean's  path  of  gold. 


MAGNETISM.  185 


MAGNETISM. 

BY  the  impulse  of  my  will, 

By  the  red  flame  in  my  blood, 
By  my  nerves'  electric  thrill, 

By  the  passion  of  my  mood, 
My  concentrated  desire, 

My  undying,  desperate  love, 
I  ignore  Fate,  I  defy  her, 

Iron-hearted  Death  I  move. 
When  the  town  lies  numb  with  sleep, 

Here,  round-eyed  I  sit ;  my  breath 
Quickly  stirred,  my  flesh  a-creep, 

And  I  force  the  gates  of  death. 
I  nor  move  nor  speak  — you  'd  deem 

From  my  quiet  face  and  hands, 
I  were  tranced  —  but  in  her  dream, 

She  responds,  she  understands. 
I  have  power  on  what  is  not, 

Or  on  what  has  ceased  to  be, 
From  that  deep,  earth-hollowed  spot, 

I  can  lift  her  up  to  me. 
And,  or  ere  I  am  aware 

Through  the  closed  and  curtained  door, 
Comes  my  lady  white  and  fair, 

And  embraces  me  once  more. 
Though  the  clay  clings  to  her  gown, 

Yet  all  heaven  is  in  her  eyes  ; 
Cool,  kind  fingers  press  mine  eyes, 

To  my  soul  her  soul  replies. 


186  AUGUST  MOON. 

But  when  breaks  the  common  dawn, 

And  the  city  wakes  —  behold  ! 
My  shy  phantom  is  withdrawn, 

And  I  shiver  lone  and  cold. 
And  I  know  when  she  has  left, 

She  is  stronger  far  than  I, 
And  more  subtly  spun  her  weft, 

Than  my  human  wizardry. 
Though  I  force  her  to  my  will, 

By  the  red  flame  in  my  blood, 
By  my  nerves'  electric  thrill, 

By  the  passion  of  my  mood, 
Yet  all  day  a  ghost  am  I. 

Nerves  unstrung,  spent  will,  dull  brain. 
I  achieve,  attain,  but  die, 

And  she  claims  me  hers  again. 


AUGUST  MOON. 

LOOK  !  the  round-cheeked  moon  floats  high, 

In  the  glowing  August  sky, 

Quenching  all  her  neighbor  stars, 

Save  the  steady  flame  of  Mars. 

White  as  silver  shines  the  sea, 

Far-off  sails  like  phantoms  be, 

Gliding  o'er  that  lake  of  light, 

Vanishing  in  nether  night. 

Heavy  hangs  the  tasseled  corn, 

Sighing  for  the  cordial  morn ; 


AUGUST  MOON.  187 

But  the  marshy-meadows  bare, 
Love  this  spectral-lighted  air, 
Drink  the  dews  and  lift  their  song, 
Chirp  of  crickets  all  night  long  ; 
Earth  and  sea  enchanted  lie 
'Neath  that  moon-usurped  sky. 

To  the  faces  of  our  friends 
Unfamiliar  traits  she  lends  — 
Quaint,  white  witch,  who  looketh  down 
With  a  glamour  all  her  own. 
Hushed  are  laughter,  jest,  and  speech, 
Mute  and  heedless  each  of  each, 
In  the  glory  wan  we  sit, 
Visions  vague  before  us  flit ; 
Side  by  side,  yet  worlds  apart, 
Heart  becometh  strange  to  heart. 

Slowly  in  a  moved  voice,  then, 
Ralph,  the  artist,  spake  again  — 
"  Does  not  that  weird  orb  unroll 
Scenes  phantasmal  to  your  soul  ? 
As  I  gaze  thereon,  I  swear, 
Peopled  grows  the  vacant  air, 
Fables,  myths  alone  are  real, 
White-clad  sylph-like  figures  steal 
'Twixt  the  bushes,  o'er  the  lawn, 
Goddess,  nymph,  undine,  and  faun. 
Yonder,  see  the  Willis  dance, 
Faces  pale  with  stony  glance  ; 


188  AUGUST  MOON. 

They  are  maids  who  died  unwed, 
And  they  quit  their  gloomy  bed, 
Hungry  still  for  human  pleasure, 
Here  to  trip  a  moonlit  measure. 
Near  the  shore  the  mermaids  play, 
Floating  on  the  cool,  white  spray, 
Leaping  from  the  glittering  surf 
To  the  dark  and  fragrant  turf, 
Where  the  frolic  trolls,  and  elves 
Daintily  disport  themselves. 
All  the  shapes  by  poet's  brain, 
Fashioned,  live  for  me  again, 
In  this  spiritual  light, 
Less  than  day,  yet  more  than  night. 
What  a  world  !  a  waking  dream, 
All  things  other  than  they  seem, 
Borrowing  a  finer  grace, 
From  yon  golden  globe  in  space ; 
Touched  with  wild,  romantic  glory, 
Foliage  fresh  and  billows  hoary, 
Hollows  bathed  in  yellow  haze, 
Hills  distinct  and  fields  of  maize, 
Ancient  legends  come  to  mind. 
Who  would  marvel  should  he  find, 
In  the  copse  or  nigh  the  spring, 
Summer  fairies  gamboling 
Where  the  honey-bees  do  suck, 
Mab  and  Ariel  and  Puck  ? 
Ah !  no  modern  mortal  sees 
Creatures  delicate  as  these. 


AUGUST  MOON.  189 

All  the  simple  faith  has  gone 

Which  their  world  was  builded  on. 

Now  the  moonbeams  coldly  glance 

On  no  gardens  of  romance  ; 

To  prosaic  senses  dull, 

Baldur  's  dead,  the  Beautiful, 

Hark,  the  cry  rings  overhead, 
'Universal  Pan  is  dead  !  ?  " 
"  Requiescant !  "     Claude's  grave  tone 

Thrilled  us  strangely.     "  I  am  one 

Who  would  not  restore  that  Past, 

Beauty  will  immortal  last, 

Though  the  beautiful  must  die  — 

This  the  ages  verify. 

And  had  Pan  deserved  the  name 

Which  his  votaries  misclaim, 

He  were  living  with  us  yet. 

I  behold,  without  regret, 

Beauty  in  new  forms  recast, 

Truth  emerging  from  the  vast, 

Bright  and  orbed,  like  yonder  sphere, 

Making  the  obscure  air  clear. 

He  shall  be  of  bards  the  king, 

Who,  in  worthy  verse,  shall  sing 

All  the  conquests  of  the  hour, 

Stealing  no  fictitious  power 

From  the  classic  types  outworn, 

But  his  rhythmic  line  adorn 

With  the  marvels  of  the  real. 

He  the  baseless  feud  shall  heal 


190  AUGUST  MOON. 

That  estrangeth  wide  apart 
Science  from  her  sister  Art. 
Hold !  look  through  this  glass  for  me  ? 
Artist,  tell  me  what  you  see  ?  " 
"  I !  "  cried  Ralph.     "  I  see  in  place 
Of  Astarte's  silver  face, 
Or  veiled  Isis'  radiant  robe, 
Nothing  but  a  rugged  globe 
Seamed  with  awful  rents  and  scars. 
And  below  no  longer  Mars, 
Fierce,  flame-crested  god  of  war, 
But  a  lurid,  flickering  star, 
Fashioned  like  our  mother  earth, 
Vexed,  belike,  with  death  and  birth." 

Rapt  in  dreamy  thought  the  while, 
With  a  sphinx-like  shadowy  smile, 
Poet  Florio  sat,  but  now 
Spake  in  deep-voiced  accents  slow, 
More  as  one  who  probes  his  mind, 
Than  for  us  —  "  Who  seeks,  shall  find  - 
Widening  knowledge  surely  brings 
Vaster  themes  to  him  who  sings. 
Was  veiled  Isis  more  sublime 
Than  yon  frozen  fruit  of  Time, 
Hanging  in  the  naked  sky  ? 
Death's  domain  —  for  worlds  too  die. 
Lo  !  the  heavens  like  a  scroll 
Stand  revealed  before  my  soul ; 
And  the  hieroglyphs  are  suns  — 


SUNRISE.  191 

Changeless  change  the  law  that  runs 
Through  the  flame-inscribed  page, 
"World  on  world  and  age  on  age, 
Balls  of  ice  and  orbs  of  fire, 
What  abides  when  these  expire  ? 
Through  slow  cycles  they  revolve, 
Yet  at  last  like  clouds  dissolve. 
Jove,  Osiris,  Brahma  pass, 
Races  wither  like  the  grass. 
Must  not  mortals  be  as-  gods 
To  embrace  such  periods  ? 
Yet  at  Nature's  heart  remains 
One  who  waxes  not  nor  wanes. 
And  our  crowning  glory  still 
Is  to  have  conceived  his  will." 


SUNRISE. 

September  26,  1881. 

WEEP  for  the  martyr  !     Strew  his  bier 
With  the  last  roses  of  the  year  ; 
Shadow  the  land  with  sables  ;  knell 
The  harsh-tongued,  melancholy  bell ; 
Beat  the  dull  muffled  drum,  and  flaunt 
The  drooping  banner ;  let  the  chant 
Of  the  deep-throated  organ  sob  — 
One  voice,  one  sorrow,  one  heart-throb, 
From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea  — 
The  huge  world  quires  his  elegy. 


192  SUNRISE. 

Tears,  love,  and  honor  he  shall  have, 

Through  ages  keeping  green  his  grave. 

Too  late  approved,  too  early  lost, 

His  story  is  the  people's  boast. 

Tough-sinewed  offspring  of  the  soil, 

Of  peasant  lineage,  reared  to  toil, 

In  Europe  he  had  been  a  thing 

To  the  glebe  tethered  —  here  a  king  ! 

Crowned  not  for  some  transcendent  gift, 

Genius  of  power  that  may  lift 

A  Cassar  or  a  Bonaparte 

Up  to  the  starred  goal  of  his  heart ; 

But  that  he  was  the  epitome 

Of  all  the  people  aim  to  be. 

Were  they  his  dying  trust  ?     He  was 

No  less  their  model  and  their  glass. 

In  him  the  daily  traits  were  viewed 

Of  the  undistinguished  multitude. 

Brave  as  the  silent  myriads  are, 

Crushed  by  the  juggernaut  world-car ; 

Strong  with  the  people's  strength,  yet  mild, 

Simple  and  tender  as  a  child ; 

Wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  heart, 

Able  in  council,  field,  and  mart ; 

Nor  lacking  in  the  lambent  gleam, 

The  great  soul's  final  stamp  —  the  beam 

Of  genial  fun,  the  humor  sane 

Wherewith  the  hero  sports  with  pain. 

His  virtues  hold  within  the  span 

Of  his  obscurest  fellow-man. 


SUNRISE.  193 

To  live  without  reproach,  to  die 
Without  a  fear  —  in  these  words  lie 
His  highest  aims,  for  none  too  high. 
No  triumph  his  beyond  the  reach 
Of  patient  courage,  kindly  speech  ; 
And  yet  so  brave  the  soul  outbreathed, 
The  great  example  he  bequeathed, 
Were  all  to  follow,  we  should  see 
A  universal  chivalry. 

His  trust,  the  People !     They*  respond 
From  Maine  to  Florida,  beyond 
The  sea-walled  continent's  broad  scope, 
Honor  his  pledge,  confirm  his  hope. 
Hark  !  over  seas  the  echo  hence, 
The  nations  do  him  reverence. 
An  Empress  lays  her  votive  wreath 
W'here  peoples  weep  with  bated  breath. 
The  world-clock  strikes  a  fateful  hour, 
Bright  with  fair  portents,  big  with  power,  — 
The  first  since  history's  course  has  run, 
When  tings'  and  peoples'  cause  is  one  ; 
Those  mourn  a  brother  —  these  a  son ! 

O  how  he  loved  them !     That  gray  morn, 
When  his  wound-wasted  form  was  borne 
North,  from  the  White  House  to  the  sea, 
Lifting  his  tired  lids  thankfully, 

"  How  good,"  he  murmured  in  his  pain, 

"To  see  the  people  once  again !  " 


194  SUNRISE. 

Oh,  how  they  loved  him  !     They  stood  there, 
Thronging  the  road,  the  street,  the  square, 
With  hushed  lips  locked  in  silent  prayer, 
Uncovered  heads  and  streaming  eyes, 
Breathless  as  when  a  father  dies. 
The  records  of  that  ghostly  ride, 
Past  town  and  field  at  morning-tide. 

When  life's  full  stream  is  wont  to  gush 
Through  all  its  ways  with  boisterous  rush, 
—  The  records  note  that  once  a  hound 
Had  barked,  and  once  was  heard  the  sound 
Of  cart-wheels  rumbling  on  the  stones  — 
And  once,  mid  stifled  sobs  and  groans, 
One  man  dared  audibly  lament, 
And  cried,  "  God  bless  the  President !  " 
Always  the  waiting  crowds  to  send 
A  God-speed  to  his  journey's  end  — 
The  anxious  whisper,  brow  of  gloom, 
As  in  a  sickness-sacred  room, 
Till  his  ear  drank  with  ecstasy 
The  rhythmic  thunders  of  the  sea. 

Tears  for  the  smitten  fatherless, 
The  wife's,  the  mother's  life-distress, 
To  whom  the  million-throated  moan 
From  throne  and  hut,  may  not  atone 
For  one  hushed  voice,  one  empty  chair, 
One  presence  missing  everywhere. 
But  only  words  of  joy  and  cheer, 


SUNRISE.  195 

The  people  from  his  grave  shall  hear. 
Were  they  not  worthy  of  his  trust, 
From  whose  seed  sprang  the  sacred  dust  ? 
He  broke  the  bars  that  separate 
The  humble  from  the  high  estate. 
And  heirs  of  empire  round  his  bed 
Mourn  with  the  "  disinherited." 

Oh,  toil-worn,  patient  Heart  that  bleeds, 

Whose  martyrdom  even  his  exceeds, 

Wronged,  cursed,  despised,  misunderstood  — 

Oh,  all-enduring  multitude, 

Rejoice !  amid  your  tears,  rejoice  ! 

There  issues  from  this  grave  a  voice, 

Proclaiming  your  long  night  is  o'er, 

Your  day-dawn  breaks  from  shore  to  shore. 

You  have  redeemed  his  pledge,  remained 

Secure,  erect,  and  self-sustained, 

Holding  more  dear  one  thing  alone, 

Even  than  the  blood  of  dearest  son, 

Revering  with  religious  awe 

The  inviolable  might  of  Law. 


196  A  MASQUE  OF   VENICE. 

A  MASQUE  OF  VENICE. 

(A   DREAM.) 

NOT  a  stain, 
In   the   sun-brimmed  sapphire   cup  that   is   the 

sky  — 

Not  a  ripple  on  the  black  translucent  lane 
Of  the  palace-walled  lagoon. 

Not  a  cry 

As  the  gondoliers  with  velvet  oar  glide  by, 
Through  the  golden  afternoon. 

From  this  height 

Where  the  carved,  age-yellowed  balcony  o'erjuts 
Yonder  liquid,  marble  pavement,  see  the  light 
Shimmer  soft  beneath  the  bridge 

That  abuts 

On  a  labyrinth  of  water-ways  and  shuts 
Half  their  sky  off  with  its  ridge. 

We  shall  mark 

All  the  pageant  from  this  ivory  porch  of  ours, 
Masques  and  jesters,  mimes  and  minstrels,  while 

we  hark 
To  their  music  as  they  fare. 

Scent  their  flowers 
Flung   from   boat   to   boat  in   rainbow   radiant 

showers 
Through  the  laughter-ringing  air. 


A  MASQUE  OF    VENICE.  197 

See !  they  come, 
Like   a  flock  of   serpent-throated   black-plumed 

swans, 

"With  the  mandoline,  the  viol,  and  the  drum, 
Gems  afire  on  arms  ungloved, 

Fluttering  fans, 

Floating  mantles  like  a  great  moth's  streaky  vans 
Such  as  Veronese  loved. 

But  behold 

In  their  midst  a  white  unruffled  swan  appear. 
One  strange  barge  that  snowy  tapestries  enfold, 
White  its  tasseled,  silver  prow. 

Who  is  here  ? 

Prince  of  Love  in  masquerade  or  Prince  of  Fear, 
Clad  in  glittering  silken  snow  ? 

Cheek  and  chin 

Where  the  mask's  edge  stops  are  of  the  hoar 
frost's  hue, 

And  no  eyebeams  seem  to  sparkle  from  within 
Where  the  hollow  rings  have  place. 

Yon  gay  crew 

Seem  to  fly  him,  he  seems  ever  to  pursue. 
'T  is  our  sport  to  watch  the  race. 

At  his  side 

Stands  the  goldenest  of  beauties  ;  from  her  glance, 
From  her   forehead,   shines   the   splendor   of   a 
bride, 


198  A  MASQUE   OF    VENICE. 

And  her  feet  seem  shod  with  wings 

To  entrance, 

For  she  leaps  into  a  wild  and  rhythmic  dance, 
Like  Salome  at  the  King's. 

'T  is  his  aim 

Just  to  hold,  to  clasp  her  once  against  his  breast, 
Hers  to  flee  him,  to  elude  him  in  the  game. 
Ah,  she  fears  him  overmuch ! 

Is  it  jest,  — 

Is  it  earnest  ?  a  strange  riddle  lurks  half-guessed 
In  her  horror  of  his  touch. 

For  each  time 
That  his  snow-white  fingers  reach  her,  fades  some 

ray 

From  the  glory  of  her  beauty  in  its  prime ; 
And  the  knowledge  grows  upon  us  that  the  dance 

Is  no  play 

'Twixt  the  pale,  mysterious  lover  and  the  fay  — 
But  the  whirl  of  fate  and  chance. 

Where  the  tide 

Of  the  broad  lagoon  sinks  plumb  into  the  sea, 
There  the  mystic  gondolier  hath  won  his  bride. 
Hark,  one  helpless,  stifled  scream ! 

Must  it  be  ? 
Mimes  and  minstrels,  flowers  and  music,  where 

are  ye  ? 
Was  all  Venice  such  a  dream  ? 


AUTUMN  SADNESS.  199 


AUTUMN   SADNESS. 

AIR  and  sky  are  swathed  in  gold 

Fold  on  fold, 

Light  glows  through  the  trees  like  wine. 
Earth,  sun-quickened,  swoons  for  bliss 

'Neath  his  kiss, 
Breathless  in  a  trance  divine. 

Nature  pauses  from  her  task, 

Just  to  bask 

In  these  lull'd  transfigured  hours. 
The  green  leaf  nor  stays  nor  goes, 

But  it  grows 
Royaler  than  mid-June's  flowers. 

Such  impassioned  silence  fills 

All  the  hills 

Burning  with  unflickering  fire  — 
Such  a  blood-red  splendor  stains 

The  leaves'  veins, 
Life  seems  one  fulfilled  desire. 

While  earth,  sea,  and  heavens  shine, 

Heart  of  mine, 

Say,  what  art  thou  waiting  for  ? 
Shall  the  cup  ne'er  reach  the  lip, 

But  still  slip 
Till  the  life-long  thirst  give  o'er  ? 


200  AUTUMN  SADNESS. 

Shall  my  soul,  no  frosts  may  tame, 

Catch  new  flame 
From  the  incandescent  air  ? 
In  this  nuptial  joy  apart, 

Oh  my  heart, 
Whither  shall  we  lonely  fare  ? 

Seek  some  dusky,  twilight  spot, 

Quite  forgot 

Of  the  Autumn's  Bacchic  fire. 
Where  soft  mists  and  shadows  sleep, 

There  outweep 
Barren  longing's  vain  desire. 


SONNETS. 


ECHOES. 

LATE-BORN  and  woman-souled  I  dare  not  hope, 

The  freshness  of  the  elder  lays,  the  might 

Of  manly,  modern  passion  shall  alight 

Upon  my  Muse's  lips,  nor  may  I  cope 

(Who  veiled  and  screened  by  womanhood  must 

grope) 

With  the  world's  strong-armed  warriors  and  re 
cite 

The  dangers,  wounds,  and  triumphs  of  the  fight ; 
Twanging  the  full-stringed  lyre  through  all  its 

scope. 

But  if  thou  ever  in  some  lake-floored  cave 
O'erbrowed   by  rocks,  a  wild  voice  wooed   and 

heard, 
Answering  at  once  from  heaven  and  earth  and 

wave, 

Lending  elf-music  to  thy  harshest  word, 
Misprize  thou  not  these  echoes  that  belong 
To  one  in  love  with  solitude  and  song. 


202  THE  NEW   COLOSSUS. 


SUCCESS. 

OFT  have  I  brooded  on  defeat  and  pain, 
The  pathos  of  the  stupid,  stumbling  throng. 
These  I  ignore  to-day  and  only  long 
To  pour  my  soul  forth  in  one  trumpet  strain, 
One  clear,  grief-shattering,  triumphant  song, 
For  all  the  victories  of  man's  high  endeavor, 
Palm-bearing,  laureled  deeds  that  live  forever, 
The  splendor  clothing  him  whose  will  is  strong. 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  deep,  glad  eyes  of  one 
Who  has  persisted  and  achieved  ?     Rejoice  ! 
On  naught  diviner  shines  the  all-seeing  sun. 
Salute  him  with  free  heart  and  choral  voice, 
'Midst  flippant,  feeble  crowds  of  spectres  wan, 
The  bold,  significant,  successful  man. 


THE  NEW  COLOSSUS.1 

NOT  like  the  brazen  giant  of  Greek  fame, 
With  conquering  limbs  astride  from  land  to  land  ; 
Here  at  our  sea-washed,  sunset  gates  shall  stand 
A  mighty  woman  with  a  torch,  whose  flame 
Is  the  imprisoned  lightning,  and  her  name 
Mother  of  Exiles.     From  her  beacon-hand 
Glows  world-wide  welcome ;  her  mild  eyes  com 
mand 
1  Written  in  aid  of  Bartholdi  Pedestal  Fund,  1883. 


VENUS   OF  THE  LOUVRE.  203 

The  air-bridged  harbor  that  twin  cities  frame. 
"  Keep,    ancient    lands,   your   storied    pomp !  " 

cries  she 
With  silent  lips.     "Give  me   your  tired,   your 

poor, 

Your  huddled  masses  yearning  to  breathe  free, 
The  wretched  refuse  of  your  teeming  shore. 
Send  these,  the  homeless,  tempest-tost  to  me, 
I  lift  my  lamp  beside  the  golden  door !  " 


VENUS  OF  THE   LOUVRE. 

Dowx  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a  star, 

The   foam-born  mother  of   Love,  transfixed   to 

stone, 

Yet  none  the  less  immortal,  breathing  on. 
Time's  brutal  hand  hath  maimed  but  could  not 

mar. 

When  first  the  enthralled  enchantress  from  afar 
Dazzled  mine  eyes,  I  saw  not  her  alone, 
Serenely  poised  on  her  world-worshipped  throne, 
As  when  she  guided  once  her  dove-drawn  car,  — 
But  at  her  feet  a  pale,  death-stricken  Jew, 
Her  life  adorer,  sobbed  farewell  to  love. 
Here  Heine  wept !     Here  still  he  weeps  anew, 
Nor  ever  shall  his  shadow  lift  or  move, 
While  mourns  one  ardent  heart,  one  poet-brain, 
For  vanished  Hellas  and  Hebraic  pain. 


204  CHOPIN. 

CHOPIN. 


A  DREAM  of  interlinking  hands,  of  feet 
Tireless  to  spin  the  unseen,  fairy  woof, 
Of  the  entangling  waltz.     Bright  eyebeams  meet, 
Gay  laughter  echoes  from  the  vaulted  roof. 
Warm  perfumes  rise ;  the  soft  unflickering  glow 
Of  branching  lights  sets  off  the  changeful  charms 
Of  glancing  gems,  rich  stuffs,  the  dazzling  snow 
Of  necks  unkerchieft,  and  bare,  clinging  arms. 
Hark  to  the  music  !     How  beneath  the  strain 
Of  reckless  revelry,  vibrates  and  sobs 
One  fundamental  chord  of  constant  pain, 
The  pulse-beat  of  the  poet's  heart  that  throbs. 
So  yearns,  though  all  the  dancing  waves  rejoice, 
The  troubled  sea's  disconsolate,  deep  voice. 

n. 

Who  shall  proclaim  the  golden  fable  false 
Of  Orpheus'  miracles  ?     This  subtle  strain 
Above  our  prose-world's  sordid  loss  and  gain 
Lightly  uplifts  us.     With  the  rhythmic  waltz, 
The  lyric  prelude,  the  nocturnal  song 
Of  love  and  languor,  varied  visions  rise, 
That  melt  and  blend  to  our  enchanted  eyes. 
The  Polish  poet  who  sleeps  silenced  long, 
The  seraph-souled  musician,  breathes  again 
Eternal  eloquence,  immortal  pain. 


CHOPIN.  205  • 

Revived  the  exalted  face  we  know  so  well. 
The  illuminated  eyes,  the  fragile  frame, 
Slowly  consuming  with  its  inward  flame, 
"We  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  we  break  the  spell. 

in. 

A  voice  was  needed,  sweet  and  true  and  fine 
As  the  sad  spirit  of  the  evening  breeze, 
Throbbing  with  human  passion,  yet  divine 
As  the  wild  bird's  untutored  melodies. 
A  voice  for  him  'neath  twilight  heavens  dim, 
Who   mourneth  for  his  dead,  while  round  him 

fall 

The  wan  and  noiseless  leaves.     A  voice  for  him 
Who  sees  the  first  green  sprout,  who  hears  the 

call 

Of  the  first  robin  on  the  first  spring  day. 
A  voice  for  all  whom  Fate  hath  set  apart, 
Who,  still  misprized,  must  perish  by  the  way, 
Longing  with  love,  for  that  they  lack  the  art 
Of  their  own  soul's  expression.     For  all  these 
Sing  the  unspoken  hope,  the  vague,  sad  reveries. 

IV. 

Then  Nature  shaped  a  poet's  heart  —  a  lyre 
From  out  whose  chords  the  lightest  breeze  that 

blows 

Drew  trembling  music,  wakening  sweet  desire. 
How    shall    she    cherish    him  ?     Behold !    she 

throws 


206  SYMPHONIC  STUDIES. 

This  precious,  fragile  treasure  in  the  whirl 

Of  seething  passions  ;  he  is  scourged  and  stung, 

Must  dive  in  storm-vext  seas,  if  but  one  pearl 

Of  art  or  beauty  therefrom  may  be  wrung. 

No  pure-browed  pensive  nymph  his  Muse  shall 

be, 

An  amazon  of  thought  with  sovereign  eyes, 
Whose  kiss   was  poison,  man-brained,  worldly- 
wise, 

Inspired  that  elfin,  delicate  harmony. 
Rich  gain  for  us  !     But  with  him  is  it  well  ? 
The  poet  who  must  sound  earth,  heaven,   and 
hell! 


SYMPHONIC  STUDIES. 

(AFTER  KOBEKT  SCHUMANN.) 

PRELUDE. 

BLUE  storm-clouds  in  hot  heavens  of  mid-July 
Hung  heavy,  brooding  over  land  and  sea  : 
Our  hearts,  a-tremble,  throbbed  in  harmony 

With  the  wild,  restless  tone  of  air  and  sky. 

Shall  we  not  call  him  Prospero  who  held 
In  his  enchanted  hands  the  fateful  key 
Of  that  tempestuous  hour's  mystery, 

And  with  controlling  wand  our  spirits  spelled, 

With  him  to  wander  by  a  sun-bright  shore, 
To  hear  fine,  fairy  voices,  and  to  fly 


SYMPHONIC  STUDIES.  207 

With  disembodied  Ariel  once  more 

Above   earth's   wrack    and   ruin  ?     Far   and 

nigh 

The  laughter  of  the  thunder  echoed  loud, 
And   harmless   lightnings   leapt   from   cloud   to 

cloud. 


Floating  upon  a  swelling  wave  of  sound, 
"VVe  seemed  to  overlook  an  endless  sea  : 
Poised  'twixt  clear  heavens  and  glittering  surf 
were  we. 

We  drank  the  air  in  flight :  we  knew  no  bound 

To  the  audacious  ventures  of  desire. 

Nigh  us  the  sun  was  dropping,  drowned   in 

gold; 
Deep,  deep  below  the  burning  billows  rolled  ; 

And  all  the  sea  sang  like  a  smitten  lyre. 

Oh,  the  wild  voices  of  those  chanting  waves ! 
The  human  faces  glimpsed  beneath  the  tide  ! 

Familiar  eyes  gazed  from  profound  sea-caves, 
And  we,  exalted,  were  as  we  had  died. 

We  knew  the  sea  was  Life,  the  harmonious  cry 

The  blended  discords  of  humanity. 

II. 
Look  deeper  yet :  mark  'midst  the  wave-blurred 

mass, 

In  lines  distinct,  in  colors  clear  denned, 
The  typic  groups  and  figures  of  mankind. 
Behold  within  the  cool  and  liquid  glass 


208  SYMPHONIC  STUDIES. 

Bright  child-folk  sporting  with   smooth   yellow 
shells, 

Astride  of  dolphins,  leaping  up  to  kiss 

Fair  mother-faces.     From  the  vast  abyss 
How  joyously  their  thought-free  laughter  wells ! 
Some  slumber  in  grim  caverns  unafraid, 

Lulled  by  the  overwhelming  water's  sound, 
And     some     make   mouths    at   dragons,    undis 
mayed. 

Oh  dauntless  innocence !    The  gulfs  profound 
Reecho  strangely  with  their  ringing  glee, 
And  with  wise  mermaids'  plaintive  melody. 

in. 

What  do  the  sea-nymphs  in  that  coral  cave  ? 
With  wondering  eyes  their  supple  forms  they 

bend 

O'er  something  rarely  beautiful.     They  lend 
Their  lithe  white  arms,  and  through  the  golden 

wave 

They  lift  it  tenderly.     Oh  blinding  sight ! 
A  naked,  radiant  goddess,  tranced  in  sleep, 
Full-limbed,  voluptuous,    'neath  the  mantling 

sweep 

Of  auburn  locks  that  kiss  her  ankles  white  ! 
Upward  they  bear  her,  chanting  low  and  sweet : 

The  clinging  waters  part  before  their  way, 
Jewels  of  flame  are  dancing  'neath  their  feet. 
Up  in  the  sunshine,  on  soft  foam,  they  lay 
Their  precious  burden,  and  return  forlorn. 
Oh,  bliss  !  oh,  anguish  !    Mortals,  Love  is  born  ! 


SYMPHONIC  STUDIES.  209 


rv. 

Hark  !  from  unfathomable  deeps  a  dirge 
Swells  sobbing  through  the  melancholy  air  : 
Where  Love  has  entered,  Death  is  also  there. 

The  wail  outrings  the  chafed,  tumultuous  surge ; 

Ocean  and  earth,  the  illimitable  skies, 

Prolong  one  note,  a  mourning  for  the  dead, 
The  cry  of  souls  not  to  be  comforted. 

What  piercing  music  !     Funeral  visions  rise, 

And  send  the  hot  tears  raining  down  our  cheek. 
We  see  the  silent  grave  upon  the  hill 
With  its  lone  lilac-bush.     O  heart,  be  still ! 

She  will  not  rise,  she  will  not  stir  nor  speak. 

Surely,  the  unreturning  dead  are  blest. 

Ring  on,  sweet  dirge,  and  knell  us  to  our  rest ! 

v. 

Upon  the  silver  beach  the  undines  dance 
With  interlinking  arms  and  flying  hair ; 
Like  polished   marble  gleam  their  limbs  left 

bare  ; 

Upon  their  virgin  rites  pale  moonbeams  glance. 
Softer  the  music  !  for  their  foam-bright  feet 
Print  not  the  moist  floor  where  they  trip  their 

round  : 

Affrighted  they  will  scatter  at  a  sound, 
Leap  in  their  cool  sea-chambers,  nimbly  fleet, 
And  we  shall  doubt  that  we  have  ever  seen, 
While  our  sane  eyes  behold  stray  wreaths  of 
mist, 


210  SYMPHONIC  STUDIES. 

Shot   with   faint   colors   by   the  moon-rays 

kissed, 
Floating   snow-soft,   snow-white,   where   these 

had  been. 
Already,    look!    the   wave-washed    sands  are 

bare, 
And  mocking  laughter  ripples  through  the  air. 

VI. 

Divided  'twixt  the  dream-world  and  the  real, 
We  heard  the  waxing  passion  of  the  song 
Soar  as    to   scale    the    heavens  on    pinions 

strong. 

Amidst  the  long-reverberant  thunder-peal, 
Against  the  rain-blurred  square  of  light,  the 

head 

Of  the  pale  poet  at  the  lyric  keys 
Stood  boldly  cut,  absorbed  in  reveries, 
While  over  it  keen-bladed  lightnings  played. 
"  Rage  on,  wild  storm !  "  the  music  seemed  to 

sing: 
"Not   all   the   thunders  of  thy  wrath  can 

move 
The  soul  that 's  dedicate  to  worshipping 

Eternal  Beauty,  everlasting  Love." 
No  more  !  the  song  was  ended,  and  behold, 
A  rainbow  trembling  on  a  sky  of  gold  ! 


LONG  ISLAND  SOUND.  211 

EPILOGUE. 

Forth  in  the  sunlit,  rain-bathed  air  we  stepped, 
Sweet  with   the  dripping  grass  and  flower 
ing  vine, 
And   saw   through   irised    clouds  the   pale 

sun  shine. 

Back  o'er  the  hills  the  rain-mist  slowly  crept 
Like  a  transparent  curtain's  silvery  sheen  ; 
And  fronting  us  the  painted  bow  was  arched, 
Whereunder    the    majestic    cloud  -  shapes 

marched  : 

In  the  wet,  yellow  light  the  dazzling  green 
Of   lawn  and  bush  and  tree  seemed  stained 

with  blue. 
Our  hearts   o'erflowed   with    peace.     "With 

smiles  we  spake 
Of  partings  in  the  past,  of  courage  new, 

Of  high  achievement,  of   the    dreams  that 

make 

A  wonder  and  a  glory  of  our  days, 
And  all  life's  music  but  a  hymn  of  praise. 


LONG  ISLAND  SOUND. 

I  SEE  it  as  it  looked  one  afternoon 
In  August,  —  by  a  fresh  soft  breeze  o'erblown. 
The  swiftness  of  the  tide,  the  light  thereon, 
A  far-off  sail,  white  as  a  crescent  moon. 


212  DESTINY. 

The  shining  waters  with  pale  currents  strewn, 
The  quiet  fishing-smacks,  the  Eastern  cove, 
The  semi-circle  of  its  dark,  green  grove. 
The  luminous  grasses,  and  the  merry  sun 
In  the  grave  sky  ;  the  sparkle  far  and  wide, 
Laughter  of  unseen  children,  cheerful  chirp 
Of  crickets,  and  low  lisp  of  rippling  tide, 
Light  summer  clouds  fantastical  as  sleep 
Changing  unnoted  while  I  gazed  thereon. 
All  these  fair  sounds  and  sights  I  made  my  own. 


DESTINY. 

1856. 

PARIS,  from  throats  of  iron,  silver,  brass, 
Joy-thundering  cannon,  blent  with  chiming  bells, 
And  martial  strains,  the  full-voiced  paean  swells. 
The  air  is  starred  with  flags,  the  chanted  mass 
Throngs  all  the  churches,  yet  the  broad  streets 

swarm 
With  glad-eyed  groups  who  chatter,  laugh,  and 

pass, 

In  holiday  confusion,  class  with  class. 
And  over  all  the  spring,  the  sun-floods  warm ! 
In  the  Imperial  palace  that  March  morn, 
The  beautiful  young  mother  lay  and  smiled  ; 
For  by  her  side  just  breathed  the  Prince,  her 

child, 
Heir  to  an  empire,  to  the  purple  born, 


FROM   ONE  AUGUR  TO  ANOTHER.        213 

Crowned  with  the  Titan's  name  that  stirs  the 

heart 
Like  a  blown  clarion  —  one  more  Bonaparte. 

1879. 

BORX  to  the  purple,  lying  stark  and  dead, 
Transfixed  with  poisoned  spea,rs,  beneath  the  sun 
Of  brazen  Africa !     Thy  grave  is  one, 
Fore-fated  youth  (on  whom  were  visited 
Follies  and  sins  not  thine),  whereat  the  world, 
Heartless  howe'er  it  be,  will  pause  to  sing 
A  dirge,  to  breathe  a  sigh,  a  wreath  to  fling 
Of  rosemary  and  rue  with  bay-leaves  curled. 
Enmeshed  in  toils  ambitious,  not  thine  own, 
Immortal,  loved  boy-Prince,  thou  tak'st  thy  stand 
With  early  doomed  Don  Carlos,  hand  in  hand 
With  mild-browed  Arthur,  Geoffrey's  murdered 

son. 

Louis  the  Dauphin  lifts  his  thorn-ringed  head, 
And  welcomes  thee,  his  brother,  'mongst  the  dead. 


FROM  ONE  AUGUR  TO  ANOTHER. 

So,  Calchas,  on  the  sacred  Palatine, 
You  thought  of  Mopsus,  and  o'er  wastes  of  sea 
A  flower  brought  your  message.     I  divine 
(Through  my  deep  art)  the  kindly  mockery 
That  played  about  your  lips  and  in  your  eyes, 
Plucking  the  frail  leaf,  while  you  dreamed  of 
home. 


214  THE   CRANES  OF  IBYCUS. 

Thanks  for  the  silent  greeting !     I  shall  prize, 
Beyond  June's  rose,  the  scentless  flower  of  Rome. 
All  the  Campagna  spreads  before  my  sight, 
The    mouldering   wall,   the    Caesars'    tombs  un- 

wreathed, 

Rome  and  the  Tiber,  and  the  yellow  light, 
Wherein  the  honey-colored  blossom  breathed. 
But  most  I  thank  it  —  egoists  that  we  be  ! 
For  proving  then  and  there  you  thought  of  me. 


THE  CRANES  OF  IBYCUS. 

THERE  was  a  man  who  watched  the  river  flow 
Past  the  huge  town,  one  gray  November  day. 
Round  him  in  narrow  high-piled  streets  at  play 
The  boys  made  merry  as  they  saw  him  go, 
Murmuring  half-loud,  with  eyes  upon  the  stream, 
The  immortal  screed  he  held  within  his  hand. 
For  he  was  walking  in  an  April  land 
With  Faust  and  Helen.     Shadowy  as  a  dream 
Was  the  prose-world,  the  river  and  the  town. 
Wild   joy   possessed    him ;    through    enchanted 

skies 

He  saw  the  cranes  of  Ibycus  swoop  down. 
He  closed  the  page,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
Lo  —  a  black  line  of  birds  in  wavering  thread 
Bore  him  the  greetings  of  the  deathless  dead ! 


CRITIC  AND  POET.  215 

CRITIC  AND   POET. 

AN   APOLOGUE. 

("Poetry  must  be  simple,  sensuous,  or  impassioned; 
this  man  is  neither  simple,  sensuous,  nor  impassioned; 
therefore  he  is  not  a  poet.") 

No  man  had  ever  heard  a  nightingale, 
When  once  a  keen-eyed  naturalist  was  stirred 
To  study  and  define  —  what  is  a  bird, 
To  classify  by  rote  and  book,  nor  fail 
To  mark  its  structure  and  to  note  the  scale 
Whereon  its  song  might  possibly  be  heard. 
Thus  far,  no  farther ;  —  so  he  spake  the  word. 
When  of  a  sudden,  —  hark,  the  nightingale ! 

Oh  deeper,  higher  than  he  could  divine 
That  all-unearthly,  untaught  strain  !     He  saw 
The    plain,   brown   warbler,    unabashed.     "Not 

mine  " 

(He  cried)  "  the  error  of  this  fatal  flaw. 
No  bird  is  this,  it  soars  beyond  my  line, 
Were  it  a  bird,  't  would  answer  to  my  law." 


216  LIFE  AND  ART. 


ST.  MICHAEL'S   CHAPEL. 

WHEN  the  vexed  hubbub  of  our  world  of  gain 
Roars  round  about  me  as  I  walk  the  street, 
The  myriad  noise  of  Traffic,  and  the  beat 
Of  Toil's  incessant  hammer,  the  fierce  strain 
Of  Struggle  hand  to  hand  and  brain  to  brain, 
Ofttimes  a  sudden  dream  my  sense  will  cheat, 
The  gaudy  shops,  the  sky-piled  roofs  retreat, 
And  all  at  once  I  stand  enthralled  again 
Within  a  marble  minster  over-seas. 
I  watch  the  solemn  gold-stained  gloom  that  creeps 
To  kiss  an  alabaster  tomb,  where  sleeps 
A  lady  'twixt  two  knights'  stone  effigies, 
And  every  day  in  dusky  glory  steeps 
Their  sculptured  slumber  of  five  centuries. 


LIFE  AND  ART. 

NOT  while  the  fever  of  the  blood  is  strong, 
The  heart  throbs  loud,  the  eyes  are  veiled,  no  less 
With  passion  than  with  tears,  the  Muse  shall  bless 
The  poet-soul  to  help  and  soothe  with  song. 
Not  then  she  bids  his  trembling  lips  express 
The  aching  gladness,  the  voluptuous  pain. 
Life  is  his  poem  then  ;  flesh,  sense,  and  brain 
One  full-stringed  lyre  attuned  to  happiness. 


SYMPATHY.  217 

But  when  the  dream  is  done,  the  pulses  fail, 
The  day's  illusion,  with  the  day's  sun  set, 
He,  lonely  in  the  twilight,  sees  the  pale 
Divine  Consoler,  featured  like  Regret, 
Enter  and  clasp  his  hand  and  kiss  his  brow. 
Then  his  lips  ope  to  sing — as  mine  do  now. 


SYMPATHY. 

THEREFORE  I  dare  reveal  my  private  woe, 

The  secret  blots  of  my  imperfect  heart, 

Nor  strive  to  shrink  or  swell  mine  own  desert, 

Nor  beautify  nor  hide.     For  this  I  know, 

That  even  as  I  am,  thou  also  art. 

Thou  past  heroic  forms  unmoved  shalt  go, 

To  pause  and  bide  with  me,  to  whisper  low : 

"  Not  I  alone  am  weak,  not  I  apart 

Must  suffer,  struggle,  conquer  day  by  day. 

Here  is  my  very  cross  by  strangers  borne, 

Here  is  my  bosom-sin  wherefrom  I  pray 

Hourly  deliverance  —  this  my  rose,  my  thorn. 

This  woman  my  soul's  need  can  understand, 

Stretching  o'er  silent  gulfs  her  sister  hand." 


218          AGE  AND  DEATH. 


YOUTH  AND  DEATH. 

WHAT   hast   thou   done  to  this    dear   friend  of 

mine, 
Thou  cold,   white,   silent  Stranger  ?     From  my 

hand 
Her   clasped   hand   slips   to  meet   the   grasp  of 

thine ; 

Her  eyes  that  flamed  with  love,  at  thy  command 
Stare  stone-blank  on  blank  air ;  her  frozen  heart 
Forgets  my  presence.     Teach  me  who  thou  art, 
Vague  shadow  sliding  'twixt  my  friend  and  me. 

I  never  saw  thee  till  this  sudden  hour. 
What  secret  door  gave  entrance  unto  thee  ? 
What  power  is  thine,  o'ermastering  Love's  own 

power  ? 


AGE  AND  DEATH. 

COME  closer,  kind,  white,  long-familiar  friend, 

Embrace  me,  fold  me  to  thy  broad,  soft  breast. 
Life  has  grown  strange  and  cold,  but  thou  dost 

bend 

Mild  eyes  of  blessing  wooing  to  my  rest. 
So  often  hast  thou  come,  and  from  my  side 
So  many  hast  thou  lured,  I  only  bide 
Thy  beck,  to  follow  glad  thy  steps  divine. 

Thy  world  is  peopled  for  me ;   this  world 's 
bare. 


CITY   VISIONS.  219 

Through  all  these  years  my  couch  thou  didst 

prepare. 
Thou  art  supreme  Love  —  kiss  me  —  I  am  thine ! 


CITY  VISIONS. 


As  the  blind  Milton's  memory  of  light, 
The  deaf  Beethoven's  phantasy  of  tone, 
Wrought   joys   for   them   surpassing   all   things 

known 

In  our  restricted  sphere  of  sound  and  sight, — 
So  while  the  glaring  streets  of  brick  and  stone 
Vex  with  heat,  noise,  and  dust  from  morn  till 

night, 

I  will  give  rein   to  Fancy,  taking  flight 
From  dismal  now  and  here,  and  dwell  alone 
"With  new-enfranchised  senses.     All  day  long, 
Think  ye  't  is  I,  who  sit  'twixt  darkened  walls, 
While  ye  chase  beauty  over  land  and  sea  ? 
Uplift  on  wings  of  some  rare  poet's  song, 
Where   the  wide   billow   laughs  and  leaps  and 

falls, 
I  soar  cloud-high,  free  as  the  winds  are  free. 

II. 

Who  grasps  the  substance?   who  'mid  shadows 

strays  ? 
He  who  within  some  dark-bright  wood  reclines, 


220  INFLUENCE. 

'Twixt   sleep   and   waking,  where    the    needled 

pines 
Have  cushioned  all  his  couch  with  soft  brown 

sprays  ? 

He  notes  not  how  the  living  water  shines, 
Trembling  along  the  cliff,  a  flickering  haze, 
Brimming  a  wine-bright  pool,  nor  lifts  his  gaze 
To  read  the  ancient  wonders  and  the  signs. 
Does  he  possess  the  actual,  or  do  I, 
Who  paint  on  air  more  than  his  sense  receives, 
The   glittering   pine-tufts  with   closed    eyes   be 
hold, 

Breathe  the  strong  resinous  perfume,  see  the  sky 
Quiver  like  azure  flame  between  the  leaves, 
And  open  unseen  gates  with  key  of  gold  ? 


INFLUENCE. 

THE  fervent,  pale-faced  Mother  ere  she  sleep, 
Looks  out  upon  the  zigzag-lighted  square, 
The  beautiful  bare  trees,  the  blue  night-air, 
The  revelation  of  the  star-strewn  deep, 
World  above  world,  and  heaven  over  heaven. 
Between  the  tree-tops  and  the  skies,  her  sight 
Rests  on  a  steadfast,  ruddy-shining  light, 
High  in  the  tower,  an  earthly  star  of  even. 
Hers  is  the  faith  in  saints'  and  angels'  power, 
And  mediating  love  —  she  breathes  a  prayer 


RESTLESSNESS.  221 

For  yon  tired  watcher  in  the  gray  old  tower. 

He  the  shrewd,  skeptic  poet  unaware 

Feels    comforted    and    stilled,    and    knows   not 

whence 
Falls  this  unwonted  peace  on  heart  and  sense. 


RESTLESSNESS.1 

WOULD  I  had  waked  this  morn  where  Florence 

smiles, 

A-bloom  with  beauty,  a  white  rose  full-blown, 
Yet  rich  in  sacred  dust,  in  storied  stone, 
Precious  past  all  the  wealth  of  Indian  isles  — 
From  olive-hoary  Fiesole  to  feed 
On  Brunelleschi's  dome  my  hungry  eye, 
And  see  against  the  lotus-colored  sky, 
Spring  the  slim  belfry  graceful  as  a  reed. 
To  kneel  upon  the  ground  where  Dante  trod, 
To  breathe  the  air  of  immortality 
From  Angelo  and  Raphael  —  to  be  — 
Each  sense  new-quickened  by  a  demi-god. 
To  hear  the  liquid  Tuscan  speech  at  whiles, 
From  citizen  and  peasant,  to  behold 
The  heaven  of  Leonardo  washed  with  gold  — 
Would  I  had  waked  this  morn  where  Florence 

smiles ! 

1  Written  before  visiting  Florence. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

DON  JOHN  OF  AUSTRIA. 

JOSEF  RIBERA,  the  Spagnoletto. 

LORENZO,  noble  young  Italian  artist,  pupil  ofRibera. 

DON  TOMMASO  MANZANO. 

LUCA,  servant  to  Ribera. 

A  GENTLEMAN. 

FIRST  LORD. 

SECOND  LORD. 

MARIA-ROSA,  daughter  to  Ribera. 

ANNICCA,  daughter  to  Ribera,  and  wife  to  Don  Tommaso. 

FIAMETTA,  servant  to  Maria-Rosa. 

ABBESS. 

LAY-SISTER. 

FIRST  LADY. 

SECOND  LADY. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Gentlemen,  Servants. 

SCENE  —  During  the  fast  four  acts,  in  Naples;  latter  part 
oftheffth  act,  in  Palermo.     Time,  about  1655. 


TEE   SPAGNOLETTO.  223 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Studio  of  the  SPAGNOLETTO.  RIBERA  at  work  before 
his  canvas.  MARIA  seated  some  little  distance  behind 
him  ;  a  piece  of  embroidery  is  in  her  hands,  but  she  glances 
up  from  it  incessantly  toward  her  father  with  impatient 
movements. 

MARIA. 

Father  ! 

(RIBERA,  absorbed  in  his  work,  makes  no  reply ;  she  puts  by 
her  embroidery,  goes  toward  him  and  kisses  him  gently. 
He  starts,  looks  up  at  her,  and  returns  her  caress.) 

RIBERA. 
My  child ! 

MARIA. 

Already  you  forget, 

Oh,  heedless  father !    Did  you  not  promise  me 
To  lay  aside  your  brush  to-day  at  noon, 
And  tell  me  the  great  secret  ? 

RIBERA. 

Ah,  't  is  true, 

I  am  to  blame.     But  it  is  morning  yet ; 
My  child,  wait  still  a  little. 

MARIA. 

'T  is  morning  yet ! 
Nay,  it  was  noon  one  mortal  hour  ago. 


224  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

All  patience  I  have  sat  till  you  should  turn 
And  beckon  me.     The  rosy  angels  breathe 
Upon  the  canvas  ;  I  might  sit  till  night, 
And,  if  I  spake  not,  you  would  never  glance 
From  their  celestial  faces.     Dear  my  father, 
Your  brow  is  moist,  and  yet  your  hands  are  ice  ; 
Your  very  eyes  are  tired  —  pray,  rest  awhile. 
The  Spagnoletto  need  no  longer  toil 
As  in  the  streets  of  Rome  for  beggars'  fare ; 
Now  princes  bide  his  pleasure. 

BIBERA   (throws  aside  his  brush  and  palette). 

Ah,  Maria, 

Thou  speak'st  in  season.     Let  me  ne'er  forget 
Those  days  of  degradation,  when  I  starved 
Before  the  gates  of  palaces.     The  germs 
Stirred  then  within  me  of  the  perfect  fruits 
Wherewith  my  hands  have  since  enriched  God's 

world. 

Vengeance  I  vowed  for  every  moment's  sting — 
Vengeance     on   wealth,    rank,    station,    fortune, 

genius. 

See,  while  I  paint,  all  else  escapes  my  sense, 
Save  this  bright  throng  of  phantasies  that  press 
Upon  my  brain,  each  claiming  from  my  hand 
Its  immortality.     But  thou,  my  child, 
Remind'st  me  of  mine  oath,  my  sacred  pride, 
The  eternal  hatred  lodged  within  my  breast. 
Philip  of  Spain  shall  wait.     I  will  not  deign 
To  add  to-day  the  final  touch  of  life 
Unto  this  masterpiece. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  225 

MARIA. 

So !  that  is  well. 

Put  by  the  envious  brush  that  separates 
Father  from  daughter.     Now  you  are  all  mine 

own. 
And  now  —  your  secret. 

RIBERA. 

Mine  ?    'T  is  none  of  mine ; 
'T  is  thine,  Maria.     John  of  Austria 
Desires  our  presence  at  his  ball  to-night. 

MARIA. 

Prince  John  ? 

RIBERA. 

Ay,  girl,  Prince  John.     I  looked  to  see 
A  haughty  joy  dance  sparkling  in  thine  eyes 
And  burn  upon  thy  cheek.     But  what  is  this  ? 
Timid  and  pale,  thou  droop'st  thy  head  abashed 
As  a  poor  flower-girl  whom  a  lord  accosts. 

MARIA. 

Forgive  me.     Sure,  't  is  you  Don  John  desires, 
The  prince  of  artists  — 

RIBERA. 

Art !    Prate  not  of  art ! 
Think'st  thou  I  move  an  artist  'midst  his  guests  ? 


226  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

As  such  I  commune  with  a  loftier  race  ; 
Angels  and  spirits  are  my  ministers. 
These  do  I  part  aside  to  grace  his  halls  ; 
A  Spanish  gentleman  —  and  so,  his  peer. 

MARIA. 

Father,  I  am  not  well ;  my  head  throhs  fast, 
Unwonted  languor  weighs  upon  my  frame. 

RIBERA. 

Anger  me  not,  Maria.     'T  is  my  will, 
Thou  shalt  obey.     Hell,  what  these  women  be ! 
No  obstacle  would  daunt  them  in  the  quest 
Of  that  which,  freely  given,  they  reject. 
Hold !     Haply  just  occasion  bids  thee  seem 
Unlike  thyself.     Speak  fearlessly,  dear  child  ; 
Confide  to  me  thy  knowledge,  thy  surmise. 

MARIA   (hurriedly). 

No,  father,  you  were  right.     I  have  no  cause  ; 
Punish  me  —  nay,  forgive,  and  I  obey. 

RIBERA. 

There  spake  my  child  ;  kiss  me  and  be  forgiven. 
Sometimes  I  doubt  thou  playest  upon  my  love 
"Willfully,  knowing  me  as  soft  as  clay, 
Whom  the   world  knows   of   marble.     In    such 

moods, 

I  see  my  spirit  mirror'd  first,  and  then 
From  thy  large  eyes  thy  sainted  mother's  soul 
Unclouded  sbine. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  227 


MARIA. 

Can  I  be  like  to  her  ? 
I  only  knew  her  faded,  white,  and  grave, 
And   so   she    still    floats    vaguely   through   my 

dreams, 

With  eyes  like  your  own  angels',  and  a  brow 
Worthy  an  aureole. 

RIBERA. 

An  earthly  crown, 

My  princess,  might  more  fitly  rest  on  thine. 
Annicca  hath  her  colors,  blue-black  hair, 
And   pale,  brown    flesh,  and   gray,  untroubled 

eyes; 

Yet  thou  more  often  bring'st  her  to  my  mind, 
For  all  the  tawny  gold  of  thy  thick  locks, 
Thy  rare  white  face,  and  brilliant  Spanish  orbs. 
Thine  is  her  lisping  trick  of  voice,  her  laugh, 
The  blithest  music  still  this  side  of  heaven  ; 
Thine   her   free,  springing   gait,  though    there 
withal 

A  swaying,  languid  motion  all  thine  own, 
Recalls  Valencia  more  than  Italy. 
Like  and  unlike  thou  art  to  her,  as  still 
My  memory  loves  to  hold  her,  as  she  first 
Beamed  like  the  star  of  morning  on  my  life. 
Hot,  faint,  and  footsore,  I  had  paced  since  dawn 
The  sun-baked  streets  of  Naples,  seeking  work, 
Not  alms,  despite  the  beggar  that  I  looked. 


228  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Now  't  was  nigh  vespers,  and  my  suit  had  met 
With  curt  refusal,  sharp  rebuff,  and  gibes. 
Praised  be  the  saints !  for  every  drop  of  gall 
In  that  day's  brimming  cup,  I  have  upheld 
A  poisoned  beaker  to  another's  lips. 
Many  a  one  hath  the  Ribera  taught" 
To  fare  a  vagabond  through  alien  streets  ; 
A  god  unrecognized  'midst  churls  and  clowns, 
With  kindled  soul  aflame,  and  body  faint 
For  lack  of  bread.     Domenichino  knows, 
And  Gessi,  Guido,  Annibal  Caracci  — 

MARIA. 

Dear  father,  calm  yourself.     You  had  begun 
To  tell  me  how  you  saw  my  mother  first. 

RIBERA. 

True,  I  forgot  it  not.     Why,  I  am  calm  ; 

The  old  man  now  can  well  be  grave  and  cold, 

Or  laugh  at  his  own  youth's  indignities, 

Past  a  long  lifetime  back.     'T  was  vespers'  hour, 

Or  nigh  it,  when  I  reached  her  father's  door. 

Kind  was  his  greeting,  the  first  cordial  words 

I  heard  in  Naples ;  but  I  took  small  heed 

Of  speech  or  tone,  for  all  my  sense  was  rapt 

In  wonder  at  the  angel  by  his  side 

Who  smiled  upon  me.      Large,  clear  eyes  that 

held 

The  very  soul  of  sunlight  in  their  depths  ; 
Low,  pure,  pale  brow,  with  masses  of  black  hair 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  229 

Flung  loosely  back,  and  rippling  unconfined 

In  shadowy  magnificence  below 

The  slim  gold  girdle  o'er  the  snow-soft  gown. 

Vested  and  draped  in  close-woven  stuff  of  white, 

With  gold  about  her  throat  and  waist  and  wrists, 

A  stately  lily  ere  the  dew  of  morn 

Hath  passed  away  —  such  was  thy  mother,  child. 

MARIA. 

"Would  I  were  like  her !      But   what   said  she, 

father  ? 
How  did  she  plead  for  you  ? 

RIBERA. 

Ah,  cunning  child, 

I  see  thy  tricks ;  thou  humorest  my  age, 
Knowing  how  much  I  love  to  tell  this  tale, 
Though  thou  hast  heard  it  half  a  hundred  times. 

MARIA. 

I  find  it  sweet  to  hear  as  you  to  tell, 
Believe  me,  father. 

RIBERA. 

'T  was  to  pleasure  her, 
Signor  Cortese  gave  me  all  I  lacked 
To  prove  my  unfamed  skill.     A  savage  pride, 
Matched  oddly  with  my  rags,  the  haughtiness 
Wherewith  I  claimed   rather   than   begged  my 
tools, 


230  THE   SPAGNOLETTO. 

And  my  quaint  aspect,  oft  she  told  me  since, 

Won  at  a  glance  her  faith.     Before  I  left, 

She  guessed  my  need,  and  served  me  meat  and 

wine 
With  her  own  flower-white  hands.     The  parting 

grace 

I  craved  was  granted,  that  my  work  might  be 
The  portrait  of  herself.      Thou  knowest  the  rest. 

MARIA. 

Why  did  she  leave  us,  father  ?     Oh,  how  oft 
I  yearn  to  see  her  face,  to  hear  her  voice, 
Hushed  in  an  endless  silence !     Strange  that  she, 
Whose   rich   love  beggared   our   return,  should 

bear 

Such  separation  !  Though  engirdled  now 
By  heavenly  hosts  of  saints  and  seraphim, 
I  cannot  fancy  it.  What !  shall  her  child, 
Whose  lightest  sigh  reechoed  in  her  heart, 
Have  need  of  her  and  cry  to  her  in  vain  ? 

RIBERA. 

Now,  for  God's  sake,  Maria,  speak  not  thus  ; 
Let  me  not  see  such  tears  upon  thy  cheek. 
Not  unto  us  it  has  been  given  to  guess 
The  peace  of  disembodied  souls  like  hers. 
The  vanishing  glimpses  that  my  fancies  catch 
Through  heaven's  half-opened  gates,  exalt  even 

me, 
Poor  sinner  that  I  am.     And  what  are  these, 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  231 

The  painted  shadows  that  make  all  my  life 

A  glory,  to  the  splendor  of  that  light  ? 

For  thee,  my  child,  has  not  my  doting  love 

Sufficed,  at  least  in  part,  to  fill  the  breach 

Of   that   tremendous   void  ?       What  dost    thou 

lack? 

What  help,  what  counsel,  what   most  dear  ca 
ress  ? 

What   dost  thou   covet?     What  least  whim  re 
mains 
Ungratified,  because  not  yet  expressed  ? 

MARIA. 
None,  none,  dear  father!      Pardon  me!      Thy 

love, 

Generous  and  wise  as  tender,  shames  my  power 
To  merit  or  repay.     Fie  on  my  lips  ! 
Look  if  they  be  not  blistered.     Let  them  smooth 
With  contrite  kisses  the  last  frown  away. 
We  must  be  young  to-night  —  no  wrinkles  then  ! 
Genius  must  show  immortal  as  she  is. 

RIBERA. 

Thou  wilt  unman  me  with  thy  pretty  ways. 
I  had  forgot  the  ball.     Yea,  I  grow  old  ; 
This  scanty  morning's  work  has  wearied  me. 
Once  I  had  thought  it  play  to  dream  all  day 
Before  my  canvas  and  then  dance  till  dawn, 
And  now  must  I  give  o'er  and  rest  at  noon. 

[Eises. 


232  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Enter  LUCA,  ushering  in  LORENZO,  who  carries  a  portfolio. 
LUCA. 

Signer  Lorenzo. 

[LORENZO    ceremoniously    salutes     RIBERA     and 
MARIA.    Exit  LUCA. 

LORENZO. 

Master,  I  bring  my  sketch. 
[Opens  his  portfolio  and  hands  a  sketch  to  RIBERA. 

RIBERA  (after  a  pause). 

Humph !  the  design  is  not  so  ill-conceived ; 
I  note  some  progress  ;  but  your  drawing  's  bad  — 
Yes,  bad,  sir.    Mark  you  how  this  leg  hangs  limp, 
As   though   devoid   of    life ;    these  hands  seem 

clenched, 
Not  loosely  clasped,  as  you  intended  them. 

[He  takes  his  pencil  and  makes  a  few  strokes. 
Thus  should  it  stand  —  a  single  line  will  mend. 
And  here,   what 's  this  ?     Why,  't  is  a  sloven's 

work. 

You  dance  too  many  nights  away,  young  gallant. 
You  shirk  close  labor  as  do  all  your  mates. 
You  think  to  win  with  service  frivolous, 
Snatched  'twixt  your  cups,  or  set  between  two 

kisses, 
The  favor  of  the  mistress  of  the  world. 

LORENZO. 

Your  pardon,  master,  but  you  do  me  wrong. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  233 

Mayhap  I  lack  the  gift.     Alas,  I  fear  it ! 
But  not  the  patience,  not  the  energy 
Of  earnest,  indefatigable  toil, 
That  help  to  make  the  artist. 

RIBERA. 

'S  death  !     He  dares 
Belie  me,  and  deny  the  testimony 
Of  his  own  handiwork,  whose  every  line 
Betrays  a  sluggard  soul,  an  indolent  will, 
A  brain  that 's  bred  to  idleness.     So  be  it ! 
Master  Lorenzo  tells  the  Spagnoletto 
His  own  defects  and  qualities  !     'T  were  best 
He  find  another  teacher  competent 
To  guide  so  apt,  so  diligent  a  scholar. 

MARIA. 

Dear  father,  what  hath  given  thee  offence  ? 
Cast  but  another  glance  upon  the  sketch ; 
Surely  it  hath   some   grace,  some  charm,   some 
promise. 

RIBERA. 

Daughter,  stand  by !     I  know  these  insolent  slips 
Of  young  nobility  ;  they  lack  the  stuff 
That  makes  us  artists.     What !  to  answer  me  ! 
When  next  I  drop  a  hint  as  to  his  colors, 
The  lengthening  or  the  shortening  of  a  stroke, 
He  '11  bandy  words  with  me  about  his  error, 
To  prove  himself  the  master. 


234  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

LORENZO. 

If  my  defect 

Be  an  hereditary  grain  i'  the  blood, 
Even  as  you  say,  I  must  abide  by  it ; 
But  if  patrician  habits  more  than  birth 
Beget  such  faults,  then  may  I  dare  to  hope. 
Not  mine,  I  knew,  I  felt,  to  clear  new  paths, 
To  win  new  kingdoms ;  yet  were  I  content 
With  such  achievement  as  a  strenuous  will, 
A  firm  endeavor,  an  unfaltering  love, 
And  an  unwearying  spirit  might  attain. 
Cast  me  not  lightly  back.     Banish  me  not 
From  this,  my  home  of  hope,  of  inspiration  ! 

MARIA. 

What,  my  ungentle  father  !     Will  you  hear, 
And  leave  this  worthy  signer's  suit  unanswered  ? 

RIBERA. 

Well,  he  may  bide.     Sir,  I  will  speak  with  you 

Anon  upon  this  work.     I  judged  in  haste. 

Yea,  it  hath  merit.     I  am  weary  now ; 

To-morrow  I  shall  be  in  fitter  mood 

To  give  you  certain  hints. 

[LORENZO  bows  his  thanks  and  advances  to  address 
MARIA.  RIBERA  silences  and  dismisses  him  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand.  Exit  LOBENZO. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  235 


RIBERA. 

Should  I  o'ersleep 

Mine  hour,  Maria,  thou  must  awaken  me  ; 
But  come  what  may,  I  will  be  fresh  to-night, 
To  triumph  in  thy  triumph.  [Exit  RIBERA. 

MARIA  (alone). 

Could  I  have  told, 

Then  when  he  bade  me  ?     Nay,  what  is  to  tell  ? 
He  had  flouted  me  for  prizing  at  such  height 
Homage  so  slight  from  John  of  Austria,  even. 
A  glance  exchanged,  a  smile,  a  fallen  flower 
Dropped  from  my  hair,  and  pressed  against  his 

lips. 

The  Prince !  my  father  gloats  upon  that  name. 
Were  he  no  more  than  gentleman,  I  think 
I  should  be  glad.    I  cannot  tell  to-day 
If  I  be  sad  or  gay.     Now  could  I  weep 
Warm,  longing  tears  ;  anon,  a  fire  of  joy 
Leaps  in  my  heart  and  dances  through  my  veins. 
Why  should  I  nurse  such  idle  thoughts  ?     To 
night 

We  are  to  meet  again.     Will  he  remember?  — 
Nay,   how    should    he    forget?      His   heart  is 

young ; 

His  eyes  do  mirror  loyalty.     Oh,  day  ! 
Quicken  thy  dull,  slow  round  of  tedious  hours ! 
God  make  me  beautiful  this  happy  night! 
My  father's  sleeping  saint  rebukes  my  thought. 


236  THE  SfAGNOLETTO. 

Strange  he  has  left  his  work,  against  his  wont, 
Revealed  before  completed.     I  will  draw 
The  curtain. 

[She  stands   irresolute  before  the  picture,  with   her 

hand  on  the  curtain. 

Beautiful,  oh,  beautiful ! 
The   far,  bright,    opened   heavens  —  the    dark 

earth, 
Where   the   tranced   pilgrim   lies,    with   eyelids 

sealed, 

His  calm  face  flushed  with  comfortable  sleep, 
His  weary  limbs  relaxed,  his  heavy  head 
Pillowed  upon  the  stone.     Oh,  blessed  dream 
That  visits  his  rapt  sense,  of  airy  forms, 
Mounting,  descending  on  the  shining  ladder, 
With  messages  of  peace.     I  will  be  true 
Unto  my  lineage  divine,  and  breathe 
The  passion  of  just  pride  that  overfills 
His  soul  inspired. 

While  she  stands  before  the  canvas,  reenter,  unperceived  by 
her,  LORENZO. 

LORENZO. 

Oh,  celestial  vision ! 

What  brush  may  reproduce  those  magic  tints, 
Those  lines  ethereal  ?  — 

MARIA   (turns  suddenly). 

Is  it  not  marvellous, 

Signer  Lorenzo  ?    I  would  draw  the  curtain, 
But,  gazing,  I  forgot. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  237 

You  are  the  first, 

After  the  master  and  myself,  to  look 
Upon  tliis  wonder. 

LORENZO   (with  enthusiasm,  looking  for  the  first  time  at 
the  picture}. 

Ah,  what  an  answer  this 

For  envious  minds  that  would  restrict  his  power 
To  writhing  limbs  and  shrivelled  flesh !    Repose, 
Beauty,  and  large  simplicity  are  here. 
Yes,  that  is  art !    Before  such  work  I  stand 
And  feel  myself  a  dwarf. 

MARIA. 

There,  you  are  wrong. 

My  father  even,  who  knows  his  proper  worth, 
Before  his  best  achievements  I  have  seen 
In  like  dejection  ;  't  is  the  curse  of  genius. 
Oft  have  I  heard  the  master  grace  your  name 
With  flattering  addition. 

LORENZO. 

'T  is  your  goodness, 

And  not  the  echo  of  his  praise,  that  speaks. 
My  work  was  worthless  —  't  was  your  generous 

voice 
Alone  secured  the  master's  second  glance. 

MARIA. 

Nay,  signer,  frankly,  he  esteems  your  talent. 


238  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Because  you  are  of  well-assured  means 
And  gentle  birth,  he  will  be  rude  with  you. 
Not  without  base  is  the  deep  grudge  he  owes 
To  riches  and  prosperity. 

LORENZO. 

Signora, 

Why  do  I  bear  such  harsh,  injurious  terms 
As  he  affronts  me  with  ?     Why  must  I  seem 
In  mine  own  eyes  a  craven  ?    Spiritless, 
Dishonorably  patient  ?    'T  is  not  his  fame, 
His  power,  his  gift,  his  venerable  years 
That  bind  me  here  his  willing  slave.     Maria, 
'T  is   thou,  't  is  thou   alone !     'T  is  that   I  love 

thee, 
And  exile  hence  is  death ! 

{A  pause.    He  kneels  at  Tier  feet.     She  looks  at  him 
kindly  but  makes  no  reply. 

At  thy  dear  feet 

I  lay  my  life  with  its  most  loyal  service, 
The  subject  of  thy  pleasure. 

MARIA  (tenderly). 

You  are  too  humble. 

LORENZO. 

Too  humble  !     Do  you  seek  mine  utter  ruin, 
With  words  whose  very  tone  is  a  caress  ? 
I  will  say  all.    I  love  you !  —  you  have  known  it. 
Why  should  I  tell  you  ?    Yet,  to-day  you  seem 
Other  than  you  havo  been.     A  milder  light 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  239 

Beams   from   your    eyes  —  a   gentler   grace   is 

throned 

Upon  your  brow  —  your  words  fall  soft  as  dew 
To  melt  my  fixed  resolve. 

MARIA. 

You  find  me,  signer, 

In  an  unguarded  mood.     I  would  be  true 
To  you ;  and  to  myself ;  yet,  know  no  answer. 
Anon,  I  will  be  calm ;  pray  you  withdraw. 

LOREXZO. 

Till  when?    Remember  what   mad   hopes   and 

fears 
Meantime  will  riot  in  my  brain. 

MARIA. 

To-morrow  — 
Farewell,  farewell. 

LORENZO  (kisses  her  hand). 

Farewell.  [Exit. 

MARIA. 

A  faithful  heart, 

A  name  untainted,  a  fair  home  —  yea,  these 
Are  what  I  need.  Oh,  lily  soul  in  heaven, 
Who  wast  on  earth  my  mother,  guide  thy  child ! 

While  MARIA  sits  rapt  in  thought,  enter  from  behind  her, 
ANNICOA,  who  bends  over  her  and  kisses  her  brow. 


240  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


ANNICCA. 

What,  sister  !  lost  in  dreams  by  daylight  ?    Fie  ! 
Who  is  the  monarch  of  thy  thoughts  ? 

MARIA   (starting). 

Annicca ! 

My  thoughts  are  bounden  to  no  master  yet ; 
They  fly  from  earth  to  heaven  in  a  breath. 
Now  are  they  all  of  earth.     Hast  heard  the  tid 
ings? 

ANNICCA. 

Yea  —  of  the  prince's  ball  ?    We  go  together. 
Braid  in  thy  hair  our  mother's  pearls,  and  wear 
The  amulet  ingemmed  with  eastern  stones ; 
'T  will  bring  good  fortune. 

MARIA. 

Tell  me,  ere  we  go, 
What  manner  of  man  is  John  of  Austria  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Scarce  man  at  all  —  a  madcap,  charming  boy  ; 
Well-favored  —  you  have  seen  him  —  exquisite 
In  courtly  compliment,  of  simple  manners  ; 
You  may  not  hear  a  merrier  laugh  than  his 
From  any  boatman  on  the  bay  ;  well- versed 
In  all  such  arts  as  most  become  his  station ; 
Light  in  the  dance  as  winged-foot  Mercury, 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  241 

Eloquent  on  the  zither,  and  a  master 
Of  rapier  and  — 

MARIA. 

A  puppet  could  be  made 
To  answer  in  all  points  your  praise  of  him. 
Hath  he  no  substance  of  a  man  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Why,  sister, 
What  may  that  be  to  us  ? 

MARIA. 

He  is  our  Prince. 

ANNICCA. 

The  promise  of  his  youth  is  to  outstrip 

The  hero  of  Lepanto ;  bright  and  bold 

As  fire,  he  is  the  very  soul,  the  star 

Of  Spanish  chivalry  ;  his  last  achievement 

Seems  still  the  flower  of  his  accomplishments. 

Musician,  soldier,  courtier,  yea,  and  artist. 

4i  He  had  been  a  painter,  were  he  not  a  prince," 

Says  Messer  Zurbaran.     The  Calclerona, 

His  actress-mother,  hath  bequeathed  to  him 

Her  spirit  with  her  beauty,  and  the  power 

To  win  and  hold  men's  hearts. 

MARIA. 

I  knew  it,  sister ! 

His  eye  hath  a  command  in  it;  his  brow 
Seems  garlanded  with  laurel. 


242  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


What  is  this  ? 
You  kindle  with   his  praise,   your  whole  heart 

glows 

In  light  and  color  on  your  face,  your  words 
Take  wing  and  fly  as  bold  as  reckless  birds. 
What  !  can  so  rash  a  thought,  a  dream  so  wild, 
So  hopeless  an  ambition,  tempt  your  soul  ? 

MAKIA. 

Pray  you,  what  thought,  what  dream,  and  what 

ambition  ? 
I  knew  not  I  had  uttered  any  such. 

ANXICCA. 

Nor  have  you  in  your  speech;  your  eyes  now 

veiled, 
Where  the   light  leaped  to  hear  me  voice  his 

fame, 

Your  blushes  and  your  pallor  have  betrayed 
That  which  should  lie  uncounted  fathom  deep  — 
The  secret  of  a  woman's  foolish  heart. 

MARIA. 

And  there  it  lies,  my  sibyl  sister,  still  ! 
Your  plummet  hath  not  reached  it.  Yes,  't  is  love 
Flaunts  his  triumphant  colors  in  my  cheek, 
And  quickens  my  lame  speech  —  but  not  for  him, 
Not  for  the  Prince  —  so  may  I  vaunt  his  worth 
With  a  free  soul. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  243 

ANNICCA. 
Say  on. 

MARIA. 

A  gentleman, 

Favored  of  earth  and  heaven,  true  and  loving, 
Hath  cast  his  heart  at  my  imperial  feet  ; 
And  if  to-morrow  find  me  as  to-day, 
I  will  e'en  stoop  and  raise  it  to  mine  own. 

AXNICCA. 

Signer  Vitruvio  ? 

MARIA. 

Not  he,  indeed ! 

Did  not  I  say  favored  of  earth  and  heaven  ? 
That  should  mean  other  gifts  than  bags  of  gold, 
Or  a  straight-featured  mask.     Nor  will  it  be 
Any  you  name,  though  you    should    name  him 

right. 

Must  it  not  lie  —  how  many  fathom  deep  — 
The  secret  of  a  woman's  foolish  heart  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Kiss  me,  Maria.     You  are  still  a  child. 

You  cannot  vex  me,  wilful  as  you  be. 

Your  choice,  I  fear  not,  doubtless  't  will  prove 

wise, 
Despite  your  wild  wit,  for  your  heart  is  pure, 


244  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

And  you  will  pause  with  sure  deliberate  judg 
ment 
Before  you  leave  our  father. 

MARIA. 

Does  love  steal 

So  gently  o'er  our  soul  ?     What  if  he  come, 
A  cloud,  a  fire,  a  whirlwind,  to  o'erbear 
The  feeble  barriers  wherewith  we  oppose  him, 
And  blind  our  eyes  and  wrest  from  us  our  rea 
son? 

Fear  not,  Annicca,  for  in  no  such  guise 
He  visits  my  calm  breast ;  but  yet  you  speak 
Somewhat   too  sagely.     Did  such  cautious  wis 
dom 
Guide  your  own  fancy  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Jest  no  more,  Maria. 

Since  I  became  a  wife,  is  much  made  clear, 
Which  a  brief  year  ago  was  dark  and  vague. 
Tommaso  loves  me  —  we  are  happier 
Than  I  had  dreamed ;   yet  matching  now  with 

then, 

I  see  his  love  is  not  that  large,  rich  passion 
Our  father  bore  us. 

MARIA. 
You  regret  your  home  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  245 

ANKECCA. 

No,  no  !     I  have  no  wish  and  no  regret. 
I  speak  for  you.     His  is  a  sovereign  soul, 
And  all  his  passions  loom  in  huger  shape 
Than  lesser  men's.     He  brooks  no  rivalry 
With  his  own  offspring,  and  toward  me  his  love 
Hath  ebbed,  I  mark,  to  a  more  even  flow, 
While  deeper,  stronger,  sets  the  powerful  current 
Toward  you  alone.     Consider  this,  Maria, 
Nor  wantonly  discrown  that  sacred  head 
Of  your  young  love  to  wreathe  some  curled  boy's 
brow. 

MARI&. 

Think  you  his  wish  were  that  I  should  not  wed  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Nay,  that  I  say  not,  for  his  pride  aspires 
To  see  you  nobly  mated. 

MARIA  (after  a  pause). 

Him  will  I  wed 

Whose  name  is  ancient,  fair,  and  honorable, 
As  the  Ribera's  is  illustrious  — 
Him  who  no  less  than  I  will  venerate 
That  white,  divine  old  head.     In  art  his  pupil, 
In  love  his  son  ;  tender  as  I  to  watch, 
And  to  delay  the  slow  extinguishing 
Of  that  great  light. 


246  TEE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

ANNICCA. 

There  spake  his  darling  child  ! 

MARIA. 

What  is 't  o'clock  ?    If  he  should  sleep  too  late  — 
He  bade  me  rouse  him  — 

ANNICCA. 

Haste  to  seek  him,  then. 
'T  is  hard  on  sunset,  and  he  looks  for  thee 
With  his  first  waking  motion.     Till  to  night. 

[Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  IV. 
A  Hall  in  RIBERA'S  house.    Enter  LUCA  and  FIAMETTA. 

FIAMETTA. 

But  did  you  see  her  ? 

LUCA. 
Nay,  I  saw  her  sister,  Donna  Annicca. 

FIAMETTA. 

Tush,  man !  never  name  her  beside  my  lady 
Maria-Rosa.  You  have  lost  the  richest  feast  in 
the  world  for  hungry  eyes.  Her  gown  of  cloth 
o'  silver  clad  her,  as  it  were,  with  light ;  there 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  247 

twinkled  about  her  waist  a  girdle  stiff  with 
stones  —  you  would  have  said  they  breathed. 
Mine  own  hands  wreathed  the  dropping  pearls  in 
her  hair,  and  pearls  again  were  clasped  around 
her  throat.  But  no,  I  might  tell  thee  every  orna 
ment  —  her  jeweled  fan,  her  comb  of  pearls,  her 
floating  veil  of  gauze,  and  still  the  best  of  all 
would  escape  us. 

LUCA. 

Thou  speakest  more  like  her  page  than  her 
handmaiden. 

FIAMETTA. 

Thou  knowest  not  woman  truly,  for  all  thy  wit. 
I  speak  most  like  a  woman  when  I  weigh  the 
worth  of  beauty  and  rich  apparel.  Heigh-ho  !  I 
have  felt  the  need  of  this.  Thou,  good  Luca, 
who  might  have  been  my  father,  canst  under 
stand  me?  He  was  as  poor  as  thou.  Why 
shouldst  thou  be  his  lackey,  his  slave  ?  My  hand 
were  as  dainty  as  hers,  if  it  could  but  be  spared 
its  daily  labor. 

LUCA. 

Yes,  poor  child,  I  understand  thee,  and  yet 
thou  art  wrong.  He  is  more  slave  to  pride  than 
I  am  to  him.  I  know  him  well,  Fiametta,  after 
so  many  years  of  service,  and  to-day  I  pity  him 
more  than  I  fear  him.  Why,  girl,  my  task  is 


248  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

sport  beside  his  toil !  If  my  limbs  be  weary,  I 
sleep ;  but  I  have  seen  him  sit  before  his  canvas 
with  straining  eyes  and  the  big  beads  standing 
on  his  brow.  When  at  last  he  gave  o'er,  and  1 
have  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  served  and  soothed 
him,  what  sleep  could  he  snatch  ?  His  brain  is 
haunted  with  evil  visions,  whereof  some  be  merely 
of  his  own  imagining,  and  others  the  phantoms 
of  folk  who  are  living  or  have  lived,  and  who 
rouse  his  jealousy  or  mayhap  his  remorse,  God 
only  knows !  If  that  be  genius  —  to  be  alive  to 
pain  at  every  pore,  to  be  possessed  of  a  devil 
that  robs  you  of  your  sleep  and  grants  no  space 
between  the  hours  of  grinding  toil  —  I  thank  the 
saints  I  am  a  simple  man ! 


FIAMETTA. 

I  grant  thee  thou  mayst  be  right  concerning 
him;  he  hath  indeed  a  strange,  sour  mien.  I 
shudder  when  he  turns  suddenly,  as  his  wont  is, 
and  bends  his  evil  eyes  on  me.  The  holy  father 
tells  me  such  warnings  come  from  God.  No 
matter  how  slight  the  service  he  asks  of  me,  my 
flesh  creeps  and  my  limbs  refuse  to  move,  till  I 
have  whispered  an  Ave.  But  what  of  Lady 
Maria-Rosa  ?  Both  heaven  and  earth  smile  upon 
her.  To-night  she  wears  a  poor  girl's  dowry,  a 
separate  fortune,  on  her  head,  her  neck,  her 
hands,  yes,  on  her  little  jeweled  feet.  One 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  249 

tiny  shoe  of  hers  would  make  me  free  to  wed 
my  lad. 

LUCA. 

If  he  have  but  eyes,  I  warrant  thee  he  finds 
jewels  enough  in  thy  bright  face.  Tell  me  his 
name. 

FIAMETTA. 

Nay,  that  is  my  secret. 

LUCA. 

He  must  be  a  poor-souled  lad  if  he  will  wait 
till  thou  hast  earned  a  dowry. 

FIAMETTA. 

A  poor-souled  lad  !  my  good  Vicenzo  —  ah ! 
but  no  matter ;  thou  knowest  him,  Luca,  my 
Lord  Lorenzo's  page.  There  !  —  is  he  poor,  or 
mean,  or  plain,  or  dull  ?  He  claims  no  dowry, 
he  —  but  I  have  my  pride,  as  well  as  great 
ones. 

LUCA. 

May  the  saints  preserve  thee  from  such  as 
theirs  !  I  am  heartily  glad  of  thy  good  fortune. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  thou  or  Lady  Maria-Rosa 
be  the  most  favored.  Well,  the  end  proves 
all.  [Exeunt. 


250  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Enter    on  one  side  ANNICCA  and  DON  TOMMASO,  attired 
for  the  ball;  on  the  other  side,  RLBEKA. 

RIBERA. 

What  do  ye  here,  my  children  ?     Haste  away  ! 

Maria  waits  you  for  the  ball ;  folk  say 

'T  will  be  the  bravest  show  e'er  seen  in  Naples. 

I  warrant  you  the  Spagnoletto  brings 

The  richest  jewels  —  what  say'st  thou,  my  son  ? 

DON   TOMMASO. 

I  who  have  robbed  you  of  one  gem,  need  scarce 
Re-word,  sir,  how  I  prize  it. 

RIBERA. 

Why,  't  is  true. 
Robbed   me,   thou   sayst  ?     So   hast  thou.     She 

was  mine  — 

The  balanced  beauty  of  her  flesh  and  spirit, 
That  was  my  garland,  and  I  was  her  all, 
Till  thou,  a  stranger,  stole  her  heart's  allegiance, 
Suborned  —     Forgive  me,  I  am  old,  a  father, 
Whose  doting  passions  blind.     I  am  not  jealous, 
Believe  me,  sir.     When  we  Riberas  give, 
We  give  without  retraction  or  reserve, 
Were  it  our  life-blood.     I  rejoice  with  thee 
That  she  is  thine  ;  nor  am  I  quite  bereft, 
I  have  some  treasure  still.     I  do  repent 
So  heartily  of  my  discourteous  speech, 
That  I  will  crave  your  leave  before  I  kiss 
Your  wife's  soft  palm. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  251 

ANNICCA  (kissing  him  repeatedly). 

Why,  father,  what  is  this  ? 
Can  Don  Tommaso's  wife  so  soon  forget 
She  is  the  Spagnoletto's  child? 

EIBERA. 

Enough. 
I  can  bear  praise,  thou  knowest,  from  all  save 

thee 

And  my  Maria.     My  grave  son,  I  fear, 
Will  mock  these  transports.      Pray  go  in  with 

me. 

No  one  of  us  but  has  this  night  a  triumph. 
Let  us  make  ready.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

J$all  in  the  Palace  of  DON  JOHN.  Dance.  DON  JOHN 
and  MARIA  together.  DON  TOMMASO,  ANNICCA.  LORDS 
and  LADIES,  dancing  or  promenading. 

1ST   LORD. 

Were  it  not  better  to  withdraw  awhile, 
After  our  dance,  unto  the  torch-lit  gardens  ? 
The  air  is  fresh  and  sweet  without. 


252  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

1ST  LADY. 

Nay,  signer. 

I  like  this  heavy  air,  rich  with  warm  odors, 
The  broad,  clear  light,  the  many-colored  throng. 
I  might  have  breathed  on  mine  own  balcony 
The  evening  breeze. 

IST  LORD. 

Still  at  cross  purposes. 
When  will  you  cease  to  flout  me  ? 

1ST   LADY. 

When  I  prize 

A  lover's  sigh  more  dear  than  mine  own  pleasure. 
See,  the  Signora  Julia  passed  again. 
She  is  far  too  pale  for  so  much  white,  I  find. 
Donna  Aurora  —  ah,  how  beautiful ! 
That  spreading  ruff,  sprinkled  with  seeds  of  gold, 
Becomes  her  well.     Would  you  believe  it,  sir, 
Folk  say  her  face  is  twin  to  mine  —  what  think 
you? 

1ST  LORD. 

For  me,  the  huge  earth  holds  but  one  such  face. 
You  know  it  well. 

1ST   LADY. 

The  hall  is  over-filled ; 
Go  we  without.  [They  pass  on. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  253 

2D  LADY. 

Thrice  he  hath  danced  with  her. 
She  is  not  one  of  us  —  her  face  is  strange ; 
Colored  and  carven  to  meet  most  men's  desire  — 
Is  't  not,  my  lord  ?     Certes,  it  loses  naught 
For  lack  of  ornament.     Pray,  ask  her  name, 
If  but  for  my  sake. 

2o  LORD. 

I  have  already  asked. 
She  is  the  daughter  to  the  Spagnoletto, 
Maria-Rosa. 

2o  LADY. 

Ah,  I  might  have  guessed. 

The  form  and  face  are  matched  with  the  apparel, 
As  in  a  picture.     'T  was  the  master's  hand, 
I  warrant  you,  arranged  with  such  quaint  art, 
Such  seeming-careless  care,  the  dead,  white  pearls 
Within  her  odd,  bright  hair.  [They  pass  on. 

DON  JOHN. 

Now  hope,  now  fear 
Reigned  lord  of  my  wild   dreams.     One  name 

still  sang 

Like  the  repeated  strain  of  some  caged  bird, 
Its  sweet,  persistent  music  through  my  brain. 
One  vanishing  face  upon  the  empty  air 
Shone  forth  and  faded  night  and  day.    And  you, 


254  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Did  you  not  find  me  hasty,  over-bold  ? 
Nay,  tell  me  all  your  thought. 

MARIA. 

You  know,  my  lord, 

I  am  no  courtier,  and  belike  my  thought 
Might  prove  too  rustic  for  a  royal  ear. 

DON   JOHN. 

Speak  on,  speak  on  ! 
Though  you  should  rail,  your  voice  would  still 

outsing 
Rebeck  and  mandoline. 

MARIA. 

Is  it  not  strange  ? 

I  knew  you  not,  albeit  I  might  have  guessed, 
If  only  from  the  simple  garb  of  black, 
And  golden  collar,  'midst  the  motley  hues 
Of  our  gay  nobles.     I  know  not  what  besides, 
But  this  first  won  me.     Be  not  angered,  sir  ; 
But,  as  I  looked,  I  never  ranked  you  higher 
Than  simple  gentleman.     I  asked  your  name  ; 
Then,  when  your  Highness  stooped  to  pick  my 

flower, 

My  lord,  that  moment  was  my  thought  a  traitor, 
For  it  had  fain  discrowned  you. 

DON  JOHN. 

•     May  God's  angels 
Reward  such  treason.    Say  me  those  words  again. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  255 

Let  the  rich  blush  born  of  that  dear  confession 
Again  dye  cheek  and  brow,  and  fade  and  melt 
Forever,  even  as  then. 

MARIA. 

We  are  watched,  my  lord. 

This  is  no  place,  no  hour,  for  words  like  these. 


DON  JOHN. 

When,  where  then,  may  we  meet  ? 


[They  pass  on. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Palace  Gardens.  Interrupted  sounds  of  music  and 
revelry  come  through  the  open  windows  of  the  ball-room, 
seen  in  the  background.  RIBERA,  pacing  the  stage,  oc 
casionally  pausing  to  look  in  upon  the  dancers. 


RIBERA. 

This  is  revenge.     Is  she  not  beautiful, 

Ye  gods  ?     The  beggar's  child  matched  with  a 

prince  ! 
Throb   not  so   high,    my   heart,    'neath   envious 

eyes 

Fixed  on  thy  triumph !     Now  am  I  well  repaid 
For  my  slow,  martyred  years.    Was  I  not  wrung 
By  keener  tortures  than  my  savage  brush, 
Though  dipped  in  my  heart's  blood,  might  repro 
duce  ! 


256  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

No  twisted  muscle,  no  contorted  limb, 

No  agony  of  flesh,  have  I  yet  drawn, 

That  owed  not  its  suggestion  to  some  pang 

Of  my  pride  crucified,  my  spirit  racked, 

My  entrails  gnawed  by  the  blind  worm  of  hate, 

Engendered  of  oppression.     That  is  past, 

But  not  forgotten  ;  though  to-night  I  please 

To  yield  to  gentler  influence,  to  own 

The  strength  of  beauty  and  the  power  of  joy, 

And  welcome  gracious  phantasies  that  throng 

And  hover  over  me  in  airy  shapes. 

The  spirits  of  earth  and  heaven  contend  to-night 

For  mastery  within  me  ;  ne'er  before 

Have  I  been  more  the  seer  to  whom  God  opes 

His  cherub-guarded  portals  ;  ne'er  before 

Have  I  been  more  the  Spagnoletto,  fired 

With  noble  wrath,  with  the  consuming  fever 

And  fierce  delight  of  vengeance. 

From  this  point 

I  see  her  clearly  —  the  auroral  face 
A-light  with  smiles,  the  imperial  head  upraised ; 
Her  languid  hand  sways  the  broad,  silken  fan, 
Whose  wing-like  movement  stirs  above  her  brow 
The  fine,  bright  curls,  as  though  warm  airs  of 

heaven 
Around  her  breathed.     He  leads  her  'midst  the 

throng. 

So,  they  have  gone  ;  but  I  will  follow  them, 
And  watch  them  from  afar.  [Exit. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  257 

Enter  from  the  opposite  side  DON  JOHN  and  MAKIA. 
DON    JOHN. 

I  dread  to  ask 

What  quivers  on  my  lips.     My  heart  is  free, 
But  thine  ? 

MARIA. 

My  heart  is  free,  my  lord. 

DON    JOHN. 

Thank  God! 

MARIA. 

It  never  beat  less  calmly  at  the  sound 
Of  any  voice  till  now.     I  laugh  to  think 
This  very  morn  I  fancied  it  had  met 
Its  master. 

DON   JOHN. 

Ah! 

MARIA. 

Fear  naught  —  a  simple  boy, 
A  pupil  of  my  father's. 

DON  JOHN. 

I  was  mad 

To  dream  it  could  be  otherwise.     Forgive  me ; 
I,  a  mere  stranger  in  thy  life,  am  jealous 
Of  all  thy  present  and  thy  past. 


258  THE  8PAGNOLETTO. 


MARIA. 

Listen,  my  lord ; 
You  shall  hear  all.     What  hour,  think  you,  he 

chose 

To  urge  his  cause  ?    The  same  wherein  I  learned 
Your  Highness  had  commanded  for  to-night 
Our  presence.     My  winged  thoughts  were  flying 

back 

To  Count  Lodovico's  ;  again  I  saw  you, 
My  white  rose  at  your  lips,  your  grave  eyes  fixed 
Most  frankly,  yet  most  reverently,  on  mine. 
Again  my  heart  sank  as  I  heard  the  name, 
The  Prince  of  Austria  ;  and  while  I  mused, 
He  spake  of  love.     Oh,  I  am  much  to  blame  ! 
My   mood   was    soft ;  —  although    I    promised 

naught, 

I  listened,  yea,  I  listened.     Good,  my  lord, 
Do  you  not  pity  him  ? 

DON  JOHN. 

Thanks,  and  thanks  again, 
For  thy  confession !     Now  no  spot  remains 
On  the  unblemished  mirror  of  my  faith. 
Since  that  dear  night,  I  with  one  only  thought 
Have  gained  the  sum  of  knowledge  and  opinions 
Touching  thine  honored  father,  with  such  scraps 
As  the  gross  public  voice  could  dole  to  me 
Concerning  thine  own  far-removed,  white  life. 
Thou  art,  I  learn,  immured  in  close  seclusion ; 


TB.E  SPAGNOLETTO.  259 

Thy  father,  be  it  with  all  reverence  said, 
Hedges  with  jealous  barriers  his  treasure  ; 
Whilst  thou,  most  duteous,  tenderest  of  daughters, 
Breath'st  but  for  him. 

MARIA. 

Dear  father !     Were  it  so, 

'T  were  simple  justice.     Ah,  if  you  knew  him  — 
A   proud,    large,   tameless    heart.     This   is   the 

cloister 

Where  he  immures  me  —  Naples'  gayest  revels  ; 
The  only  bar  wherewith  he  hedges  me 
Is  his  unbounded  trust,  that  leaves  me  free. 
Let  us  go  in ;  the  late  night  air  is  chill. 

DON  JOHN. 

Yet  one  more  dance  ? 

MARIA. 

You  may  command,  my  lord.      [Exeunt. 
Enter  RIBERA. 
RIBERA. 

I  lost  them  in  the  press.     Ah,  there  they  dance 
Again  together.     I  would  lay  my  hands 
In  blessing  on  that  darling,  haughty  head. 
Like  the  Ribera's  child,  she  bears  her  honors 
As  lightly  as  a  flower.     Yet  there  glows 
Unwonted  lustre  in  her  starry  eyes, 


260  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

And  richer  beauty  blushes  on  her  cheek. 
Enough.     Now  must  I  strive  to  fix  that  form 
That  haunts  my  brain  —  the  blind,  old  Count 

Camillo, 

The  Prince's  oracle.     'Midst  the  thick  throng 
My  fancy  singled  him  ;  white  beard,  white  hair, 
Sealed  eyes,  and  brow  lit  by  an  inward  light. 
So  will  I  paint  mine  Isaac  blessing  Esau, 
While  Jacob  kneels  before  him  —  blind,  betrayed 
By  his  own  flesh  ! 

As  RIBERA  stands  aside,  lost  in  thought,  enter  DON  JOHN 
and  MARIA. 


Wakes  in  the  east. 


MARIA. 
See,  the  impatient  day 


DON   JOHN. 

One  moment  here,  signora, 
Breathe  we  the  charm  of  this  enchanted  night. 
Look  where   behind  yon  vines   the   slow  moon 

sets, 

Hidden  from  us,  while  every  leaf  hangs  black, 
Each  tender  stalk  distinct,  each  curling  edge 
Against  the  silver  sky. 

MARIA   (perceiving  RIBERA). 

What,  father  !  here  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  261 


RIBERA. 

Maria !  —     Ah,  my  Prince,  I  crave  your  pardon. 
When  thus  I  muse,  't  is  but  my  mind  that  lives  ; 
Each  outward  sense  is  dead.     I  saw  you  not, 
I  heard  nor  voice  nor  footstep.     Yonder  lines 
That  streak  the  brightening  east  warn  us  away. 
For  all  your  grace  to  us,  the  Spagnoletto 
Proffers  his  thanks  to  John  of  Austria. 
My  daughter,  art  thou  ready  ? 

DON  JOHN. 

I  am  bound, 

Illustrious  signor,  rather  unto  you 
And  the  signora,  past  all  hope  of  payment. 
When  may  I  come  to  tender  my  poor  homage 
To  the  Sicilian  master  ? 

RIBERA. 

My  lord  will  jest. 

Our  house  is  too  much  honored  when  he  deigns 
O'erstep  the  threshold.     Let  your  royal  pleasure 
Alone  decide  the  hour. 

DON  JOHN. 

To-morrow,  then. 
Or  I  should  say  to-day,  for  dawn  is  nigh. 

RIBERA. 

And  still  we  trespass.     Be  it  as  you  will ; 
We  are  your  servants. 


262  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


MARIA. 

So,  my  lord,  good-night. 

[Exeunt  MARIA  and  RIBERA. 

DON  JOHN   (alone). 

Gods,  what  a  haughty  devil  rules  that  man ! 
As  though  two  equal  princes  interchanged 
Imperial  courtesies  !     The  Spagnoletto 
Thanks  John  of  Austria !     Louis  of  France 
Might  so  salute  my  father.     By  heavens,  I  know 

not 

What  patience  or  what  reverence  withheld 
My  enchafed  spirit  in  bounds  of  courtesy. 
Nay,  it  was  she,  mine  angel,  whose  mere  aspect 
Is  balm  and  blessing.     How  her  love-lit  eyes 
Burned  through  my  soul !     How  her  soft  hand's 

slight  pressure 

Tingled  along  my  veins  !     Oh,  she  is  worthy 
A  heart's  religion  !     How  shall  I  wear  the  hours 
Ere  I  may  seek  her  ?     Lo,  I  stand  and  dream, 
While   my   late    guests    await    me.      Patience, 

patience !  [Exit. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  263 


SCENE  III. 

Morning  twilight  in  RIBERA'S  Garden.  During  this  Scene 
the  day  gradually  breaks,  and  at  the  close  the  full  light 
of  morning  illuminates  the  stage.  LOKENZO. 


AUBADE. 
LORENZO  (sings). 
From  thy  poppied  sleep  awake  ; 

From  thy  golden  dreams  arise  ; 
Earth  and  seas  new  colors  take, 

Love-light  dawns  in  rosy  skies, 
Weird  night's  fantastic  shadows  are  outworn  ; 
Why  tarriest  thou,  oh,  sister  to  the  morn  ? 

Hearken,  love  !  the  matin  choir 

Of  birds  salutes  thee,  and  with  these 
Blends  the  voice  of  my  desire. 

Unto  no  richer  promises 
Of  deeper,  dearer,  holier  love  than  mine, 
Canst  thou  awaken  from  thy  dreams  divine. 

Lo,  thine  eastern  windows  flame, 

Brightening  with  the  brightened  sky  ; 
Rise,  and  with  thy  beauty  shame 

Morning's  regal  pageantry, 
To  thrill  and  bless  as  the  reviving  sun, 
For  my  heart  gropes  in  doubt,  though  night  be  gone. 

(He  speaks.)    Why  should   I  fear?     Her  soul  is 

pledged  to  mine, 
Albeit  she  still  withheld  the  binding  word. 


264  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

How    long    hath    been    the   night!    but   morn 

breathes  hope. 

"  I  fain  were  true  to  you  and  to  myself"  — 
Did  she  say  thus  ?  or  is  my  fevered  brain 
The  fool  of  its  desires  ?    The  whole  world  swam  ; 
The  blood  rang  beating  in  mine  ears  and  roared 
Like  rushing  waters  ;  yet,  as  through  a  dream, 
I  saw  her  dimly.     Surely  on  her  lids 
Shone   the   clear   tears.     As   there 's  a  God  in 

heaven, 
She    spake   those   words !     My   lips   retain   the 

touch 

Of  those  soft,  snow-cold  hands,  neither  refused 
Nor  proffered.     Such  things  are,  nor  can  they  be 
Forgotten  or  foreknown.     Yes,  she  is  mine. 
But  soft !     Her  casement  opes.    Oh,  joy,  't  is  she  ! 
Pale,  in  a  cloud  of  white  she  stands  and  drinks 
The  morning  sunlight. 

MARIA   (above  at  the  window). 

Ah,  how  sweet  this  air 

Kisses  my  sleepless  lids  and  burning  temples. 
I  am  not  weary,  though  I  found  no  rest. 
My  spirit  leaps  within  me ;  a  new  glory 
Blesses  the  dear,  familiar  scene  —  ripe  orchard, 
Garden  and  grove,  and  glimmering  gulf  beyond  ; 
The    same  —  yet    oh,    how    different !     Even   I 

thought 

Soft  music  trembled  on  the  listening  air, 
As  though  a  harp  were  touched,  blent  with  low 

song. 


THE  8PAGNOLETTO  265 

Sure,  that  was  phantasy.     I  will  descend, 
Visit  my  flowers,  and  see  whereon  the  dew 
Hangs   heaviest,    and    what    fairest    bud    hath 

bloomed 

Since  yester-eve.  Why  should  I  court  repose 
And  dull  forgetfulness,  while  the  large  earth 
Wakes  to  no  lesser  joy  than  mine  ? 

[Exit  from  above. 

LORENZO. 

Oh,  heart ! 
How  may   my   breast   contain    thee,    with   thy 

burden 
Of  too  much  happiness  ? 

Enter  MAKIA  below;  LORENZO  springs  forward  to  greet 
her  ;  she  shrinks  back  in  a  sort  of  terror. 

LORENZO. 

Good-day,  sweet  mistress. 
May  the  blithe  spirit  of  this  auspicious  morn 
Become  the  genius  of  thy  days  to  come, 
Whereof  be  none  less  beautiful  than  this. 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?    Does  not  love  inspire 
Joyous  expression,  be  it  but  a  sigh, 
A  song,  a  smile,  a  broken  word,  a  cry  ? 
Thou  hast  not  granted  me  the  promised  pledge 
For  which  I  hunger  still.     I  would  confirm 
With  dear  avowals,  frequent  seals  of  love, 
That    which,   though    sure,   I   yet    can    scarce 
believe. 


266  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


MARIA. 

Somewhat  too  sure,  I  think,  my  lord  Lorenzo. 
I  scarce  deemed  possible  that  one  so  shy 
But  yester-morn  should  hold  so  high  a  mien, 
Claiming  what  ne'er  was  given. 

LORENZO. 

Maria ! 

MARIA. 

Sir, 

You  are  a  trifle  bold  to  speak  my  name 
Familiarly  as  no  man,  save  my  father 
Or  my  own  brother,  dares. 

LORENZO. 

Ah,  now  I  see 

Your  jest.    You  will  not  seem  so  lightly  won 
Without  a  wooing  ?     You  will  feign  disdain, 
Only  to  make  more  sweet  your  rich  concession  ? 
Too  late  —  I  heard  it  all.     "  A  new  light  shines 
On  the  familiar  scene."     What  may  that  be, 
Save  the  strange  splendor  of  the  dawn  of  love  ? 
Nay,  darling,  cease  to  jest,  lest  my  poor  heart, 
Hanging  'twixt  hell  and  heaven,  in  earnest  break. 

MARIA. 

Here  is  no  jest,  sir,  but  a  fatal  error, 

Crying  for  swift  correction.     You  surprise  me 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  267 

With  rude  impatience,  ere  I  have  found  time 
To  con  a  gentle  answer.     Pardon  me 
If  any  phrase  or  word  or  glance  of  mine 
Hath  bred  or  nourished  in  your  heart  a  hope 
That  you  might  win  my  love.     It  cannot  be. 

LORENZO. 

A  word,  a  glance  !    Why,  the  whole  frozen  statue 

Warmed  into  life.     Surely  it  was  not  you. 

You  must   have  bribed   some  angel  with   false 

prayers 

To  wear  your  semblance  —  nay,  no  angel  served, 
But  devilish  witchcraft  — 

MARIA. 

Sir,  enough,  enough ! 
I  hoped  to  find  here  peace  and  solitude. 
These  lacking,  I  retire.     Farewell. 

[Going  toward  the  house. 

LORENZO. 

Signora, 
I  will  not  rob  you  of  your  own.    Farewell  to  you. 

[Exit. 

MARIA. 

Where  have  you  flown,  bright  dreams  ?    Has  that 

rude  hand 

Sufficed  to  dash  to  naught  your  frail  creations  ? 
Sad  thoughts  and  humors  black  now  fill  my  soul. 


268  TEE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

So  his  rough  foot  hath  bruised  the  dewy  grass, 
And  left  it  sere.     Why  should  his  harsh  words 

touch  me  ? 

The  truth  of  yesterday  is  false  to-day. 
How  could  I  know,  dear  God !     How  might  I 

guess 

The  bitter  sweetness,  the  delicious  pain  ! 
A  new  heart  fills  my  breast,  as  soft  and  weak 
And  melting  as  a  tear,  unto  its  lord  ; 
But  kindled  with  quick  courage  to  endure, 
If  I  need  front  for  him,  a  world  of  foes. 
If  this  be  love,  ah,  what  a  hell  is  theirs 
Who  suffer  without  hope  !     Even  I,  who  hold 
So  many  dear  assurances,  who  hear 
Still  ringing  in  mine  ears  such  sacred  vows, 
Am  haunted  with  an  unaccustomed  doubt, 
Not  wonted  to  go  hand-in-hand  with  joy. 
A  gloomy  omen  greets  me  with  the  morn  ; 
I,  who  recoil  from  pain,  must  strike  and  wound. 
What  may  this  mean  ?     Help  me,  ye  saints  of 

heaven 
And  holy  mother,  for  my  strength  is  naught ! 

She  falls  on  her  Knees  and  bursts  into  tears.      Reenter 
LORENZO. 

LORENZO  (aside). 

Thank  heaven,  I  came.     How  have  I  wrung  her 

soul ! 

A  noble  love,  forsooth  !     A  blind,  brute  passion, 
That  being  denied,  is  swift  transformed  to  hate 
No  whit  more  cruel.     (To  Maria.)     Lady ! 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  269 

MARIA  (rising  hastily). 

Signer  Lorenzo ! 
Again  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

LORENZO. 

No  such  suit 
As  late  I  proffered,  but  your  gracious  pardon. 

MARIA. 

Rise,  sir,  forgiven.     I,  too,  have  been  to  blame, 
Although  less   deeply  than   you  deemed.     For 
bear 

To  bind  your  life.     I  feel  myself  unworthy 
Of   that   high  station  where   your  thoughts  en 
throne  me. 
Yet  I  dare  call  myself  your  friend. 

[Offering  him  her  hand,  which  LORENZO  presses  to 
his  lips. 

LORENZO. 

Thanks,  thanks ! 
Be  blessed,  and  farewell.  [Exit. 

Enter  RIBEKA,  calling. 

Daughter !  Maria ! 

MARIA. 

Why,  father,  I  am  here   (kissing  him).     Good- 
day.     What  will  you  ? 


270  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

EIBEEA. 

Darling,  no  more  than  what  I  always  will. 
Before  I  enter  mine  own  world  removed, 
I  fain  would  greet  the  dearest  work  of  God. 
I  missed  you  when  I  rose.     I  sought  you  first 
In  your  own  chamber,  where  the  lattice,  oped, 
Let  in  the  morning  splendor  and  the  smells 
Of  the  moist  garden,  with  the  sound  of  voices. 
I  looked,  I  found  you  here  —  but  not  alone. 
What  man  was  that  went  from  you  ? 

MARIA. 

Your  disciple, 

My  lord  Lorenzo.     You  remember,  father, 
How  y ester-morn  I  pleaded  for  his  work  ; 
Thus   he,   through   gratitude   and  —  love,    hath 

watched 

All  night  within  our  garden,  while  I  danced  ; 
And   when   I  came  to   nurse  my  flowers  —  he 

spake. 

RIBEEA. 

And  you  ? 

MARIA. 

Am  I  not  still  beside  you,  father  ? 
I  will  not  leave  you. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  271 


RIBERA. 

Ah,  mine  angel-child ! 

I  cannot  choose  but  dread  it,  though  I  wait 
Expectant  of  the  hour  when  you  fulfil 
Your  woman's  destiny.     You  have  full  freedom  ; 
Yet  I  rejoice  at  this  reprieve,  and  thank  thee 
For  thy  brave  truthfulness.     Be  ever  thus, 
Withholding  naught  from  him  whose  heart  re 
flects 

Only  thine  image.     Thou  art  still  my  pride, 
Even  as  last  night  when  all  eyes  gazed  thy  way, 
Thy  bearing  equal  in  disdainful  grace 
To  his  who  courted  thee  —  thy  sovereign's  son. 

MARIA. 

Yea,  so  ?  And  yet  it  was  not  pride  I  felt, 
Nor  consciousness  of  self,  nor  vain  delight 
In  the  world's  envy ;  —  something  more  than 

these, 
Far  deeper,  sweeter  —    What  have  I  said  ?    My 

brain 

Is  dull  with  sleep.     'T  is  only  now  I  feel 
The  weariness  of  so  much  pleasure. 

RIBERA  (rising). 

Well, 

Go  we  within.     Yes,  I  am  late  to  work ; 
We  squander  precious  moments.     Thou,  go  rest, 
And  waken  with  fresh  roses  in  thy  cheeks, 
To  greet  our  royal  guest.  [Exeunt. 


272  TEE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. 

The  Studio  of  the  Spagnoletto.      RIBERA  before  his  canvas. 
LUCA  in  attendance. 

RIBERA  (laying  aside  his  brush). 
So !     I  am  weary.     Luca,  what 's  o'clock  ? 

LUCA. 
My  lord,  an  hour  past  noon. 

RIBERA. 

So  late  already ! 

Well,  one  more  morning  of  such  delicate  toil 
Will  make  it  ready  for  Madrid,  and  worthy 
Not  merely  Philip's  eyes,  but  theirs  whose  glance 
Outvalues  a  king's  gaze,  my  noble  friend 
Velasquez,  and  the  monkish  Zurbaran. 
Luca! 

LUCA. 

My  lord. 

RIBERA. 

Hath  the  signora  risen  ? 

LUCA. 

Fiametta  passed  a  brief  while  since,  and  left 
My  lady  sleeping. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  273 

BIBERA. 

Good  !  she  hath  found  rest ; 
Poor  child,  she  sadly  lacked  it.     She  had  known 
'Twixt  dawn  and  dawn  no  respite  from  emotion ; 
Her  chill  hand  fluttered  like  a  bird  in  mine ; 
Her  soft  brow  burned  my  lips.     Could  that  boy 

read 

The  tokens  of  an  overwearied  spirit, 
Strained  past  endurance,  he  had  spared  her  still, 
At  any  cost  of  silence.     What  is  such  love 
To  mine,  that  would  outrival  Roman  heroes  — 
"Watch  mine  arm  crisp  and  shrivel  in  quick  flame, 
Or  set  a  lynx  to  gnaw  my  heart  away, 
To  save  her  from  a  needle-prick  of  pain, 
Ay,  or  to  please  her  ?     At  their  worth  she  rates 
Her  wooers  —  light  as  all-embracing  air 
Or  universal  sunshine.     Luca,  go 
And  tell  Fiametta  —  rather,  bid  the  lass 
Hither  herself.  [Exit  LUCA. 

He  comes  to  pay  me  homage, 
As  would  his  royal  father,  if  he  pleased 
To  visit  Naples  ;  yet  she  too  shall  see  him. 
She  is  part  of  all  I  think,  of  all  I  am  ; 
She  is  myself,  no  less  than  yon  bright  dream 
Fixed  in  immortal  beauty  on  the  canvas. 

Enter  FIAMETTA. 
FIAMETTA. 

My  lord,  you  called  me  ? 


274  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


RIBERA. 

When  thy  mistress  wakes, 
Array  her  richly,  that  she  be  prepared 
To  come  before  the  Prince. 

FTAMETTA. 

Sir,  she  hath  risen, 

And  only  waits  me  with  your  lordship's  leave, 
To  cross  the  street  unto  St.  Francis'  church. 

RIBERA  (musingly). 

With  such  slight  escort  ?     Nay,  this  troubles  me. 
Only  the  Strada's  width  ?     The  saints  forbid 
That  I  should  thwart  her  holy  exercise  ! 
Myself  will  go.     I  cannot.    Bid  her  muffle, 
Like  our  Valencian  ladies,  her  silk  mantle 
About  her  face  and  head. 

[At  a  sign  from  RIBERA,  exit  FIAMETTA. 

Yes,  God  will  bless  her. 

What   should  I  fear?     I  will   make   sure   her 

beauty 

Is  duly  masked.  [-He  does  toward  the  casement. 

Ay,  there  she  goes  —  the  mantle, 
Draped  round  the  stately  head,  discloses  naught 
Save  the  live  jewel  of  the  eye.  Unless  one  guessed 
From  the  majestic  grace  and  proud  proportions, 
She  might  so  pass  through   the  high  thorough 
fares. 
Ah,  one  thick  curl  escapes  from  its  black  prison. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  275 

Alone  in  Naples,  wreathed  with  rays  of  gold, 
Her  crown  of  light  betrays  her.     So,  she 's  safe ! 

Enter  LUCA. 

LUCA. 

A  noble  gentleman  of  Spain  awaits 
The  master's  leave  to  enter. 

RIBERA. 

Show  him  in. 

[Exit  LUCA.     RIBEBA  draws  the  curtain  before  his 
picture  of  "  Jacob's  Dream." 

RIBERA. 

A  gentleman  of  Spain !     Perchance  the  Prince 
Sends  couriers  to  herald  his  approach, 
Or  craves  a  longer  grace. 

Enter  LUCA,  ushering  in  DON  JOHN  unattended,  completely 
enveloped  in  a  Spanish  mantle,  which  he  throws  off,  his 
face  almost  hidden  by  a  cavalier's  hat.  He  uncovers  his 
head  on  entering.  RIBEBA,  repressing  a  movement  of 
surprise,  hastens  to  greet  him  and  kisses  his  hand. 

RIBERA. 

Welcome,  my  lord ! 
I  am  shamed  to  think  my  sovereign's  son  should 

wait, 
Through  a  churl's  ignorance,  without  my  doors. 


276         THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 
DON  JOHN. 

Dear  master,  blame  him  not.     I  came  attended 
By  one  page  only.     Here  I  blush  to  claim 
Such  honor  as  depends  on  outward  pomp. 
No  royalty  is  here,  save  the  crowned  monarch 
Of  our  Sicilian  artists.    Be  it  mine 
To  press  with  reverent  lips  my  master's  hand. 

RIBERA. 

Your  Highness  is  too  gracious  ;  if  you  glance 
Round  mine  ill-furnished  studio,  my  works 
Shall  best  proclaim  me  and  my  poor  deserts. 
Luca,  uplift  yon  hangings. 

DON  JOHN  (seating  himself). 

Sir,  you  may  sit. 

RIBERA  (aside,  seating  himself  slowly). 
Curse  his  swollen  arrogance !     Doth  he  imagine 
I  waited  leave  of  him  ?      (LucA  uncovers  the  picture.) 

DON  JOHN. 

Oh,  wonderful ! 
You  have  bettered  here  your  best.     Why,  sir,  he 

breathes  ! 
Will  not  those  locked  lids  ope  ?  —  that  nerveless 

hand 

Regain  the  iron  strength  of  sinew  mated 
With  such  heroic  frame  ?    You  have  conspired 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  277 

With  Nature  to  produce  a  man.     Behold, 
I  chatter  foolish  speech ;  for  such  a  marvel 
The  fittest  praise  is  silence. 

[He  rises  and  stands  before  the  picture. 

RIBERA  (after  a  pause). 

I  am  glad 
Your  Highness  deigns  approve.     Lose  no  more 

time, 

Lest  the  poor  details  should  repay  you  not. 
Unto  your  royal  home  't  will  follow  you, 
Companion,  though  unworthy,  to  the  treasures 
Of  the  Queen's  gallery. 

DON  JOHN. 

'T  is  another  jewel 

Set  in  my  father's  crown,  and,  in  his  name, 
I  thank  you  for  it. 

[RIBERA  bows  silently.     DON  JOHN  glances  around 
the  studio. 

DON   JOHN. 

There  hangs  a  quaint,  strong  head, 
Though    merely   sketched.      What    a    marked, 

cunning  leer 
Grins  on  the  wide  mouth !  what  a  bestial  glance ! 

RIBERA. 

'T  is  but  a  slight  hint  for  my  larger  work, 
"  Bacchus  made  drunk  by  Satyrs." 


278  THE  8PAGNOLETTO. 

DON   JOHN. 

Where  is  that  ? 
I  ne'er  have  seen  the  painting. 

RIBERA. 

'T  is  not  in  oils, 

But  etched  in  aqua-f ortis.  Luca,  fetch  down 
Yonder  portfolio.  I  can  show  your  Highness 
The  graven  copy. 

[LucA  brings  forward  a  large  portfolio.  RIBERA 
looks  hastily  over  the  engravings  and  draws  one 
out,  which  he  shows  DON  JOHN. 

DON  JOHN. 

Ah,  most  admirable  1 

I  know  not  who  is  hest  portrayed  —  the  god, 
Plump,  reeling,  wreathed  with   vine,   in  whom 

abides 

Something  Olympian  still,  or  the  coarse  Saytrs, 
Thoroughly  brutish.     Here  I  scarcely  miss, 
So  masterly  the  grouping,  so  distinct 
The  bacchanalian  spirit,  your  rich  brush, 
So  vigorous  in  color.     Do  you  find 
The  pleasure  in  this  treatment  equals  that 
Of  the  oil  painting  ? 

RIBERA. 

All  is  in  my  mood ; 
We  have  so  many  petty  talents,  clever 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  279 

To  mimic  Nature's  surface.     I  name  not 
The  servile  copyists  of  the  greater  masters, 
Or  of  th'  archangels,  Raphael  and  Michael ; 
But   such   as   paint   our  cheap   and  daily  mar 
vels. 

Sometimes  I  fear  lest  they  degrade  our  art 
To  a  nice  craft  for  plodding  artisans  — 
Mere  realism,  which  they  mistake  for  truth. 
My  soul  rejects  such  limits.     The  true  artist 
Gives  Nature's  best  effects  with  far  less  means. 
Plain  black  and  white  suffice  him  to  express 
A  finer  grace,  a  stronger  energy 
Than  she  attains  with  all  the  aid  of  color. 
I  argue  thus  and  work  with  simple  tools, 
Like  the  Greek  fathers  of  our  art  —  the  sculp 
tors, 
Who  wrought   in   white   alone   their   matchless 

types. 

Then  dazzled  by  the  living  bloom  of  earth, 
Glowing  with  color,  I  return  to  that, 
My  earliest  worship,  and  compose  such  work 
As  you  see  there.  {Pointing  to  the  picture. 

DON  JOHN. 

Would  it  be  overmuch, 
In  my  brief  stay  in  Naples,  to  beg  of  you 
A  portrait  of  myself  in  aqua-fortis  ? 
'T  would  rob  you,  sir,  of  fewer  golden  hours 
Than  the  full-colored  canvas,  and  enrich 
With  a  new  treasure  our  royal  gallery. 


280  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

KIBERA. 

You  may  command  my  hours  and  all  that 's 
mine* 

DON  JOHN   (rising). 

Thanks,  generous  master.     When  may  I  return 
For  the  first  sitting  ? 

RIBERA. 

I  am  ready  now  — 
To-day,  to-morrow  —  when  your  Highness  please. 

DON  JOHN. 

'T  would  be  abuse  of  goodness  to  accept 
The  present  moment.     I  will  come  to-morrow, 
At  the  same  hour,  in  some  more  fitting  garb. 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  farewell.     Salute  for  me, 
I  pray  you,  the  signora.     May  I  not  hope 
To  see  and  thank  her  for  her  grace  to  me, 
In  so  adorning  my  poor  feast  ? 

RIBERA. 

The  debt  is  ours. 

She  may  be  here  to-morrow  —  she  is  free, 
She  only,  while  I  work,  to  come  and  go. 
Pray,  sir,  allow  her  —  she  is  never  crossed. 
I  stoop  to  beg  for  her  —  she  is  the  last 
Who  bides  with  me  —    I  crave  your  pardon,  sir  ; 
What  should  this  be  to  you  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  281 

DON  JOHN. 

'T  is  much  to  me, 

Whose  privilege  has  been  in  this  rare  hour, 
Beneath  the  master  to  discern  the  man, 
And  thus  add  friendship  unto  admiration. 

[He  presses  RIBERA'S  hand  and  is  about  to  pick  up 
his  mantle  and  hat.  LUCA  springs  forward,  and, 
while  he  is  throwing  the  cloak  around  the  Prince's 
shoulders,  enter  hastily  MARIA,  enveloped  in  her 
mantilla,  as  she  went  to  church. 

MARIA. 

Well,  father,  am  I  veiled  and  swathed  to  suit 

you, 
To  cross  the  Strada  ? 

[She  throws  off  her  mantilla  and  appears  all  in  white. 
She  goes  to  embrace  her  father,  when  she  suddenly 
perceives  the  Prince,  and  stands  speechless  and 
blushing. 

RIBERA. 

Child,  his  Royal  Highness 
Prince  John  of  Austria. 

DON   JOHN. 

Good-day,  signora. 

Already  twice  my  gracious  stars  have  smiled. 
I  saw  you  in  the  street.     You  wore  your  mantle, 
As  the  noon  sun  might  wear  a  veil  of  cloud, 
Covering,  but  not  concealing. 


282  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


MART  A. 

I,  sir,  twice 

Have  unaware  stood  in  your  royal  presence. 
You  are  welcome  to  my  father's  home  and  mine. 
I   scarce   need   crave   your  pardon  for  my  en 
trance  ; 

Yourself  must  see  how  well  assured  I  felt 
My  father  was  alone. 

DON  JOHN. 

And  so  you  hoped 
To  find  him  —  shall  I  read  your  answer  thus  ? 

RIBERA. 

Nay,  press  her  not.     Your  Highness  does   her 

wrong, 

So  harshly  to  construe  her  simpleness. 
My  daughter  and  myself  are  one,  and  both 
Will  own  an  equal  pleasure  if  you  bide. 

DON  JOHN  (seating  himself). 
You  chain  me  with  kind  words. 

MARIA. 

My  father,  sir, 

Hath  surely  told  you  our  delight  and  marvel 
At  the  enchantments  of  your  feast.    For  me 
The  night  was  brief,  rich,  beautiful,  and  strange 
As  a  bright  dream. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.        283 


DON  JOHN. 

I  will  gainsay  you  not. 
A  beauteous  soul  can  shed  her  proper  glory 
On  mean  surroundings.    I  have  likewise  dreamed, 
Nor  am  I  yet  awake.     This  morn  hath  been 
A  feast  for  mind  and  eye.     Yon  shepherd-prince, 
Whom  angels  visit  in  his  sleep,  shall  crown 
Your  father's  brow  with  a  still  fresher  laurel, 
And  link  in  equal  fame  the  Spanish  artist 
With  the  Lord's  chosen  prophet. 

RIBEBA. 

That  may  be, 

For  in  the  form  of  that  worn  wayfarer 
I  drew  myself.     So  have  I  slept  beneath 
The  naked  heavens,  pillowed  by  a  stone, 
With   no   more   shelter   than   the   wind -stirred 

branches, 

While  the  thick  dews  of  our  Valencian  nights 
Drenched  my  rude  weeds,  and  chilled  through 

blood  and  bone. 

Yet  to  me  also  were  the  heavens  revealed, 
And  angels  visited  my  dreams. 

DON  JOHN. 

How  strange 

That  you,  dear  master,  standing  on  the  crowii 
Of  a  long  life's  continuous  ascent, 
Should   backward   glance    unto   such   dark   be 
ginnings. 


284  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

RIBERA. 

Obscure  are  all  beginnings.    Yet  I  muse 
With   pleasing   pain   on   those    fierce   years   of 

struggle. 

They  were  to  me  my  birthright ;  all  the  vigor, 
The  burning  passion,  the  unflinching  truth, 
My  later  pencil  gained,  I  gleaned  from  them. 
I  prized  them.    I  reclaimed  their  ragged  free 
dom, 

Rather  than  hold  my  seat,  a  liveried  slave, 
At  the  rich  board  of  my  Lord  Cardinal. 
A  palace  was  a  prison  till  I  reared 
Mine  own.     But  now  my  child's  heart  I  would 

pierce 

Sooner  than  see  it  bear  the  least  of  ills, 
Such  as  I  then  endured. 

DON   JOHN. 

Donna  Maria 
May   smile,    sir,    at   your   threat;   she   is   in   a 

pleasance, 

Where  no  rude  breezes  blow,  no  shadow  falls 
Darker  than  that  of  cool  and  fragrant  leaves. 
Yea,  were  it  otherwise  —  had  you  not  reaped 
The  fruit  of  your  own  works,  she  had  not  suf 
fered. 
Your  children  are  Spain's  children. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  285 


BIBERA. 

Sir,  that  word 

Is  the  most  grateful  you  have  spoken  yet. 
Why  art  thou  silent,  daughter  ? 

MARIA  (absently). 

What  should  I  say  ? 
The    Prince    is   kind.      I    scarcely   heard   your 

words. 
I  listened  to  your  voices,  and  I  mused. 

DON  JOHN  (rising). 
I  overstep  your  patience. 


What  have  I  said  ? 


MARIA. 

You  will  be  gone  ? 


RIBERA. 

You  are  a  child,  Maria. 
To-morrow  I  will  wait  your  Highness. 

DON  JOHN. 

Thanks. 
To-morrow  noon.     Farewell,  signora. 

[Exit  DON  JOHN. 
RIBERA. 

What  ails  you,  daughter  ?     You  forget  yourself. 
Your  tongue  cleaves  to  your  mouth.     You   sit 
and  muse, 


286  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

A  statue  of  white  silence.     Twice  to-day 
You  have  deeply  vexed  me.     Go  not  thus  again 
Across  the  street  with  that  light  child,  Fiametta. 
Faith,    you   were    closely   muffled.     What   was 

this  — 

This  tell-tale  auburn  curl  that  rippled  down 
Over  the  black  mantilla  ?     Were  I  harsh, 
Suspicious,  jealous,  fearful,  prone  to  wrath, 
Or  anything  of  all  that  I  am  not, 
I  should  have  deemed  it  no  mere  negligence, 
But  a  bold  token. 

MARIA. 

Father  you  make  me  quail. 
Why  do  you  threat  me  with  such  evil  eyes  ? 
Would  they  could  read  my  heart ! 

RIBERA. 

Elude  me  not. 
Whom   have   you   met   beside   the   Prince   this 

morn? 
Who  saw  you  pass  ?    Whom  have  you  spoken 

with? 

MARIA. 

For  God's  sake,  father,  what  strange  thoughts  are 

these  ? 
With  none,  with  none  !     Beside  the  Prince,  you 

say  ? 

Why  even  him  I  saw  not,  as  you  know. 
I  hastened  with  veiled  eyes  cast  on  the  ground, 
Swathed  in  my  mantle  still,  I  told  my  beads, 
And  in  like  manner  hasted  home  to  you. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  287 


RIBERA. 

Well,  it  may  pass ;  but  henceforth  say  thy  matins 
In  thine   own   room.     I  know  not  what  vague 

cloud 

Obscures  my  sight  and  weighs  upon  my  brain. 
I  am  very  weary.    Luca,  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  RIBERA  and  LUCA. 

MARIA. 

Poor  father !  Dimly  he  perceives  some  trouble 
Within  the  threatening  air.     Thank  heaven,  I 

calmed  him, 
Yet  I  spake  truth.     What  could  have  roused  so 

soon 

His  quick  suspicion  ?     Did  Fiametta  see 
The  wary  page  slip  in  my  hand  the  missive, 
As  we  came  forth  again  ?     Nay,  even  so, 
My  father  hath  not  spoken  with  her  since. 
Sure  he  knows  naught ;  't  is  but  my  foolish  fear 
Makes  monsters  out  of  shadows.     I  may  read 
The  priceless  lines  and  grave  them  on  my  heart. 

[She  draws  from  her  bosom  a  letter,  reads  it,  and 
presses  it  to  her  lips. 

He  loves  me,  yes,  he  loves  me  !    Oh,  my  God, 
This  awful  joy  in  mine  own  breast  is  love  ! 
To-night  he  will  await  me  in  our  garden. 
Oh,  for  a  word,  a  pressure  of  the  hand  ! 
I  fly,  my  prince,  at  thy  most  dear  behest ! 

[Exit. 


288  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

SCENE  II. 

A  room  in  DON  TOMMASO'S  house.    DON  TOMMASO  and 
ANNICCA. 

DON  TOMMASO. 

Truly,  you  wrong  your  sister  ;  she  is  young, 

Heedless,  and  wilful,  that  is  all ;  a  touch 

Of  the  Ribera's  spirit  fired  the  lass. 

Don  John  was  but  her  weapon  of  revenge 

Against  the  malice  of  our  haughty  matrons, 

Who  hurled  their  icy  shafts  of  scorn  from  heights 

Of  dignity  upon  the  artist's  daughter. 

ANNICCA. 

I  cannot  think  with  you.     In  her  demeanor, 
Her  kindled  cheek,  her  melting  eye,  was  more 
Than  sly  revenge  or  cautious  policy. 
If  that  was  art,  it  overreached  itself. 
Ere  the  night  ended,  I  had  blushed  to  see 
Slighting  regards  cast  on  my  father's  child, 
And  hear  her  name  and  his  tossed  lightly  round. 

DON  TOMMASO. 

Could  you  not  read  in  such  disparagement 
The  envy  of  small  natures  ? 

ANNICCA. 

I  had  as  lief 
Maria  were  to  dance  the  tarantella 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  289 

Upon  the  quay  at  noonday,  as  to  see  her 
Gazed  at  again  with  such  insulting  homage. 

DON   TOMMASO. 

You  are  too  strict ;  your  baseless  apprehensions 
Wrong  her  far  more  than  strangers'  jests. 

ANNICCA. 

Not  so ; 

My  timely  fears  prevent  a  greater  ill 
And  work  no  harm,  since  they  shall  be  imparted 
Only  to  him  who  hath  the  power  to  quell  them, 
Dissolving  them  to  air  —  my  father. 

DOX   TOMMASO. 

How! 

You  surely  will  not  rouse  his  fatal  wrath  ? 
Annicca,  listen  :  if  your  doubts  were  true, 
He  whose  fierce  love  guards  her  with  sleepless 

eyes, 
More    like    the    passion    of    some   wild,    dumb 

creature, 

With  prowling  jealousy  and  deadly  spring, 
Forth  leaping  at  the  first  approach  of  ill, 
Than  the  calm  tenderness  of  human  fathers  ; 
He  surely  had  been  keen  to  scent  the  danger. 
I  saw  him  at  the  ball  —  as  is  his  wont, 
He  mingled  not  among  the  revellers, 
But  like  her  shadow  played  the  spy  on  her. 


290  THE  BPAGNOLETTO. 

ANNICCA. 
A  word  would  stir  less  deeply  than  you  dread. 

DON   TOMMASO. 

Ah,  there  you  err ;  he  knows  no  middle  term. 
At  once  he  would  accept  as  fact  the  worst 
Of  your  imaginings  ;  his  rage  would  smite 
All  near  him,  and  rebound  upon  himself ; 
For,  as  I  learn,  Don  John  brings  royal  orders 
For  the  Queen's  gallery ;  he  would  dismiss 
The  Prince  as  roughly  as  a  begging  artist. 
Make  no  such  breach  just  now  betwixt  the  court 
And  our  own  kindred. 

ANNICCA. 

Be  it  so,  Tommaso. 
I  will  do  naught  in  haste. 

DON   TOMMASO. 

Watch  thou  and  wait. 

A  slight  reproof  might  now  suffice  the  child, 
Tame  as  a  bird  unto  a  gentle  voice. 

ANNICCA. 

My  mind  misgives  me  ;  yet  will  I  find  patience. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  291 

SCENE  III. 

Night  in  RIBERA'S  Garden.     DON  JOHN  alone. 
DON  JOHN. 

In  any  less  than  she,  so  swift  a  passion, 

So  unreserved,  so  reckless,  had  repelled. 

In  her  't  is  godlike.     Our  mutual  love 

Was  born  full-grown,  as  we  gazed  each  on  each. 

Nay,  't  was  not  born,  but  like  a  thing  eternal, 

It  was  ere  we  had  consciousness  thereof  ; 

No  growth  of  slow  development,  but  perfect 

From  the  beginning,  neither  doomed  to  end. 

Her  garden  breathes   her  own  warm,  southern 

beauty, 

Glowing  with  dewy  and  voluptuous  bloom. 
Here  I  am  happy  —  happy  to  dream  and  wait 
In  rich  security  of  bliss.     I  know 
How  brief  an  interval  divides  us  now. 
She  hastes  to  meet  me  with  no  less  impatience 
Than  mine  to  clasp  her  in  my  arms,  to  press 
Heart  unto  heart,  and  see  the  love  within 
The  unfathomable  depths  of  her  great  eyes. 
She  comes.     Maria ! 

Enter  MARIA,  half  timid,  half  joyous. 
MARIA. 

My  lord !  you  have  been  waiting  ? 


292  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


DON   JOHN. 

Darling,  not  long ;  't  was  but  my  restless  love 
That  drove  me  here  before  the  promised  hour. 
So  were  I  well  content  to  wait  through  ages 
Upon  the  threshold  of  a  joy  like  this, 
Knowing  the  gates  of  heaven  might  ope  to  me 
At  any  moment. 

MARIA. 

Your  love  is  less  than  mine, 
For  I  have  counted  every  tedious  minute 
Since  our  last  meeting. 

DON  JOHN. 

I  had  rather  speak 

Less  than  the  truth  to  have  you  chide  me  thus ; 
Yet  if  you  enter  in  the  lists  with  me, 
Faith  matched  with  faith,  and  loyal  heart  with 

heart, 

I  warrant  you,  the  jealous  god  of  love, 
Who  spies  us  now  from  yon  pomegranate  bush, 
Would  crown  me  victor. 

MARIA. 

Why  should  we  compete  ? 
Who  could  decide  betwixt  two  equal  truths, 
Two  perfect  faiths  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.        293 

DON  JOHN. 

The  worship  of  my  life 

"Will  be  slight  payment  for  your  boundless  trust. 
Look  we  nor  forth  nor  back,  are  we  not  happy  ? 
Heaven  smiles  above  our  heads  with  all  her  stars. 
The  envious  day  forced  us  apart,  the  wing 
Of  obscure  night  protects  and  shelters  us. 
Now  like  a  pure,   night-blooming   flower,   puts 

forth 

The  perfect  blossom  of  our  love.     Oh,  lean 
Thy  royal  head  upon  my  breast ;  assure  me 
That  this  unheard-of  bliss  is  no  fond  dream. 
Cling  to  me,  darling,  till  thy  love's  dear  burden 
Take  root  about  my  heart-strings. 

MARIA  (after  a  pause}. 

Did  you  not  hear 
A  sound,  a  cry  ?     Oh,  God  !  was  it  my  father  ? 

DON  JOHN. 

Naught  save  the  beating  of  our  hearts  I  heard. 
Be  calm,  my  love  ;  the  very  air  is  hushed. 
Listen,  the  tinkle  of  the  fountain  yonder, 
The  sleepy  stir  of  leaves,  the  querulous  pipe 
Of  some  far  bird  —  no  more. 

MARIA. 

I  heard,  I  heard ! 
A  rude  voice-  called  me.     Wherefore  did  it  come 


294  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

To  snatch  me  from  that  dream  of  restful  love  ? 
Oh,  Juan,  you  will  save  me,  you  will  help,  — 
Tell  me  you  will  —  I  have  lost  all  for  you ! 

DON  JOHN. 

To-morrow  you  will  laugh  at  fears  like  these. 
You  have  lost  naught  —  you  have  but  won  my 

love. 
Lose  not  your  faith  in  that  —  your  shield  and 

weapon. 

MARIA. 

I  tremble  still  in  every  limb.     Good-night, 
I  must  be  gone.     To-morrow  when  you  come, 
Be  wary  with  my  father  ;  he  is  fierce 
In  love  and  hatred.     Listen  and  look,  my  lord. 
If  one  dared  say  to  me  but  yester-morn 
That  I  would  meet  at  night  a  stranger  youth 
In  mine  own  garden,  talk  with  him  of  love, 
And  hint  a  thought  against  the  Spagnoletto, 
I  had  smitten  with  this  bauble  such  a  one. 

[Pointing  to  a  jewelled  poniard  in  her  belt. 
Kiss  me,  my  Juan,  once  again.     Good-night. 

[Exit  MABIA. 

SCENE  IV. 
The  Studio.    KIBERA  and  ANNICCA. 

ANNICCA. 
Has  he  come  often  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  295 


RIBERA. 

Nay,  I  caught  the  trick 
Of  his  fair  face  in  some  half-dozen  sittings. 
His  is  a  bold  and  shapely  head  —  it  pleased  me. 
I  like  the  lad  ;  the  work  upon  his  portrait 
Was  pastime  —  't  is  already  nigh  complete. 

ANNICCA. 

And  has  Maria  sat  here  while  you  worked  ? 

RIBERA  (sharply). 
Why  not?     What  would'st   thou  say?     Speak, 

fret  me  not 

With  ticklish  fears.     Is  she  not  by  my  side, 
For  work  or  rest  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Surely,  I  meant  no  harm. 
Father,  how  quick  you  are  !     I  had  but  asked 
If  she,  being  here,  had  seen  the  work  progress, 
And  found  it  his  true  counterpart. 

RIBERA. 

Annicca, 
There  is  something  in  your  thought   you  hold 

from  me. 

Have  the  lewd,  prying  eyes,  the  slanderous  mind 
Of  public  envy,  spied  herein  some  mischief  ? 
What  hast  thou  heard  ?     By  heaven,  if  one  foul 

word 


296  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Have  darkened  the  fair  fame  of  my  white  dove, 
Naples  shall  rue  it.     Let  them  not  forget 
The  chapel  of  Saint  Januarius  ! 

ANNICCA  (aside). 

Tommaso  judged  aright.     I  dare  not  tell  him. 
Dear  father,  listen.     Pray,  be  calm.     Sit  down  ; 
Your  own  hot  rage  engenders  in  my  mind 
Thoughts,  fears,  suspicions. 

RIBERA  (seating  himself). 

You  are  right,  Annicca. 
I  am  foolish,  hasty  ;  but  it  makes  me  mad. 
Listen  to  me.     Here  sits  the  Prince  before  me  ; 
We   talk,   we   laugh.      We   have    discussed   all 

themes, 

From  the  great  Angelo's  divinity, 
Down  to  the  pest  of  flies  that  fret  us  here 
At  the  day's  hottest.     Sometimes  he  will  pace 
The  studio  —  such  young  blood  is  seldom  still. 
He  brought  me  once  his  mandoline,  and  drew 
Eloquent  music  thence.     I  study  thus 
The  changeful  play  of  soul.     I  catch  the  spirit 
Behind  the  veil,  and  burn  it  on  the  plate. 
Maria  comes  and  goes  —  will  sit  awhile 
Over  her  broidery,  then  will  haste  away 
And  serve  us  with  a  dish  of  golden  fruit. 
That  is  for  me  ;  she  knows  the  sweet,  cool  juice, 
After  long  hours  of  work,  refreshes  me 
More  than    strong  wine.     She  meets  his  Royal 

Highness 


THE  SPAGXOLETTO.  297 

As  the  Ribera's  child  should  meet  a  Prince  — 
Nor  overbold,  nor  timid ;  one  would  think 
Their  rank  was  equal,  and  that  neither  sprang 
From  less  than  royal  lineage. 

ANNICCA. 

Why,  I  know  it. 

Here  is  no  need  to  excuse  or  justify. 
Speak  rather  of  your  work  —  is  the  plate  fin 
ished? 

RIBERA. 

So  nigh,  that  were  Don  John  to  leave  to-mor 
row, 
It  might  go  with  him. 

ANXICCA. 

What !  he  leaves  Naples  ? 

RIBERA. 

Yea,  but  I  know  not  when ;  he  seems  to  wait 
Momently,  orders  from  his  Majesty 
To  travel  onward. 

ANNICCA  (aside}. 

Would  he  were  well  away ! 

RIBERA. 
What  do  you  mutter  ?    I  grow  deaf  this  side. 


298  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

ANNICCA. 

I  spake  not,  father.     I  regret  with  you 
The  Prince  should  leave  us  ;  you  have  more  en 
joyed 

His  young  companionship  than  any  stranger's 
These  many  years. 

KIBERA. 

Well,  well,  enough  of  him. 
He  hath  a  winning  air  —  so  far,  so  good. 
I  know  not  that  I  place  more  trust  in  him 
Than  in  another.     'T  is  a  lying  world ; 
I  am  too  old  now  to  be  duped  or  dazzled 
By  fair  externals. 

Enter  MARIA,  carrying  a  kirtlefull  of  flowers. 
MARIA. 

Father,  see  !  my  roses 

Have  blossomed  over  night ;  I  bring  you  some 
To  prank  your  study.  Sister,  Don  Tommaso 
Seeks  you  below. 

ANNICCA  (rising). 

I  will  go  meet  him.     Father, 

Until  to-morrow.  [Embraces  RIBEBA  and  exit. 

[MARIA  sits  by  her  father's  side  and  displays  her  flowers. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  299 

RIBERA. 

Truly,  a  gorgeous  show  ! 

Pink,  yellow,  crimson,  white  —  which  is  the  fair 
est  ? 

Those  with  the  deepest  blush  should  best  become 
you  — 

Nay,  they  accord  not  with  your  hair's  red  gold ; 

The  white  ones  suit  you  best  —  pale,  innocent, 

So  flowers  too  can  lie  !     Is  not  that  strange  ? 

[MARIA  looks  at  him  in  mingled  wonder  and  affright. 
He  roughly  brushes  aside  all  the  flowers  upon  the 
floors,  then  picks  one  up  and  carefully  plucks  it  to 
pieces. 

I  think  not  highly  of  your  flowers,  girl ; 

I  have  plucked  this  leaf  by  leaf ;  it  has  no  heart. 

See  there  !  [He  laughs  contemptuously. 

MARIA. 

What  have  I  done  ?     Alas  !  what  mean  you  ? 
Have  you  then  lost  your  reason  ? 

RIBERA. 

Nay,  but  found  it. 

I,  who  was  dull  of  wit,  am  keen  at  last. 
"  Don  John  is  comely,"  and  "  Don  John  is  kind  ;" 
"  A  wonderful  musician  is  Don  John," 
"  A  princely  artist  "  —  and  then,  meek  of  mien, 
You  enter  in  his  presence,  modest,  simple. 
And  who  beneath  that  kitten  grace  had  spied 


300  TIfE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

The  claws  of  mischief?     Who!     Why,  all  the 

world, 

Save  the  fond,  wrinkled,  hoary  fool,  thy  father. 
Out,  girl,  for  shame !     He  will  be  here  anon  ; 
Hence  to  your  room  —  he  shall  not  find  you  here. 
Thank   God,   thank   God!    no   evil   hath    been 

wrought 

That  may  not  be  repaired.     I  have  sat  by 
At  all  your  meetings.     You  shall  have  no  more  ; 
Myself  will  look  to  that.     Away,  away ! 

[Exit  MARIA. 

KIBERA  (looks  after  her). 

As  one  who  has  received  a  deadly  hurt, 

She  walks.  What  if  my  doubts  be  false  ?  The 
terror 

Of  an  unlooked-for  blow,  a  treacherous  thrust 

When  least  expected  —  that  is  all  she  showed. 

On  a  false  charge,  myself  had  acted  thus. 

She  had  been  moved  far  otherwise  if  guilty ; 

She  had  wept,  protested,  begged  —  she  had  not 
left 

With  such  a  proud  and  speechless  show  of  grief. 

I  was  too  harsh,  too  quick  on  slight  suspicion. 

What  did  Annicca  say  ?     Why,  she  said  naught. 

'T  was  her  grave  air,  her  sudden  reticence, 

Her  ill-assumed  indifference.     They  play  on  me ; 

They  know  me  not.  They  dread  my  violent  pas 
sions, 

Not  guessing  what  a  firm  and  constant  bridle 


THE  8PAGNOLETTO.  301 

I  hold  them  with.     On  just  cause  to  be  angered, 
Is  merely  human.     Yet  they  sound  my  temper  ; 
They  try  to  lead  me  like  some  half-tamed  beast, 
That    must    be    coaxed.      Well,    I   may   laugh 

thereat. 

But  I  am  not  myself  to-day  ;  strange  pains 
Shoot  through  my  head  and  limbs  and  vex  my 

spirit. 
Oh,  I  have  wronged  my  child  !      Return,  Maria  ! 

[Exit,  calling. 
END  OF  ACT  in. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Night.  RIBERA'S  bedroom.  RIBERA  discovered  in  his 
dressing-gown,  seated  reading  beside  a  table,  with  a  light 
upon  it.  Enter  from  an  open  door  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
MARIA.  She  stands  irresolute  for  a  moment  on  the  thresh 
old  behind  her  father,  watching  him,  passes  her  hand 
rapidly  over  her  brow  and  eyes,  and  then  knocks. 

MARIA. 

May  I  come  in,  dear  father  ? 

RIBERA  (putting  down  his  book  and  looking  at  her  affec 
tionately). 

Child,  you  ask  ? 

MARIA  (advancing). 
You  study  late.     I  came  to  bid  good-night. 


302  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


RIBERA. 

Poor  child,  thou  must  be  weary.     Thou  art  pale 
Still  from  thy  swoon. 

MARIA  (with  a  forced  laugh). 

I  had  forgotten  it. 
Nay,  I  am  well  again. 

RIBERA. 

But  I  forget  it  not, 

Neither  forgive  myself.     Well,  it  is  past, 
Enough  3     When  the  Prince  left  I  sent  for  thee  ; 
Thou  wast  still  sleeping  ? 

MARIA  (with  confusion}. 

Yes,  I  was  outworn. 
What  didst  thou  wish  of  me  ? 

RIBERA. 

Merely  to  tell  thee 

Don  John  leaves  Naples.     He  expressed  regret 
Most  courteously  that  thou  wast  suffering. 
He  had  fain  offered  us  his  parting  thanks 
For  our  kind  welcome  —  so  he  deigned  to  say. 
To-morrow  he  may  steal  a  moment's  grace 
To  see  us  both  once  more  ;  but  this  is  doubtful, 
So  he  entrusted  his  farewells  to  me. 

MARIA. 

May  peace  go  with  him  ! 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  303 


RIBERA. 

We  are  well  alone  — 

Are  we  not,  darling  ?     Thanks  for  the  calm  con 
tent 

Wherewith  thou  biddest  him  farewell,  to  nestle 
Once  more  in  mine  embrace.     Not  long,  I  feel, 
May  these  old  horny  eyes  be  blest  with  sight 
Of  thy  full-flowering  grace,  these  wrinkled  lips 
Be  pressed  against  thy  brow.     I  am  no  more 
What  I  have  been ;  at  times  both  hand  and  brain 
Refuse  their  task.     Myself  will  follow  soon  — 
The  better  part  of  me  already  dead. 
So  the  worm  claims  us  by  slow  torture,  child. 
Thou  'It  bear  with  me,  if  as  to-day  I  wrong 
Thy  gentle  spirit  ? 

MARIA. 

Father,  no  more,  no  more ! 
You  break  my  heart. 

RIBERA. 

Mine  angel-child,  weep  not 
So  bitterly.     I  thought  not  thus  to  move  thee. 
Still  thou  art  overwrought.      I  would  have  asked 
At  last  a  promise  of  thee.     I  am  selfish, 
But  I  would  sleep  less  startingly  o'  nights, 
And  bear  a  calmer  soul  by  day,  were  I  secure 
That  thou  wilt  bide  with  me  until  the  end. 

[A  pause. 


304  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

To-night  I  will  not  press  thee.     Thou  art  weary ; 

Thy  nerves  have  scarce  regained  their  tension 
yet; 

But  from  thy  deep  emotion  I  can  see 

'T  will  cost  thee  less  than  I  have  feared.  To 
morrow 

We  will  talk  of  this  again. 

MARIA. 

To-morrow ! 

RIBERA. 

Now, 
Good-night.    'T  is  time  thou  shouldst  be  sleeping. 

MARIA. 

Father, 

I  cannot  leave  thee  !     Every  word  of  thine 
Gnaws  like  a  burning  coal  my  sore,  soft  heart. 
What !  thou  shalt  suffer,  and  thine  own  Maria 
Will  leave  thee  daughterless,  uncomforted  ? 
What!    thou   shalt  weep,  and  other  eyes   than 

mine 
Shall  see  the  Spagnoletto's  spirit  broken  ? 

RIBERA. 

There,  there,  poor  child  !     Look  up,  cling  not  so 

wildly 
About  my  neck.     Thou  art  too  finely  touched, 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  305 

If  thus  the  faint  foreshadow  of  a  grief 

Can  overcome  thee.     Listen  ?     What  was  that  ? 

MARIA  (starts  up,  shudders    violently,   and,  all  at  once, 

masters  her  emotion.) 
Why,  I  heard  nothing,  father. 

RIBEBA. 

Yes,  a  sound 

Of  footsteps,  and  a  stifled  call. 
[He  goes  toward  the  casement.    MAEIA  tries  to  detain  him. 

MARJA. 

Dear  father, 
Surely  't  was  naught.     Your  ears  deceive  you. 

Hark, 

The  wind  is  rising,  and  you  heard  the  leaves 
Rustling  together. 

RIBERA. 

Nay,  I  will  look  forth. 

[He  opens  the  casement  and  looks  out  in  silence. 
MARIA  stands  behind  him,  with  her  hands  clasped 
in  an  agony  of  fear. 

RIBERA  (calling). 
Hist,  answer !     Who  goes  there  ?  (a pause.)     No 

sound.     Thou'rt  right, 
Maria ;  I  see  naught ;  our  garden  lies 


306  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Vacant  and  still,  save  for  the  swaying  branches 
Of  bush   and  tree.      'Tis   a  wild,   threatening 

night. 

A  sultry  breeze  is  blowing,  and  the  sky 
Hangs  black  above  Vesuvius.     Yonder  cloud 
Hath  lightnings  in  it.     Ah,  a  blinding  bolt 
Dims  the  volcano's  pillared  fire.     Enough. 

[He  closes  the  casement  and  returns  to  MARIA. 
Hark,  how  the  thunder  rolls !     My  child,  you 

tremble 
Like  the  blown  leaves  without. 

MARIA. 

I  am  oppressed 

By  the  same  stormy  influence.     Thou  knowest 
I  dread  the  thunder. 

RIBERA. 

Thou,  who  art  safely  housed, 
Why  shouldst  thou  dread  it  ?     Try  to  sleep,  my 

darling ; 

Forget  the  terror  of  the  tempest ;   morn 
Will  break  again  in  sunshine. 

MARIA. 

Father,  say 

You  love  me  and  you  trust  me  once  again, 
Before  I  bid  good-night. 


THE  SPAQNOLETTO.  307 

KIBERA. 

If  it  will  calm  thee, 
I   love   thee   and   I   trust   thee.      Thou   art   to 

me 

My  genius  —  thou,  the  breathing  image  still 
Of  thy  saint-mother,  whom  the  angels  guard. 
Even  as  thou  standest  now,  vested  in  white, 
With  glowing  eyes  and  pale,  unsmiling  face, 
I  see  her  as  she  stood  the  day  her  heart 
Went   forth   from   home   and   kin   to  bless   the 

stranger 
Who  craved  her  father's  alms. 

MARIA. 

Thanks,  thanks.     Good-night. 
God  bless  us  through  these  wild,  dark  hours. 

RIBERA. 

Good-night. 

SCENE  II. 

RIBERA'S  Garden.  Half  the  sky  illuminated  by  an  over 
clouded  moon,  the  rest  obscured  by  an  approaching  storm. 
Occasional  thunder  and  lightning.  On  one  side  of  the 
stage  a  summer-house  open  to  the  audience,  on  the  other 
side  the  exterior  of  the  dwelling.  DON  JOHN  discovered 
waiting  near  the  house.  The  door  opens,  and  enter 
MARIA. 

DON  JOHN  (springing  forward  and  embracing  her). 
At  last!  at  last! 


308  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


MARIA. 

Juan,  beware  !     My  father's  fears, 
I  cannot  guess  by  whom  or  what,  are  roused. 
[She  extenus  her  arms  gropingly  to  embrace  him. 
Oh,  let  me  feel  thee  near  me  —  I  see  naught. 
Follow  me ;  here  our  voices  may  be  heard. 

[She  hastens  towards  the  summer-house,  leaning  upon 

his  arm,  and  sinks  upon  a  seat. 
Have  not  slow  ages  passed  with  crowding  woes 
Since  we  last  met !     What  have  I  not  endured  ! 
Oh,  Juan,  save  me  ! 

DON  JOHN. 

Dearest  child,  be  calm. 
Thou   art   strangely  overwrought.      Speak  not. 

Await 
Till  this  wild  fear  be  past. 

MARIA. 

How  great  you  are ! 

Your  simple  presence  stills  and  comforts  me. 
While  you  are  here,  the  one  thing  real  to  me 
In  all  the  universe  is  love. 

DON  JOHN. 

And  yet 

My  love  is  here,  if  I  be  far  or  nigh. 
Is  this  the  spirit  of  a  soldier's  wife  ? 
Nay,  fiery  courage,  iron  fortitude, 
That  soul  must  own  that  dares  to  say,  "  I  love." 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  309 

MARIA. 

And  I  dare  say  it.     I  can  bear  the  worst 
That  envious  fate  may  heap  upon  my  head, 
If  thou  art  with  me,  or  for  hope  of  thee. 

DON   JOHN. 

Art  sure  of  that  ?     Thou  couldst  not  part  from 

me, 
Even  for  thy  father's  sake  ? 

MARIA. 

Talk  you  of  parting  ? 

For  God's   sake,  what  is  this?     You   love   no 
more  ? 

DON   JOHN. 

Rather  I  love  so  truly  that  I  shrink 
From  asking  thee  to  share  a  soldier's  fate. 
I  tremble  to  uproot  so  fine  a  flower 
From  its  dear  native  earth.     I  — 

MARIA  (putting  her  hand  on  his  lips). 

Hush,  no  more  ! 

I  need  no  preparation  more  than  this, 
Your  mere  request. 

DON  JOHN. 

There  spake  my  heroine. 
The  King,  my  father,  bids  me  to  repair 
Unto  Palermo. 


310  TEE  SPAGNOLETTO. 


MARIA. 

Shall  we  sail  to-night  ? 

DON  JOHN. 

My  Princess  !     Thou  recoilest  not  from  all 
Thou  must  endure,  ere  I  can  openly 
Claim  thee  my  wife ! 

MARIA. 

The  pangs  of  purgatory 

Were  lightly  borne  with  such  a  heaven  in  view. 
I  were  content  with  one  brief  hour  a  day, 
Snatched   from  the  toils  of  war  and  thy  high 

duties, 

To  gaze  on  thy  dear  face  —  to  feel  thy  hand, 
Even  as  now  a  stay  and  a  caress. 

DON  JOHN. 

Angel,  I  have  no  thanks.     May  God  forget  me 
When  I  forget  this  hour !     So,  thou  art  firm  — 
Ready  this  night  to  leave  thy  home,  thy  kin, 
Thy  father  ? 

MARIA    (solemnly). 
I  am  ready  and  resolved. 
Yet  judge  me  not  so  lightly  as  to  deem 
I  say  this  with  no  pang.     My  love  were  naught. 
Could  I  withdraw  it  painlessly  at  once 
From   him  round  whose    colossal   strength   the 
tendrils 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  311 

Of  mine  own  baby  heart  were  taught  to  twine. 
I  speak  not  now  as  one  who  swerves  or  shrinks, 
But  merely,    dear,   to   show   thee   what    sharp 

tortures 

I,  nowise  blind,  but  with  deliberate  soul, 
Embrace  for  thee. 

DON  JOHN. 

How  can  I  doubt  the  anguish 
So  rude  a  snapping  of  all  ties  must  smite 
Thy  tender  heart  withal  ?     Yet,  dwell  we  not 
On  the  brief  pain,  but  on  the  enduring  joys. 
If  the  Ribera's  love  be  all  thou  deemest, 
He  will  forgive  thy  secret  flight,  thy  — 

MARIA. 

Secret ! 

May  I  not  bid  farewell  ?     May  I  not  tell  him 
Where  we  are  bound  ?     How  soon  he  may  have 

hope 
To    hear    from    me  —  to    welcome    me,    thy 

Princess  ? 
I  dare  not  leave  him  without  hope. 

DON  JOHN. 

My  child, 

Thou  art  mad !    We  must  be  secret  as  the  grave, 
Else  are  we  both  undone.     I  have  given  out 
That  I  depart  in  princely  state  to-morrow. 
Far  from  the  quay  a  bark  awaiteth  us. 


312  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

I  know  my  man.     Shrouded  by  careful  night. 

We  will  set  secret  sail  for  Sicily. 

Once  in  Palermo,  thou  rnayst  write  thy  father  — 

Sue  for  his  pardon  —  tell  him  that,  ere  long, 

When  I  have  won  by  cautious  policy 

King  Philip's  favor,  thou  shalt  be  proclaimed 

Princess  of  Austria. 

MARIA  (who  has  hung  upon  his  icords  with  trembling  ex* 
citement,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into 
tears). 

I  cannot !  no  !    I  cannot ! 

DON  JOHN  (scornfully). 

I  feared  as  much.     Well,  it  is  better  thus. 
I  asked  thee  not  to  front  the  "  worst  of  ills 
That  envious  fate  could  heap  upon  thy  head  "  — 
Only  a  little  patience.     'T  was  too  much  ; 
I  cannot  blame  thee.     'T  is  a  loving  father. 
I,  a  mere  stranger,  had  naught  else  to  hope, 
Matching  my  claim  with  his. 

MARIA    (looks  at  him  and  throws  herself  at  his  feet). 

Oh,  pardon,  pardon ! 

My  Lord,  my  Prince,  my  husband  !    I  am  thine ! 
Lead  wheresoe'er  thou  wilt,  I  follow  thee. 
Tell  me  a  life's  devotion  may  efface 
The  weakness  of  a  moment ! 

DON  JOHN   (raising  her  tenderly  and  embracing  her). 

Ah,  mine  own ! 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  313 

SCENE  III. 
Morning.     The  Studio.    Enter  RIBEBA. 

RIBERA. 

How  laughingly  the  clear  sun  shines  to-day 

On  storm-drenched  green,  and  cool,  far-glittering 

seas ! 

When  she  comes  in  to  greet  me,  she  will  blush 
For  last  night's  terrors.     How  she  crouched  and 

shuddered 

At  the  mere  thought  of  the  wild  war  without ! 
Poor,    clinging    women's    souls,    what    need   is 

theirs 

Of  our  protecting  love  !     Yet  even  on  me 
The  shadow  of  the  storm-cloud  seemed  to  brood. 
Through  my  vexed  sleep  I  heard  the  thunder 

roll; 

My  dreams  were  ugly  —     Well,  all  that  is  past ; 
To-day  my  spirit  is  renewed-     'T  is  long 
Since  I  have  felt  so  fresh. 

[He  seats  himself  before  his  easel  and  takes  up  his 
brush  and  palette,  but  holds  them  idly  in  his  hand. 

Strange,  she  still  sleeps  ! 
The  hour  is  past  when  she  is  wont  to  come 
To  bless  me  with  the  kiss  of  virgin  love. 
Mayhap  't  was  fever  in  her  eyes  last  night 
Gave  them  so  wild  a  glance,  so  bright  a  lustre. 
God  !  if  she  should  be  ill !          [He  rises  and  calls. 
Luca ! 


314  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Enter  LUCA. 
LUCA. 

My  lord? 

RIBERA. 

Go  ask  Fiametta  if  the  mistress  sleeps  — 
If  she  be  ailing  —  why  she  has  not  come 
This  morn  to  greet  me.  [Exit  LUCA. 

RIBERA   (begins pacing  the  stage). 

What  fond  fears  are  these 
Mastering  my  spirit  ?     Since  her  mother  died 
I  tremble  at  the  name  of  pain  or  ill. 
How   can   my  rude   love   tend,  my  hard  hand 

soothe, 
The  dear  child's  fragile  — 

[A.  confused  cry  without. 
What  is  that  ?     My  God ! 
How  hast  thou  stricken  me ! 

[He  staggers  and  falls  into  a  chair.  Enter  hastily 
FIAMETTA,  weeping,  and  LUCA  with  gestures  of 
terror  and  distress. 

FIAMETTA. 

Master ! 

LUCA. 

Dear  master ! 
[RiBEBA  rises  with  a  great  effort  and  confronts  them. 


THE  8PAGNOLETTO.  315 

RIBERA. 
What  is  it  ?     Speak ! 

LUCA. 
Dear  master,  she  is  gone. 

RIBERA. 
How  ?     Murdered  —  dead  ?     Oh,   cruel   God  ! 

Away! 
Follow  me  not !  [Exit  RIBERA. 

FIAMETTA. 

Help,  all  ye  saints  of  heaven . 
Have  pity  on  him !    Oh,  what  a  day  is  this ! 

LUCA. 

Quiet,  Fiametta.     When  the  master  finds 
The  empty,  untouched  bed,  the  silent  room, 
His  wits  will  leave  him.   Hark !  was  that  his  cry  ? 

Eeenter  KLBERA  catting. 

RIBERA. 

Maria  !   Daughter  !  Where  have  they  taken  thee, 
My  only  one,  my  darling  ?     Oh,  the  brigands  ! 
Naples  shall  bleed  for  this.     What  do  ye  here, 
Slaves,  fools,  who  stare  upon  me  ?     Know  ye  not 
I  have  been  robbed  ?     Hence  !    Ransack  every 
house 


316  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

From  cave  to  roof  in  Naples.    Search  all  streets. 
Arrest  whomso  ye  meet.     Let  no  sail  stir 
From  out  the  harbor.    Ring  the  alarum  !    Quick ! 
This  is  a  general  woe. 

[Exeunt  LUCA  and  FIAMETTA. 

The  Duke  's  my  friend  ; 

He  '11  further  me.     The  Prince  —  oh,   hideous 

fear !  — 

No,  no,  I  will  not  dream  it.    Mine  enemies 
Have   done   this   thing;   the    avengers   of   that 

beggar  — 

Domenichino  —  they  have  struck  home  at  last. 
How  was  it  that  I  heard  no  sound,  no  cry, 
Throughout  the  night  ?    The  heavens  themselves 

conspired 
Against  me  —  the  hoarse  thunder  drowned  her 

shrieks ! 
Oh,  agony ! 

[He  buries  his  face  in  his  hands.     Enter  ANNICCA  ;  she 
throws  herself  speechless  and  weeping  upon  his  neck. 

Thou  knowest  it,  Annicca ! 

The  thief  has  entered  in  the  night  —  she 's  gone. 
I  stand  and  weep ;  I  stir  not  hand  or  foot. 
Is  not  the  household  roused  ?     Do  they  not  seek 

her? 

I  am  helpless,  weak  ;  an  old  man  overnight. 
The  brigands'  work  was  easy.     I  heard  naught. 
But  surely,  surely,  had  they  murdered  her, 
I  had  heard  that  —  that  would  have  wakened  me 
From  out  my  grave. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  317 

ANNICCA. 

Father,  she  is  not  dead. 

RIBERA  (wildly). 
Where  have  they  found  her  ?     What  dost  thou 

know  ?     Speak,  speak, 
Ere  my  heart  break ! 

ANNICCA. 

Alas  !  they  have  not  found  her ; 
But  that  were  easy.     Nerve  thyself  —  remem 
ber 

Thou  art  the  Spagnoletto  still.     Last  night 
Don  John  fled  secretly  from  Naples. 

RIBERA. 

Ah! 

Give  me  a  draught  of  water. 

[He  sinks  down  on  his  chair. 

ANNICCA  (calling). 

Help,  Tommaso ! 

Luca  !  Fiametta !    Father,  look  up,  look  up  ! 
Gaze  not  so  hollowly. 

Enter  DON  TOMMASO  and  SERVANTS. 

Quick !  water,  water ! 
Do  ye  not  see  he  swoons  ? 

[She  kneels  before  her  father,  chafing  and  kissing  his 
hands.    Exit  LUCA,  who  returns  immediately  with 


318  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

a  silver  flagon  of  water.  ANNICCA  seizes  it  and 
raises  it  to  RIBERA'S  lips.  He  takes  it  from  her 
hand  and  drinks. 


RTBERA. 

How  your  hand  trembles ! 

See,  mine  is  firm.   You  had  spilt  it  o'er  my  beard 
Had  I  not  saved  it.    Thanks.   I  am  strong  again. 
I  am  very  old  for  such  a  steady  grasp. 
Why,  girl,  most  men  as  hoary  as  thy  father 
Are  long   since   palsied.      But   my   firm   touch 

comes 

From  handling  of  the  brush.     I  am  a  painter, 
The  Spagnoletto  — 

[As  he  speaks  his  name  he  suddenly  throws  off  his 

apathy,  rises  to  his  full  height,  and  casts  the  flagon 

to  the  ground. 

Ah,  the  Spagnoletto, 

Disgraced,  abandoned  !     My  exalted  name 
The   laughing-stock   of   churls;  my  hearthstone 

stamped 

With  everlasting  shame  ;  my  pride,  my  fame, 
Mine  honor  —  where  are  they  ?     With  yon  spilt 

water, 

Fouled  in  the  dust,  sucked  by  the  thirsty  air. 
Now,  by  Christ's  blood,  my  vengeance  shall  be 

huge 

As  mine  affront.     I  will  demand  full  justice 
From  Philip.     We  will  treat  as  King  with  King. 
He  shall   be  stripped  of   rank   and   name   and 

wealth, 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  319 

Degraded,  lopped  from  off  the  fellowship 

Of  Christians  like  a  rotten  limb,  proclaimed 

The  bastard  that  he  is.     She  shall  go  with  him, 

Linked  in  a  common  infamy,  haled  round, 

A  female  Judas,  who  betrayed  her  father, 

Her   God,    her   conscience,    with   a   kiss.      Her 

shadow 

Shall  be  my  curse.  Cursed  be  her  sleep  by  night, 
Accursed  her  light  by  day  —  her  meat  and  drink ! 
Accursed  the  fruit  of  her  own  womb  —  the  grave 
Where  she  will  lie  !  Cursed  —  Oh,  my  child, 

my  child  ! 
[ He  throws  himself  on  the  floor  and  buries  his  head 

among  the  cushions  of  the  couch.      DON  TOM- 

MASO  advances  and  lays  his  hand  on  RIBEKA'S 

shoulder. 

DON  TOMMASO. 

Mine  honored  sir  — 

BIBERA  (looks  up  without  rising). 

Surely  you  mock  me,  signer. 
Honored !     Yes,  honored  with  a  rifled  home, 
A  desecrated  hearth,  a  strumpet  child. 
For  honors  such  as  these,  I  have  not  stinted 
Sweat,  blood,  or  spirit  through  long  years  of  toil. 
I  have  passed   through   peril   scathless  ;   I  was 

spared 

When  Naples  was  plague-stricken ;  I  have  'scaped 
Mine  enemies'  stiletto  —  fire  and  flood  ; 
I  have  survived  my  love,  my  youth,  my  self, 


320  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

My  thrice-blest  Leonora,  whom  I  pitied, 
Fool  that  I  was  !  in  her  void,  silent  tomb. 
The  God  of  mercy  hath  reserved  me  truly 
For  a  wise  purpose. 

ANNICCA. 

Father,  rise  ;  take  courage ; 
We  know  not  yet  the  end. 

RIBERA. 

Why  should  I  rise 

To  front  the  level  eyes  of  men's  contempt  ? 
Oh,  I  am  shamed  !     Cover  my  head,  Annicca ; 
Darken  mine  eyes,  and  veil  my  face.     Oh,  God, 
Would  that  I  were  a  nameless,  obscure  man, 
So  could  I  bury  with  me  my  disgrace, 
That  now  must  be  immortal.    Where  thou  stand- 

est, 
Annicca,  there  she  stood  last  night.     She  kissed 

me ; 
Round   mine  old  neck   she   wreathed  her  soft, 

young  arms. 
My  wrinkled  cheeks  were  wet  with  her  warm 

tears. 

She  shuddered,  and  I  thought  it  was  the  thunder 
Struck  terror  through  her  soul.     White-bearded 

fool! 

FIAMETTA. 

I  found  this  scrip  upon  the  chamber-floor, 
Mayhap  it  brings  some  comfort. 


TEE  SPAGNOLETTO.  321 

RIBERA  (starts  up  and  snatches  the  paper  she  offers  him, 
reads  it  rapidly,  then  to  ANNICCA  wildly). 

Look,  look  there  — 

'T  is  writ  in  blood  :  "  My  duty  to  my  lord 
Forbids  my  telling  you  our  present  port." 
I  would  track  her  down  with  sleuth-hounds,  did 

I  not 

Abhor  to  see  her  face.     Ah,  press  thy  hands 
Against  my  head  —  my  brain  is  like  to  burst  — 
My  throat  is  choked.     Help !  help ! 

[He  swoons. 

SCENE  IV. 

A  Street.    Enter  LORENZO  and  a  GENTLEMAN,  meeting. 
They  salute,  and  LORENZO  is  about  to  pass  on. 

LORENZO. 
Good-morning,  sir. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Hail  and  farewell  so  soon, 
Friend  dreamer  ?     I  will  lay  a  goodly  sum 
The  news  that   flies   like   fire   from   tongue   to 

tongue 
Hath  not  yet  warmed  thine  ear. 

LORENZO. 

What's  that?     I  lay 
A  sum  as  fair  thy  news  is  some  dry  tale 


322  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Of  courtly  gossip,  touching  me  as  nigh 
As  the  dissensions  of  the  antipodes. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Done  for  a  hundred  florins !     In  the  night, 
'Midst  the  wild  storm  whose  roar  must  have  in 
vaded 

Even  thy  leaden  sleep,  Prince  John  left  Naples. 
We  should  have  had  a  pageant  here  to-day, 
A  royal  exit,  floral  arches  thrown 
From  house  to  house  in  all  the  streets  he  passed, 
Music  and  guards  of  honor,  homage  fitting 
The  son  of  Philip  —  but  the  bird  has  flown. 

LORENZO. 

So  !     I  regret  our  busy  citizens, 
Who  sun  themselves  day-long  upon  the  quays, 
Should  be  deprived  of  such  a  festival. 
Your  wager  's  lost  —  how  am  I  moved  by  this  ? 

GENTLEMAN. 

Hark  to  the  end.     'T  would  move  all  men  whose 

veins 

Flow  not  clear  water.     He  hath  carried  off 
The  Rose  of  Naples. 

LORENZO. 

What  wouldst  thou  say  ?     Speak  out ! 
In  God's  name,  who  hath  followed  him  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  323 

GENTLEMAN. 

Ah,  thou  'rt  roused. 
Thy   master   hath   been   robbed  —  the   Spagno- 

letto  — 
Maria  of  the  Golden  Locks  —  his  daughter. 

LORENZO. 

How  is  this  known  ?     'T  is  a  foul  slander  forged 
By  desperate  malice.     What !  in  the  night,  you 

say?  — 
She  whose  bright  name  was  clean  as  gold,  whose 

heart 

Shone  a  fixed  star  of  loyal  love  and  duty 
Beside  her  father's  glory  !     This  coarse  lie 
Denies  itself.      I  will  go  seek  the  master, 
And  if  this  very  noon  she  walk  not  forth, 
Led  by  the  Spagnoletto,  through  the  streets, 
To  blind  the  dazed  eyes  of  her  slanderers,  — 
I  am  your  debtor  for  a  hundred  florins. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Your  faith  in  womanhood  becomes  you,  sir. 
(Aside.)    A   beggar's   child   the   mistress   of   a 

Prince ; 
Humph !  there  be  some  might  think  the  weight 

of  scandal 
Lay  on  the  other  side.     (To  Lorenzo.)    You  need 

not  forth 


324  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

To  seek  her  father.     See,  he  comes,  alone. 
I  will  not  meddle  in  this  broil.     Farewell ! 

[Exit  Gentleman- 
Enter  RIBEKA,  without  hat  or  mantle,  slowly,  with  folded 
arms  and  bent  head. 

LORENZO. 

Oh  heart,  break  not  for  pity  !     Shall  he  thus 
Unto  all  Naples  blazon  his  disgrace  ? 
This  must  not  be  (advancing).     Father! 

BIBERA  (starts  and  looks  up  sharply). 

Who  calls  me  father  ? 

LORENZO. 
Why,  master,  I  —  you  know  me  not  ?     Lorenzo. 

RIBERA. 

Nor  do  I  care  to  know  thee.     Thou  must  be 
An  arrant  coward,  thus  to  league  with  foes 
Against  so  poor  a  wretch  as  I  —  to  call  me 
By  the  most  curst,  despised,  unhallowed  name 
God's  creatures  own.     Away  !  and  let  me  pass ; 
I  injure  no  man. 

LORENZO. 

Look  at  me,  dear  master. 
Your  head  is  bare,  your  face  is  ashy  pale, 
The  sun  is  fierce.     I  am  your  friend,  your  pupil ; 
Let  me  but  guide  my  reverend  master  home, 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  325 

In  token  of  the  grateful  memory 
Wherein  I  hold  his  guidance  of  my  mind 
Up  the  steep  paths  of  art. 

[While  LORENZO  speaks,  RIBERA  slowly  gains  con 
sciousness  of  his  situation,  raises  his  hand  to  his 
head,  and  shudders  violently.  LORENZO'S  last 
words  seem  to  awaken  him  thoroughly. 

RIBERA. 

I  crave  your  pardon 

If  I  have  answered  roughly,  Sir  Lorenzo. 
My  thoughts  were  far  away  —  I  failed  to  know 

you  — 

I  have  had  trouble,  sir.     You  do  remind  me, 
I  had  forgot  my  hat ;  that  is  a  trifle, 
Yet  now  I  feel  the  loss.     What  slaves  are  we 
To  circumstance  !     One  who  is  wont  to  cover 
For  fashion  or  for  warmth  his  pate,  goes  forth 
Bareheaded,  and  the  sun  will  seem  to  smite 
The  shrinking  spot,  the  breeze  will  make  him 

shiver, 

And  yet  our  hatless  beggars  heed  them  not. 
We  are  the  fools  of  habit. 

Enter  tiro  gentlemen  together  as  promenading ;  they  cross 
the  stage,  looking  hard  at  RIBERA  and  LORENZO,  and 
exeunt. 

LORENZO. 

Pray  you,  sir, 
Let  me  conduct  you  home.     Here  is  no  place 


326  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

To  hold  discourse.     In  God's  name,  come  with 
me. 

RIBERA. 

What  coupled  staring  fools  were  they  that  passed  ? 
They  seemed  to  scare  thee.    Why,  boy,  face  them 

out. 

I  am  the  shadow  of  the  Spagnoletto, 
Else  had  I  brooked  no  gaze  so  insolent. 
Well,  I  will  go  with  thee.     But,  hark  thee,  lad ; 
A  word  first  in  thine  ear.     'T  is  a  grim  secret ; 
Whisper  it  not  in  Naples  ;  I  but  tell  thee, 
Lest  thou  should  fancy  I  had  lost  my  wits. 
My  daughter  hath  deserted  me  —  hath  fled 
From  Naples  with  a  bastard.      Thou  hast  seen 

her, 

Maria-Rosa  —  thou  must  remember  her  ; 
She,  whom  I  painted  as  Madonna  once. 
She  had  fair  hair  and  Spanish  eyes.     When  was 

it? 

I  came  forth  thinking  I  might  meet  with  her 
And  find  all  this  a  dream  —  a  foolish  thought ! 
I  am  very  weary.      (  Yawning.)     I  have  walked 

and  walked 
For  hours.     How  far,  sir,  stand   we  from   the 

Strada 
Nardo  ?    I  live  there,  nigh  Saint  Francis'  church. 

LORENZO. 

Why,  't  is  hard  by ;    a  stone's  throw  from  this 
square. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  327 

So,  lean  on  me  — you  are  not  well.     This  way. 
Pluck  up  good  heart,  sir ;  we  shall  soon  be  there. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

Night.  A  Eoom  in  RIBERA'S  House.  ANNICCA  seated 
alone,  in  an  attitude  of  extreme  weariness  and  despond 
ency, 

ANNICCA. 

His  heavy  sleep  still  lasts.     Despite  the  words 

Of  the  physician,  I  can  cast  not  off 

That  ghastly  fear.     Albeit  he  owned  no  drugs, 

This  deathlike  slumber,  this  deep  breathing  slow, 

His  livid  pallor  makes  me  dread  each  moment 

His  weary  pulse  will  cease.     This  is  the  end, 

And  from  the  first  I  knew  it.     The  worst  evil 

My  warning  tongue  had  wrought  were  joy  to  this. 

No  heavier  curse  could  I  invoke  on  her 

Than    that    she    see   him   in   her   dreams,  her 

thoughts, 

As  he  is  now.     I  could  no  longer  bear  it ; 
I  have  fled  hither  from  his  couch  to  breathe  — 
To  quicken  my  spent  courage  for  the  end. 
I  cannot  pray  —  my  heart  is  full  of  curses. 
He  sleeps  ;  he  rests.     What  better  could  I  wish 
For  his  rent  heart,  his  stunned,  unbalanced  brain, 
Than  sleep  to  be  eternally  prolonged  ? 

Enter  FIAMETTA.      ANNICCA    looks   up   anxiously,  half 
rising. 

ANNICCA. 
How  now  ?     What  news  ? 


328  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

FIAMETTA. 

The  master  is  awake 
And  calls  for  you,  signora. 

ANNICCA. 

Heaven  be  praised ! 
[Exit  hastily. 

FIAMETTA. 

Would  I  had  followed  my  young  mistress  !     Here 

I  creep  about  like  a  scared,  guilty  thing, 

And  fancy  at  each  moment  they  will  guess 

'T  was  I  who  led  her  to  the  hut.     I  will  confess, 

If  any  sin  there  be,  to  Father  Clement, 

And  buy  indulgence  with  her  golden  chain. 

'T  would   burn   my  throat,  the  master's   rolling 

eyes 

Would  haunt  me  ever,  if  I  went  to  wear  it. 
So,  all  will  yet  be  well.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VI. 

RIBERA'S  Room.  RIBERA  discovered  sitting  on  the  couch. 
He  looks  old  and  haggard,  but  has  regained  his  natural 
bearing  and  expression.  Enter  ANNICCA.  She  hastens 
towards  him,  and  kneels  beside  the  couch,  kissing  him 
affectionately. 

ANNICCA. 

Father,  you  called  me  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  329 

RIBERA. 

Aye,  to  bid  good-night. 
Why  do  you  kiss  me  ?     To  betray  to-morrow  ? 

ANNICCA. 

Dear  father,  you  are  better  ;  you  have  slept. 
Are  you  not  rested  ? 

RIBERA. 

Child,  I  was  not  weary. 
There  was  some  cloud  pressed  here  (pointing  to 

his  forehead)  but  that  is  past. 
I  have  no  pain  nor  any  sense  of  ill. 
Now,  while  my  brain  is  clear,  I  have  a  word 
To  speak.     I  think  not  I  have  been  to  thee, 
Nor  to  that  other  one,  an  unkind  father. 
I  do  not  now  remember  any  act, 
Or  any  word  of  mine,  could  cause  thee  grief. 
But  I  am  old  —  perchance  my  memory 
Deceives  in  this  ?    Speak  !    Am  I  right,  Annicca  ? 

ANNICCA  (weeping). 

Oh,  father,  father,  why  will  you  torture  me  ? 
You  were  too  good,  too  good. 

RIBERA. 

Why,  so  I  thought. 

Since  it  appears  the  guerdon  of  such  goodness 
Is  treachery,  abandonment,  disgrace, 


330  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

I  here  renounce  my  fatherhood.     No  child 
Will  I  acknowledge  mine.     Thou  art  a  wife  ; 
Thy  duty  is  thy  husband's.     When  Antonio 
Returns  from  Seville,  tell  him  that  his  father 
Is  long  since  dead.     Henceforward  I  will  own 
No  kin,  no  home,  no  tie.     I  will  away, 
To-morrow  morn,  and  live  an  anchorite. 
One  thing  ye  cannot  rob  me  of  —  my  work. 
My   name   shall   still   outsoar   these   low,   mirk 

vapors  — 

Not  the  Ribera,  stained  with  sin  and  shame, 
As  she  hath  left  it,  but  the  Spagnoletto. 
My  glory  is  mine  own.     I  have  done  with  it, 
But  I  bequeath  it  to  my  country.     Now 
I  will  make  friends  with  beasts  —  they  '11  prove 

less  savage 

Than  she  that  was  my  daughter.     I  have  spoken 
For  the  last  time  that  word.     Thee  I  curse  not ; 
Thou  hast  not  set  thy  heel  upon  my  heart ; 
But  yet  I  will  not  bless  thee.     Go.     Good-night. 

ANNTCCA  (embracing  him). 
What !    will  you  spurn  me  thus  ?      Nay,  I  will 

bide, 

And  be  to  thee  all  that  she  should  have  been, 
Soothe  thy  declining  years,  and  heal  the  wound 
Of  this  sharp  sorrow.     Thou  shalt  bless  me  still, 
Father  — 

[RiBERA  has  yielded  for  a  moment  to  her  embrace  ; 

but,  suddenly  rising,  he  pushes  her  roughly  from 

him. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  331 

RIBERA. 

Away !  I  know  thee.     Thou  art  one 
With  her  who  duped  me  with  like  words  last 

night. 

Then  I  believed  ;  but  now  my  sense  is  closed, 
My  heart  is  dead  as  stone.     I  cast  thee  forth. 
By  heaven,  I  own  thee  not !     Thou  dost  forget 
I  am  the  Spagnoletto.     Away,  I  say, 
Or  ere  I  strike  thee.  [He  threatens  her. 

ANNICCA. 

Woe  is  me  !     Help,  help  ! 
[Exit. 
RIBERA. 

So,  the  last  link  is  snapt.     Had  I  not  steeled 
My  heart,  I  fain  had  kissed  her  in  farewell. 
'Tis  better  so.     I  leave  my  work  unfinished. 
Could  I  arise  each  day  to  face  this  spectre, 
Or  sleep  with  it  at  night  ?  —  to  yearn  for  her 
Even   while    I   curse   her?      No!      The    dead 

remain 

Sacred  and  sweet  in  our  remembrance  still ; 
They  seem  not  to  have  left  us  ;  they  abide 
And  linger  nigh  us  in  the  viewless  air. 
The  fallen,  the  guilty,  must  be  rooted  out 
From  heart  and  thought  and  memory.      With 

them 

No  hope  of  blest  reunion  ;  they  must  be 
As  though  they  had  not  been  ;  their  spoken  name 


332  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Cuts  like  a  knife.     When  I  essay  to  think 

Of  what  hath  passed  to-day,  my  sick  brain  reels. 

The  letter  I  remember,  but  all  since 

Floats  in  a  mist  of  horror,  and  I  grasp 

No  actual  form.     Did  I  not  wander  forth  ? 

A  mob  surrounded  me.    All  Naples  knew 

My  downfall,  and  the  street  was  paved  with  eyes 

That  stared  into  my  soul.     Then  friendly  hands 

Guided  me  hither.     When  I  woke,  I  felt 

As  though  a  stone  had  rolled  from  off  my  brain. 

But  still  this  nightmare  bides  the  truth.    I  know 

They  watch  me,  they  suspect  me.     I  will  wait 

Till  the  whole  household  sleep,  and  then  steal 

forth, 
Nor  unavenged  return. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Eoom  in  DON  TOMMASO'S  House.  ANNICCA  discovered, 
attired  in  mourning.     Enter  DON  TOMMASO. 

DON   TOMMASO. 

If  he  still  live,  now  shall  we  hear  of  him. 

The  news  I  learn  will  lure  him  from  his  covert, 

Where'er  it  lie,  to  pardon  or  avenge. 

ANNICCA   (eagerly}. 
What  news  ?    What  cheer,  Tommaso  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  333 

BOX  TOMMASO. 

Meagre  cheer, 

But  tidings  that   break   through   our  slow  sus 
pense, 

Like  the  first  thunder-clap  in  sultry  air. 
Don  John  sets  sail  from  Sicily,  to  wed 
A  Princess  chosen  by  the  King.     Maria  — - 

ANNICCA. 

Talk    not    of     her  —  I    know    her    not ;    her 

name 
Will  sear  thy  tongue.     Think'st  thou,  in  truth, 

this  news 

Will  draw  my  father  from  his  hiding-place  ? 
No  —  teach  me  not  to  hope,     Within  my  heart 
A  sure  voice  tells  me  he  is  dead.     Not  his 
The  spirit  to  drag  out  a  shameful  life, 
To  shrink  from  honest  eyes,  to  sink  his  brow 
Unto  the  dust,  here  where  he  wore  his  crown. 
Thou  knowest  him.     Have  I  not  cause  to  mourn 
Uncomforted,  that  he,  the  first  of  fathers, 
Self-murdered  —  nay,  child-murdered  —     Oh, 

Tommaso, 
I    would    fare    barefoot    to    the    ends    of   the 

earth 

To  look  again  upon  his  living  face, 
See  in  his  eyes  the  light  of  love  restored  — 
Not  blasting  me  with  lightnings  as  before  — — 
To  kneel  to  him,  to  solace  him,  to  win 


334  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

For  mine  own  head,  yoked  in  my  sister's  curse 
The  blessing  he  refused  me. 

DON    TOMMASO. 

Well,  take  comfort ; 
This  grace  may  yet  be  thine. 

SCENE  II. 

Palermo.    A  Nunnery.     Enter  ABBESS,  followed  by  a 
Lay-Sister. 

ABBESS. 

Is  the  poor  creature  roused  ? 

LAY-SISTER. 

Nay,  she  still  sleeps. 
'T  would   break   your   pious   heart   to    see  her, 

mother. 
She  begged  our  meanest  cell,   though  't  is  past 

doubt 

She  has  been  bred  to  delicate  luxury. 
I   deemed   her   spent,   had  not  the  soft   breast 

heaved 

As  gently  as  a  babe's  and  even  in  dreams 
Two    crystal    drops    oozed    from    her    swollen 

lids, 
And  trickled  down  her  cheeks.     Her  grief  sleeps 

not, 
Although  the  fragile  body  craves  its  rest. 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  335 


ABBESS. 

Poor    child !      I   fear   she    hath   sore   need   of 

prayer. 
Hath  she  yet  spoken  ? 

LAY-SISTER. 

Only  such  scant  words 

Of  thanks  or  answer  as  our  proffered  service 
Or  questionings  demand.     When  we  are  silent, 
Even  if  she  wake,  she  seemeth  unaware 
Of  any  presence.     She  will  sit  and  wail, 
Rocking  upon  the  ground,  with  dull,  wide  eyes, 
"Wheref rora  the  streaming  tears  unceasing  course  ; 
The  only  sound  that  then  escapes  her  lips 
Is,  "  Father,  Father !  "  in  such  piteous  strain 
As  though  her  rent  heart  bled  to  utter  it. 

ABBESS. 

Still  she  abides  then  by  her  first  request 
To  take  the  black   veil   and   its   vows   to-mor 
row  ? 

LAY-SISTER. 

Yea,  to  that  purpose  desperately  she  clings. 
This  evening,  if   she  rouse,   she  makes  confes 
sion. 

Even  now  a  holy  friar  waits  without, 
Fra  Bruno,  of  the  order  of  Carthusians, 
Beyond  Palermo. 


336  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

ABBESS. 

I  will  speak  with  him, 
Ere  he  confess  her,  since  we  know  him  not. 
Follow  me,  child,  and  see  if  she  have  waked. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

A  Cell  in  the  Nunnery.  MARIA  discovered  asleep  on  a 
straw  pallet.  She  starts  suddenly  from  her  sleep  with  a 
little  cry,  half  rises  and  remains  seated  on  her  pallet. 

MAKIA. 

Oh,    that   wild   dream !    My   weary   bones  still 

ache 
"With  the  fierce  pain ;    they  wrenched  me  limb 

from  limb. 
Thou   hadst   full  cause,  my  father.     But  thou, 

Juan, 

What  was  my  sin  to  thee,  save  too  much  love  ? 
Oh,  would  to  God  my  back   were   crooked  with 

age, 
My   smooth   cheek   seamed   with   wrinkles,  my 

bright  hair 

Hoary  with  years,  and  my  quick  blood  impeded 
By  sluggish  torpor,  so  were  I  near  the  end 
Of  woes  that  seem  eternal !    I  am  strong  — 
Death  will  not  rescue  me.    Within  my  veins 
I  feel  the  vigorous  pulses  of  young  life, 
Refusing  my  release.    My  heart  at  times 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  337 

Rebels  against  the  habit  of  despair, 

And,  ere  I  am  aware,  has  wandered  back, 

Among   forbidden    paths.     What   prayer,   what 

penance, 

Will  shrive  me  clean  before  the  sight  of  Heaven  ? 
My  hands  are  black  with  parricide.     Why  else 
Should  his  dead  face  arise  three  nights  before  me, 
Bleached,    ghastly,    dripping    as   of  one   that 's 

drowned, 
To  freeze  my  heart  with  horror  ?    Christ,  have 

mercy ! 

[She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  in  an  agony  of  despair. 
Enter  a  MONK. 

THE   MONK. 

May  peace  be  in  this  place  ! 

[MARIA  shudders  violently  at  the  sound  of  his  voice; 
looks  up  and  sees  the  MONK  with  bent  head,  and 
hands  partially  extended,  as  one  who  invokes  a  bless- 
ing.  She  rises,  falls  at  his  feet,  and  takes  the  hem 
of  his  skirt  between  her  hands,  pressing  it  to  her 
lips. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome ! 

Bid  me  not  rise,  nor  bless  me  with  pure  hands. 
Ask  not  to  see  my  face.     Here  let  me  lie, 
Kissing  the  dust  —  a  cast-away,  a  trait'ress, 
A  murderess,  a  parricide  ! 

MONK. 

Accursed 
With  all  Hell's  curses  is  the  crime  thou  nam'st ! 


338  THE  8PAGNOLETTO. 

What  devil  moved  thee  ?     Who  and  whence  art 

thou, 
That  wear'st  the  form  of  woman,  though  thou 

lack'st 
The   heart   of   the    she-wolf?      Who    was    thy 

parent, 

What  fiend  of  torture,  that  thine  impious  hands 
Should   quench  the  living  source  of  thine  own 

life? 

MARIA. 

Spare  me  !  oh,   spare  me  !     Nay,  my  hands  are 

clean. 

He  was  the  first,  best,  noblest  among  men. 
I  was  his  light,  his  soul,  his  breath  of  life. 
These  I  withdrew  from  him,  and  made  his  days 
A  darkness.     Yet,  perchance  he  is  not  dead, 
And  blood  and  tears  may  wash  away  my  guilt. 
Oh,  tell  me  there  is  hope,  though  it  gleam  far  — 
One  solitary  ray,  one  steadfast  spark, 
Beyond  a  million  years  of  purgatory ! 
My  burning  soul  thirsts  for  the  dewy  balm 
Of  comfortable  grace.     One  word,  one  word, 
Or  ere  I  perish  of  despair  ! 

MONK. 

What  word? 

The  one  wherewith  thou  bad'st  thy  father  hope  ? 
What   though  he  be   not  dead  ?    Is  breathing 

life? 
Hast  thou  not  murdered  him  in  spirit  ?  dealt 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  339 

The  death-blow  to   his   heart?     Cheat  not  thy 

soul 
With  empty  dreams  —  thy  God  hath  judged  thee 

guilty ! 

MARTA. 

Have  pity,  father !     Let  me  tell  thee  all. 
Thou,  cloistered,  holy  and  austere,  know'st  not 
My  glittering  temptations.     My  betrayer 
Was  of  an  angel's  aspect.     His  were  all  gifts, 
All  grace,  all  seeming  virtue.     I  was  plunged, 
Deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  and  hand-bound  in  the 

deep. 

If  a  poor  drowning  creature  craved  thine  aid, 
Thou  wouldst  not  spurn  it.     Such  a  one  am  I, 
And  all  the  waves  roll  over  me.     Help,  help  ! 
Let  me  not  perish !     Wrest  me  from  my  doom ! 
Say  not  that  I  am  lost ! 

MONK. 

I  can  but  say 

What  the  just  Spirit  prompts.    Myself  am  naught 
To  pardon  or  condemn.     The  sin  is  sinned  ; 
The  fruit  forbid  is  tasted,  yea,  and  pressed 
Of  its  last  honeyed  juices.     Wilt  thou  now 
Escape  the  after-bitterness  with  prayers, 
Scourgings,  and  wringings  of  the  hands  ?     Shall 

these 
Undo  what  has  been  done  ?  —  make  whole  the 

heart 


340  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Thy  crime  hath  snapt  in  twain?  —  restore  the 

wits 

Thy  sin  hath  scattered  ?     No  !     Thy  punishment 
Is  huge  as  thine  offence.     Death  shall  not  help, 
Neither  shall  pious  life  wash  out  the  stain. 
Living  thou  'rt  doomed,  and  dead,  thou  shalt  be 

lost, 
Beyond  salvation. 

MARIA  (springing  to  her  feet). 

Impious  priest,  thou  liest ! 
God  will  have  mercy  —  as  my  father  would, 
Could  he  but  see  me  in  mine  agony ! 

[The  MONK  throws  back  his  cowl  and  discovers  him 
self  as  the  SPAGNOLETTO.  MARIA  utters  a  pier 
cing  cry  and  throws  herself  speechless  at  his  feet. 

RIBERA. 

Thou  know'st  me  not.     I  am  not  what  I  was. 
My  outward   shape   remains  unchanged;    these 

eyes, 

Now  gloating  on  thine  anguish,  are  the  same 
That  wept  to  see  a  shadow  cross  thy  brow ; 
These  ears,  that  drink  the  music  of  thy  groans, 
Shrank  from  thy  lightest  sigh  of  melancholy. 
Thou  think'st  to  find  the  father  in  me  still  ? 
Thy  parricidal  hands  have  murdered  him  — 
Thou  shalt  not  find  a  man.     I  am  the  spirit 
Of  blind  revenge  —  a  brute,  unswerving  force. 
What  deemest  thou  hath  bound  me  unto  life  ? 
Ambition,  pleasure,  or  the  sense  of  fear  ? 


THE  SPAGNOLETTO.  341 

What,  but  the  sure  hope  of  this  fierce,  glad  hour, 
That  I  might  track  thee  down  to  this  —  might 

see 

Thy  tortured  body  writhe  beneath  my  feet, 
And  blast  thy  stricken  spirit  with  my  curse  ? 

MARIA  (in  a  crushed  voice). 
Have  mercy  !  mercy  ! 

RIBERA. 

Yes,  I  will  have  mercy  — 
The  mercy  of  the  tiger  or  the  wolf, 
Athirst  for  blood. 

MARIA  (terror-struck,  rises  upon  her  Icnees  in  an  attitude 
of  supplication.    RIBERA  averts  his  face}. 

Oh,  father,  kill  me  not ! 

Turn  not  away  —  I  am  not  changed  for  thee  ! 
In  God's  name,  look  at  me  —  thy  child,  thine 

own! 

Spare  me,  oh,  spare  me,  till  I  win  of  Heaven 
Some  sign  of  promise  !     I  am  lost  forever 
If  I  die  now. 

RIBERA  (looks  at  her  in  silence,  then  pushing  her  from  him 
laughs  bitterly). 
Nay,  have  no  fear  of  me. 

I  would  not  do  thee  that  much  grace  to  ease  thee 
Of  the  gross  burden  of  the  flesh.     Behold, 
Thou  shalt  be  cursed  with  weary  length  of  days  ; 
And  when  thou  seek'st  to  purge  thy  guilty  heart, 


342  THE  SPAGNOLETTO. 

Thou   shalt    find   there   a   sin   no   prayer   may 

shrive  — 

The  murder  of  thy  father.     To  all  dreams 
That  haunt  thee  of  past  anguish,  shall  be  added 
The  vision  of  this  horror  ! 

[He  draws  from  his  girdle  a  dagger  and  stabs  him 
self  to  the  heart,-  he  falls  and  dies,  and  MABIA 
flings  herself,  swooning,  upon  his  body. 


THE  END. 


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