Chapter III: Part 3

The grand cathedral chanting from the choir of the spheres, Within the star-roofed temple, tho' unheard by mortal ears. Never prayer from lip ascendeth, or from spirit never groan, But the flooding planet music bears it up before God's throne.

Thus, ages after ages, will the cherub, earnest eyed, Within the starry temple of the Universe abide, Till hymns of spheral litanies, till solemn chants are done, Then he'll rise up from the altar within the glowing sun.

By his mighty pinions shaken, star falleth after star, And he flings the planet rosary down from him afar; As by an earthquake riven, temple, altar, falleth crush'd, And the wailing planet music of the choral band is hush'd.

But he leads the praying spirits up from each burning world, Till before the Throne in Heaven his radiant wings are furled. There he resteth calm in glory, his holy mission done, For within the Golden City, Altar, Temple, needeth none.

LA VIA DOLOROSA.

I wander here, I wander there,
Through the desert of life, all wearily;
No joy on earth for the pilgrim soul--
On, on for ever drearily;
O'er the mountain height,
In the tempest night,
Through the mist and the gloom,
We press on to the tomb,
While the death-like pall of a midnight sky
Hangs over past and futurity.
And the echo of wandering feet I hear,
And human voices and hearts are near;

But lonely, lonely each one goeth On his dark path, and little knoweth Of love, kind words, or sympathy. Oh! fain would I lay me down and die; For the upward glance of a tearful eye, Is all I have known of humanity. Yet must I on, tho' darker and drearer And lonelier ever the pathway seems, And the spectral shadow of death draws nearer, And rare and faint are the sun-light gleams; An unseen power impelleth us on-- No pause, no rest for the weary one, Till we reach the shores of that fathomless sea Where Time poureth down to Eternity.

SHADOWS FROM LIFE.

"Che bella es el sognar aunque es mentira!"

I.

Vain the love that looketh upward; we may worship, may adore; From the heart's o'erflowing chalice all the tide of feeling pour; Dash our souls against the barriers that divide us from the shrine; Fling the incense; pour libations--aye, of life's own ruddy wine; But, the angel we gaze up to, calm as form of pictured saint, From its golden mist of glory bendeth never to our plant; Heedeth not if crushed the temple where the altar fires burned, For the doom runs through the ages--Love was never yet returned.

II.

Thus it was he loved a lady: never priest in Ispahàn So adored when mount and ocean morning's flashing glories span. Never sun-god in its glory, marching stately from the east, Crimson-robed and cloud-attended, heeded less the praying priest, Than the lady that pale lover, while her lonely path she took O'er the spirit's glittering summits, with her proud and queenly look; Like that Roman Sybil bearing in her hands the mystic scroll, And her large eyes looking onward where the future ages roll.

III.

So, in lone and lofty beauty, she stood high above the world, Never heeding, dashing neathward, how life's stormy billows curled; As a pine upon the mountain, warring tempests raging round, As an island peak of ocean, with the starry midnight crowned. How could she who trod the pathway of the spirit's starry zones Stoop to listen, bending earthward, to a lover's murmuring tones?-- While her ear was gathering music from Creation's golden chords, List the human tears low falling, with the pleading human words?

IV.

And could he, who tracked the eagle borne on through cloud and light, With her glorious regnant beauty filling soul and sense and sight, Stoop to gaze on me, half-blasted by fierce Passion's fiery skies, Only Love, the love of woman, burning strangely in my eyes? Oh! I've watched his glance dilating, as it rested where afar Rose her lofty brow, as riseth the pale glory of a star; Heard the world's praise hymning round her, saw his cheek of flushing pride, Whilst I, writhing in heart-agony, all calmly sat beside.

V.

No rays of genius crowning, such as brows like hers enrol, With no flashing thoughts, like North-lights, rushing up my darkened soul; Waking but his earnest feelings with, perchance, my graver words, While her spirit, like a tempest, swept the range of Passion's chords. Oh, Woman! calmest sufferer! what deep agony oft lies In thy low, false-hearted laughter, glancing bright through tearless eyes! And how little deemed he truly that the calmest eyes he met Were but Joy's funereal torches, on Life's ruined altar set.

VI.

How could I light up his nature, with no glory in my own? Soul like his, that throbbed and glittered in the radiance of her throne. Bitter came the words of plaining:--Why should fate to me deny All the beauty of the mortal, all the soul to deify? What had she done, then, for Heaven, so that Heaven should confer Every gift, to make man prostrate at her feet as worshipper? Raised her high enough to scorn him--aye, to trample in disdain On the heart flung down before her--heart that I had died to gain!

VII.

Trod his love down calmly, queenly, like a mantle 'neath her feet, While with lordly spirit-monarchs she moved proudly to her seat, Grand as eagle in the zenith, with the noonday radiance crowned-- Lone and icy as an Alp-peak, with the circling glaciers round. But an echo of all beauty through her fine-toned spirit rang, As a golden harp re-echoes to each passing music clang, Till in thrilling, clear vibrations rang her poet-words in air, Summoning souls to lofty duties, as an _Angelus_ to prayer.

VIII.

Oh! she flung abroad her fancies, free as waves dash off the foam-- As the palm-tree flings its branches on the blue of Heaven's dome, With a genius-shadow dark'ning in the stillness of her eyes-- With her rainbow-spirit arching half the circle of the skies, Like a dark-browed Miriam chanting songs of triumph on the foe, As the rushing waters bore them to the Hades halls below, Till up through the startled ether, down the far horizon's rim, Clashed the swords of men in music to her lofty prophet-hymn.

IX.

But no beauty thrill'd my nature, noon, or night or sunset skies; For the only heaven I gazed on was the heaven of his eyes-- I'd have bartered Freedom, Justice, People's rights, or native Land, All the island homes of Ocean, for one pressure of his hand; Trembling, weak, a coward spirit, only wishing low to lie, As a flower beneath his footstep, breathe my life out, and so die. Yet he liked me--aye, he liked me--'twas the phrase--O saints above! Cold and cruel sounds this liking from the lips of one we love.

X.

They said that he was dying; could I longer silence keeping, Only pour forth my deep passion in my chamber lonely weeping? I reck'd not if 'twere womanly, cold convention little heeding, But in mine his hand enfolding, said, with tearful raised eyes pleading-- "She hath left you, left you lonely--sorrow's harvest death may reap; I say not--love me; let me only watch here by you and weep!" Then he said, his pale brow raising, with a faint, unquiet smile, And with saddest eyes upgazing upon mine for all the while--

XI.

"Sweetest friend, this sorrow-blighted, faded form, and searéd heart, To pale death, I fear, are plighted, yet 'twere bitter now to part; For the chords of life are shaken by a sympathy so true, And they tremble, in vibration, with a pleasure strange and new. Still, no love-dream may be cherished--ah! the time of love is o'er-- Youthful heart, by passion blighted, can be kindled never more; But if sympathy thou darest with a heart so wrecked as mine, I will give thee back the rarest kindred souls can intertwine."

XII.

And so bending coldly, gently, on my brow he placed his lips; While, I trembling in the shadow of that faint and brief eclipse, Murmur'd:--"Tell me, tell me truly, do you love her then so well?" And the hot tears, all unruly, through my twinèd fingers fell, And I sank down there unheeding so of maidenhood or wrong, While I told him, weeping, pleading, how I'd loved him, loved him long; Seen my hopes all faded, perished, spread around in pale dismay, Wept their pallid corses over--I alone, like Niobe!

XIII.

Thank God, that no cruel scorning dimm'd his starry eyes divine, Softly, tender, earnest gazing down the tearful depths of mine-- But with warmest splendours resting on the paleness of his cheek, As the roseate tinted sunset on a snowy Alpine peak, Bent he down upon my shoulder, murmuring loverlike and low, While his breathing softly trembled on my pale lips lying so:-- "Ah! such deep and tender loving hath recall'd me from the grave-- And this heart with soft approving bids you keep the life you gave;

XIV.

"Woman's soothing grief to lighten hath a mystic healing power, And their sympathy can brighten man's most dark and destined hour. Let the holy words be spoken that bind soul to soul for life; Let me place the symbol token on this hand--my wedded wife!" Oh! never yet did an angel breathe diviner words of bliss, Never mortal heard evangel of a joy like unto this; In my gladness, smiling, weeping, knelt I down before him there, Blessing God with wild words leaping from my full heart's inward prayer;

XV.

And a glory, ruddy, golden-hued, streamed down on me from high, As with lifted hands enfolden gazed I up into the sky-- Ever brighter, flashing downward, till my pained eyes ached with light, And I turned from gazing sunward back to earth's more calm delight. But--was it spell, or was it charm?--when I turned meto the room, Fading seem'd the loved one's form, half in light and half in gloom-- Throbb'd my brain in wild confusion, slowly died his words in air, All around me seemed illusion, save that streaming golden glare.

XVI.

On my fevered eyelids aching, madly press'd my hands I keep-- Then arose like one awaking from a strange and magic sleep; Round I gazed in wild amazement for the glorious light that shone, Was morn streaming through my casement, but it shone on me alone! The last cold words he had written still lay there beside my bed; The last flowers he had given lay beside them, faded, dead; Life's lonely bitter desolation was true, for aye, I deem, But, joy's blessed revelations, that--oh, that--was but a dream!

Wanderings through European Literature.

LE RÉVEILLE.

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
Poured forth her notes of warning;
Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale,
Awoke by the light of the morning.
The day, the day is bright!
The night
Hath fled that in darkness bound ye;
Fling ye the myrtle of love aside,
And grasp the sword whate'er may betide--
For the Foemen are gathering round ye!

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
Arouse ye from apathy's slumber!
Few and dull do your watchfires pale,
But they soon shall the stars outnumber.
Awake, awake to life!
The strife
For God and your right advances;
Leave the white arms of weeping beauty,
The van of the battle's your post of duty,
Where glitter the Foeman's lances!

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
The gate of the morning uncloses;
She sings of the thundering cannon's hail--
She sings of the battle's roses;
On the warrior's breast
They rest--
The crimson roses that free the world!
Up, then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent--
Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent
When the banner of Freedom's unfurled.

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming!
As dashes the torrent adown the vale,
O'er all barriers wildly streaming,
So of thy young heart's blood,
The flood
Pour down on the thirsty land;
And Liberty's cause, that would else have died,
Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide;
So pledge ye your heart and hand.

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
Who chanted a Nation's rise;
Borne on the wings of the morning gale,
It peals through the azure skies.
Liberty's torch is bright!
The light
May mock our tyrant's scorning,
For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon;
And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, full soon
We'll achieve in the light of the morning!

OUR FATHERLAND.

I.

Why pour the ruby wine,
For glad carousal, brothers mine,
In the sparkling glass that flashes
In your hand,
When, mourning, sits in dust and ashes
Our Fatherland?

II.

What means the joyous song
Of the festive bridal throng?
Oh! let music no more waken
The echoes of our strand,
For the bridegroom hath forsaken
Our Fatherland!

III.

No more your masses falter,
Trembling priests, before the altar.
Can prayer avail the dead or dying?
Oh! vain demand!
Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lying
Our Fatherland!

IV.

Ye princes, fling ye down
Your blood-bought jewelled crown--
Bear the circlet on your brow no more,
Nor signet on your hand;
For, shivering, stands before your door
Our Fatherland!

V.

Woe to ye rich; in gloom
Hath toll'd your hour of doom--
There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in state
In palace grand,
While Lazarus is dying at your gate,
Our Fatherland!

VI.

And woe to you, ye poor--
Want and scorn ye must endure;
Yet before ye many noble jewels shine
In the sand.
Ah! they are patriots' tears--even mine--
For Fatherland!

VII.

But the Poet's mission
Is but prophetic vision;
To him the daring heart is granted--
Not the hand.
He may cease--the death-song has been chanted
For Fatherland!

THE KNIGHT'S PLEDGE.

The tedious night at length hath pass'd; To horse! to horse! we'll ride as fast As ever bird did fly. Ha! but the morning air is chill; Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill, We'll drain it ere we die!

Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green? Soon dyed in blood of mine I ween, With damask rose thou'lt vie. The goblet here! with sword in hand I pledge thee first, my Fatherland, Oh! blessed for thee to die!

Again our mailed hands raise the cup: Freedom, to thee we drink it up. Low may that coward lie Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand, The freedom of our glorious Land-- Her Freedom, ere we die!

Our wives--but, ah! the glass is clear, The cannon thunders--grasp the spear, We'll pledge them in a sigh. Now, on the Foe like thunder crash! We'll scathe them as a lightning flash, And conquer, though we die!

OPPORTUNITY.[8]

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MACHIAVELLI.

"Chi sei tu, che non par Donna mortale?"

Who art thou, glorious Form, flashing by me, So beautiful, so Godlike--wilt thou fly me? Why o'er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses streaming? And why the airy pinions on thy white feet gleaming? My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I never: Mortals rarely know me till I'm gone for ever. To seize me passing on to few is granted; Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted-- Therefore the light wings bound on them, to make me So quick in flight that none shall overtake me. Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veiling, That none may know me 'till to know be unavailing; Then, mockingly, I fling aside the veil, and please me With their vain hope, and vainer haste to seize me.

And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping, Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping? Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them, She stoppeth weeping, vainly weeping nigh them. But thou, poor mortal, precious moments wasting, Idly thou dreamest while I'm onwards hasting. Wilt thou not wake? Alas! weep now, I've passed for ever. Weep, for Repentance henceforth leaves thee never.

KING ERICK'S FAITH.

I.

In Upsal's stately Minster, before the altar, stands The Swedish King, brave Erick, with high uplifted hands-- His royal robes are round him, the crown upon his head, And thus, before his people, right sovranly he said:--

II.

"God! whoso trusteth in Thee will never rue his trust; If God the Lord be with us, our foes shall flee like dust." He spake--from priests and people rose up the answering cry-- "If God the Lord be with us, all danger we defy!"

II.

Scarce through the aisles is dying their mingled voices' din, A pallid slave, disordered, comes rushing wildly in. "Now God us aid!--Skalater, the Dane, has come again, Fast pouring down the mountains with seven hundred men!"

IV.

King Erick heard him calmly, then strong in faith replied-- "What man can fight against us, with God upon our side?" A second slave comes rushing all breathless as the first-- "The gate is down--Skalater each bar and bolt hath burst!"

V.

King Erick's brow grew paler, but still he looked on high-- "If God the Lord be with us, no danger need we fly!" In comes another, trembling, but ere he uttered sound The Danish axes glisten--they cleave him to the ground.

VI.

Then rose a fearful tumult--then rose a wildered cry-- Skalater comes in fury--defenceless we must die-- Skalater comes in fury, with all his pagan hordes, And Priest, and King, and Altar must fall beneath their swords.

VII.

King Erick's glance grew prouder; he grasp'd the golden rood-- He held it high to Heaven, as on Skalater strode: Lo! from each wound, the seven, pours forth a thousand rays, And down to earth Skalater sinks dazzled by the blaze.

VIII.

They're prostrate on their foreheads, the seven hundred Danes, Praying the God to spare them who guards the Christian fanes; But Erick and his people lift up the joyful cry-- Our God, the Lord, has conquered; all praise to Him on high!

"FOR NORGE!"

FROM THE DANISH.

I.

For Norway, Freedom's fatherland, Fill up the wine-cup flowing, And pledge it, brothers, hand in hand, To keep the hot blood glowing. By gyves and fetters rent we swear, No tyrant's hand shall ever dare To chain our souls, while swords we bear To guard old Norway's Freedom!

II.

Again the wine-cup passes round; We'll drain it to the glory Of all the Chiefs and names renowned In Norway's ancient story. Across our gloomy northern night Their clashing arms flashed the light, And won for us, in hero fight, The prize of Norway's Freedom.

III.

And now to all the brave ones here, And to the maids that love us-- To men who never knew a fear, Maids pure as saints above us. The Norway maidens! fill on high-- The Norsemen, brave to do and die! And shame to him who passes by The pledge to Love and Freedom!

IV.

And yet one cup to Norway's land, Her snow and icy fountains, The rocks that guard her stormy strand, The pines upon her mountains! Aye--three times three fill up the wine, Pledge mountain, torrent, rock, and pine-- Pledge all that marks the snowy line Where Norsemen guard their Freedom!

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.

FROM LAMARTINE.

I.

Lonely stream of rushing water,
From the rock that gave thee birth,
Hast thou fallen, O Naiad's daughter!
Mingling with the common earth?
Shall Carrara's snowy marble
Never more thy waves inurn;
That with wild and plaintive warble,
By their broken temple mourn?

II.

Nor thy dolphins lying shattered,
Fling their columns up again,
That in radiant glory scattered,
Fell to the earth a jewelled rain.
Must the bending beeches only,
Veil thy desolate decay,
Spreading solemnly and lonely
O'er thy waters, dark as they?

III.

Pallid Autumn-leaves are lying
On thy hollow marble tomb,
And the willows round it sighing,
Wave their bannerets of gloom.
Still thou flowest ever, ever--
Like a loving heart that gives
Smiles and blessings, though it never
Meeteth smile from one who lives.

IV.

Roughest rocks to polished beauty
Changing as thou flowest on;
Such the Poet's heaven-taught duty,
Mid the stony-hearted throng!
Thus thy voice to me hath spoken,
Falling, falling from on high,
As a chord in music, broken
By a gently-murmured sigh.

V.

Ah! what sad yet glorious vision
Of my youth thy scenes unroll,
When I felt the Poet's mission
Kindling first within my soul;
When the passion and the glory
Of the far-off future years,
Shone in radiant light before me,
Through the present dimm'd by tears.

VI.

Can thy stream recall the shadow
Of the spirit-haunted boy,
Who in sunlight, through the meadow,
Roamed in deep and woundrous joy?
Yet bright memory still reaches,
All athwart thy glistening beams,
Where, beneath the shading beeches,
Lay the sunny child of dreams;

VII.

Weaving fancies bright as morning,
With its purple and its gold;
Strong to trample down earth's scorning
With the faith of men of old.
Ready life itself to render
At the shrine to which he bowed,
Knowing not the transient splendour
Gilded but the tempest-cloud.

VIII.

On my heart was still'd the laughter,
Cold the clay around the dead,
When I came in years long after
Here to rest my weary head.
Waked the sad tears fast and warm,
Once again the ancient place,
Till, like droppings of the storm,
They fell heavy on thy face.

IX.

Human voice was none to hear me
In that silence of the tomb;
But thy waters, sobbing near me,
Seemed responsive to the gloom;
And I flung my thoughts all idly
On thy current in a dream,
Like the pale leaves scattered widely
On thy autumn-drifted stream.

X.

Yet 'twas in that mournful hour
Rose the spirit's mighty words;
Never soul could know its power
Until sorrow swept the chords--
Blended with each solemn feature
Of the lonely scenes I trod,
For the sacred love of Nature
Is the Poet's hymn to God.

XI.

Did He hear the words imploring
Of a strong heard tempest-riven?
Did the tears of sorrow pouring
Rise like incense up to Heaven?
Ah! the heart that mutely prayeth
From the ashes of the past,
Finds the strength that ever stayeth,
Of the Holy, round it cast!

XII.

But the leaf in winter fadeth,
And the cygnet drops her plumes:
Time in passing ever shadeth
Human life in deeper glooms;
So, perchance, with white hair streaming,
In my age to thee I'll turn--
Muse on life, with softened dreaming,
By thy broken marble urn.

XIII.

While thy murmuring waters falling
Drop by drop upon the plain,
Seem like spirit-voices calling--
Spirit-voices not in vain;
For life's fleeting course they teach me,
With life's endless source on high,
Past and future thus may reach me,
While I learn from thee to die.

XIV.

O stream! hath thy lonely torrent
Many ages yet to run?
O life! will thy mournful current
See many a setting sun?
I know not; but both are passing
From the sunlight into gloom--
Yet the light we left will meet us
Once again beyond the tomb!

SALVATION.

When the gloom is deepest round thee; When the bands of grief have bound thee, And in loneliness and sorrow, By the poisoned springs of life Thou sittest, yearning for a morrow, That will free thee from the strife;

Look not upwards, for above thee; Never sun or star is gleaming; Look not round for one to love thee; Put not faith in mortal seeming; Lightly would they scorn, then leave thee. Trust not man--he will deceive thee.

But in the depths of thy own soul Descend; mysterious powers unroll-- Energies that long had slumbered In its mystic depths unnumbered. Speak the word!--the power divinest Will awake, if thou inclinest.

Thou art lord in thine own kingdom; Rule thyself--thou rulest all! Smile, when from its proud dominion Earthly joy will rudely fall. Be true unto thyself and hear not Evil thoughts, that would enslave thee. God is in thee! Mortal, fear not; Trust in Him, and He will save thee!

MISERY IS MYSTERY.

I.

Misery his heart hath broken-- Misery is mystery! Let the sad one lonely be; As the Ancients shunned the token Of a lightning-blasted tree.

II.

Breathe no word, his doom is spoken-- Misery is mystery! By its scathing lightning fated, Human hearts are consecrated, For a higher destiny.

FAREWELL!

Let mine eyes the parting take, Which my faint lips never can; Moments such as these might break Even the sternest heart of man.

Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse, Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign; Cold the pressure of thy lips, Cold the hand that rests in mine.

Once the slightest stolen kiss-- O, what rapture did it bring! Like a violet's loveliness, Found and plucked in early spring.

Now, no more my hand shall twine, Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee; Without, is summer's glorious prime, Within, weird autumn's misery.

CATARINA.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

"Um mover d'olhos brando e piadoso."

A movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent, A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy, 'Twere easy to transform it to a tear. A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating. A graceful, modest ardour--yet at times Most grave and quiet majesty, as one Who knows--that rarest knowledge--her own worth.

A childlike nature, index of a soul Where goodness is intuitive--not put on To gain false praises for a falser virtue. A bashful softness when she tells her love-- A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene, Like to a temple of all holy things, Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance, Enduring all with angel smiles of love. This, the celestial beauty of my Circé-- This is the magic potion which has changed Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!

THE POET AT COURT.

I.

He stands alone in the lordly hall--
He, with the high, pale brow;
But never a one at the festival
Was half so great, I trow.
They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee,
Slaves to an earthly king!
But the heir of a loftier dynasty
May scorn that courtly ring.

II.

They press, with false and flattering words,
Around the blood-bought throne;
But the homage never yet won by swords
Is his--the Anointed One!
His sway over every nation
Extendeth from zone to zone;
He reigns as a god o'er creation--
The universe is his own.

III.

No star on his breast is beaming,
But the light of his flashing eye
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming,
The conscious majesty.
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow--
Away with that golden thing!
Your fealty was never yet due till now--
Kneel to the God-made King!

THE MYSTIC TREE.

FROM ÖLENSCHLÄGER.

Its branches up to Heaven a tree is sending,
Rare to see,
For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending
That mystic tree.

Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy,
Roses twine,
And the young flowers veil it with their glossy
Hues divine.

The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed,
So green and bright;
The branches spread out broadly to be warmed
In Heaven's light.

Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows
And cool springs;
Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows
Like seraphs' wings.

Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches--
Well it's worth;
For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches
The fruit falls to earth.

Mocking apes all day there, in their folly,
Play antic wiles;
All night rest the branches, still and holy
As cathedral aisles.

The nightingale, soft in the moonlight singing,
Stops her grief;
For the magic tones of Oreads seem ringing
From every leaf.

The tree is loved by all, but comprehended
Scarce by one;
Yet each basketh in its glory, many-blended,
As 'neath a sun.

Many pause, the bright fruit harvest reaping,
Of golden gleam;
But he who loveth shadow saith in weeping--
Here let me dream.

Lighter spirits, passing, stop where glisten
Brightest flowers;
While others pause, enchanted, but to listen
The music of its bowers.

And he who nothing loveth goes his way,
Unheeding all;
But they who love the universe will say--
Sing on, JEAN PAUL!

'TIS NOT UPON EARTH.

Why comest thou here, so pale and clear, Thou lone and shadowy child? "I come from a clime of eternal sun, Tho' my mother's home is a dreary one; But Love hath stolen my heart away, And to seek it through the world I stray."

Oh, turn thee back to thy native land--
Turn, ere thy heart is blighted;
For, alas! upon this desert strand
True love has never alighted.

"My native land is beyond the skies, Where the perfumed bowers of Eden rise. But my mother's home is the spectral tomb; Yet I'll back and rest in its shadowy gloom, For the grave is still and Heaven is fair, And the myrtle of love fadeth never there!"

THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL.

FROM THE DANISH.

Fatherless and motherless, no brothers have I, And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie; Wasted with hunger I saw them falling dead-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.

Friendless and loverless, I wander to and fro, Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast with woe, Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my bread-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.

Harp clang and merry song by stranger door and board, None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at each word; None care why the colour from my wan cheek has fled-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.

Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want, and woe, Freeze the young life-current in my veins as I go; Begging for my living, yet wishing I were dead-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.

IGNEZ DE CASTRO.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

"Longe de caro esposo Ignez formosa."

I.

Far from her Royal lover, by Mondego's sunny tide, Does the Lady Inez wander, Don Pedro's lovely bride; Her long hair fell around her, like a veil of a golden light, And the jewelled zone that bound her in the noontide sparkled bright.

II.

But heavy showers are falling fast adown her azure eyes, As on Heaven with anguish calling, she lifts them to the skies. Where is her princely lover? Is there none to save her nigh? Does he know that King Alonzo hath sworn that she shall die?

III.

She trembles at each murmured sound that's wafted on the breeze: It is the murderer's footstep that rustles through the trees; But wearily, all wearily, with watching and with weeping, She sank in troubled slumber, while her maidens guard were keeping.

IV.

She dream'd that in the palace, by her Royal lover's side, She sat upon the high throne, as his crownéd Queen and bride; And words of love he murmured, and the crowd knelt down to praise, And she proudly took their homage, but blushed beneath his gaze.

V.

Fair cloth of silver brighter than the sunbeam's woven light, And marble pillars whiter than the pale queen of night-- Flowers and odours blending, all lovliest things were there, Incense-clouds upsending, for her--the beautiful, the fair!

VI.

Her robes of tissue golden outvied her golden tresses, As she lay enfolden in her lover's soft caresses; But brighter than the diamonds that circled round her brow, Were the flashing eyes beneath them--he murmured with a vow.

VII.

And redder than the rubies that enclasped her jewelled zone, Were the roses on her cheek when he whispered--Thou'rt mine own. And he stooped his plumed head gently to kiss her--so she dreamed-- But his lips were icy cold, like the touch of death it seemed.

VIII.

And she started from her slumber all tearfully and pale, For hurrying steps and voices were heard, and woman's wail-- "O God! the hour has come," they cried--"the murderers are near!" Why weep ye so, my maidens, now?--your cheeks are blanched with fear.

IX.

"I see--I see their shadows--down the marble steps they run; I see their daggers gleaming in the red light of the sun-- O Pedro! Pedro! save me!"--help from God nor man is nigh: All vainly to her murderers for mercy did she cry.

X.

Then she raised her eyes to Heaven, and threw back her golden hair, And in the streaming sunlight calm and saintly stood she there; While upon her snowy bosom she meekly crossed her hands-- You'd take her for an Angel as she there in beauty stands.

XI.

What! shrink ye now, false cravens!--do ye fear yon pale-faced girl? Tigers, traitors, as ye are, dare ye touch one golden curl? King Alonzo's gold is tempting, yet fain ye now would fly From the calm and holy glance of that tearful azure eye.

XII.

It was but for a moment's pause--the next their daggers gleam, And she falls, the young and lovely, by Mondego's fated stream; Like red rain on the young flowers, pours forth life's crimson tide-- And softly murmuring, Pedro! she looked to Heaven, and died.

THE WAIWODE.

FROM THE RUSSIAN.

Secretly by night returning, Jealous fears within him burning, The Waiwode seeks his young wife's bed, And with trembling hand, uncertain, Backward draws the silken curtain-- Death and vengeance--she has fled!

With a frown like tempest weather, Fierce he knits his brows together, Tears his beard in wrathful mood-- Roars in thunder through the castle, Summoning each trembling vassal, "Ho there! slaves--ye devil's brood!

"Who left the castle gate unguarded, And slew the hound?--some hand unbarr'd it! Quick! prepare ye sack and cord! My arms here, fellows--loaded, ready! Now, slave, your pistols, follow--steady--- Ha, traitress! thou shalt feel this sword!

Close in the murky shadows hiding, Slave and master, onward gliding, Reach the garden. There, indeed, Listening to the soft appealing Of a youth before her kneeling, Stands she in her white _naridd_.

Through the marble fountain's playing, Passion's words they hear him saying-- "How I love thee, yet thou'st sold All thy beauty's glowing treasures, All this soft band's tender pressures, For the Waiwode's cursed gold.

"How I loved, as none can love thee; Waited, wept--if tears could move thee-- Ah! and is it thus we meet? He ne'er strove through tears and troubles, Only clang'd his silver roubles, And thou fallest at his feet.

Yet once more, through night and storm, I ride to gaze upon thy form, Touch again that thrilling hand; Pray that peace may rest upon thee In the home that now has won thee, Then for ever fly this land."

Low she bendeth o'er him weeping, Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping, Sees not jealous eye-balls glare-- "Now, slave, steady,--Fool, thou tremblest Vengeance if thy heart dissemblest-- Kill her as she standeth there."

"Oh, my Lord and master, hear me-- Patience yet, or much I fear me I shall never aim aright. See, the bitter night wind's blowing Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing Icy tears to dim my sight.

"Silence! thou accurséd Russian. Hold--I'll guide the pistol's motion; See'st thou not her gleaming brow? So, steady--straight before thee--higher-- When I gave the signal, fire-- Darker doom awaits him--Now!"

A shot, a groan, and all is over; Still she standeth by her lover-- 'Tis the Waiwode falleth dead! Was ever known such sad disaster? The bungling slave hath shot his master Straight and steady through the head.

THE COMPARISON.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

I.

Loveliest of flowers
That in the garden grows,
Brightest, sweetest, fairest,
Crimson blushing rose.
Envy of all others,
No charm thy beauty misses,
Favourite of Phœbus,
Blushing at his kisses.

II.

Yet as he outshineth,
Glorying in his might,
The pale, uncertain splendour
Of Luna's silver light--
So does Amarilla,
When compared unto thee,
Heedless wanton, careless
Of the thousand lips that woo thee.

III.

Thou hast cruel thorns
Beneath thy rich leaves lying,
But she is soft and gentle
As Æolian music sighing;
Thou heedest not the murmur
Of Zephyr when he sings,
But see her dark eyes flashing
When I touch my golden strings.

IV.

In the month of flowers,
When flaunting in thy pride,
Crimson-robéd Queen,
I shall place thee side by side;
Then, Cupid, come and tell me,
On thy judgment I'll repose,
Which is fairest, brightest,
Amarilla or the Rose?
Stay! here is Venus coming,
The goddess will decide--
Ah! tis not the Paphian Queen,
But Amarilla, my young Bride!

BUDRIS AND HIS SONS.

FROM THE RUSSIAN.

I.

Spring to your saddles, and spur your fleet horses; Time for ye, children, to seek your life courses. (Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan brave.) Never your father's sword rusted in leisure, Never his hand failed to grasp the rich treasure; But now my feeble frame sinks to the grave.

II.

Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead ye; Ride forth, my sons--each a path I aread ye-- Thus will your booty be varied and rare. Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prussian; Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian-- Vitald the lances of Poland may dare.

III.

From Novgorod Veliki[9] come back to me never Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold river; Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and fine, And the silver of Argun they dig from the mine, The gems of Siberia and far Koliván-- So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuán!

IV.

In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for the bold: Ha, boy! never shrink from their ducats of gold; Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes, The amber that lies where the Baltic wave dashes, Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won, And the gods of old Litwa[10] will guard thee, my son.

V.

No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy share, Where the plains of the Polac lie level and bare; But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen, And their maidens the loveliest ever were seen: So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride That brings a fair Polenese home for thy bride.

VI.

Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky, Can rival the colour or light of her eye; Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold, Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of gold; Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove, And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty and love.

VII.

By three paths from Wilna, the young men are roaming, Day after day Budris looks for their coming-- But day after day he watcheth in vain. No steed from the high-road, no lance from the forest, He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the sorest-- "Alas! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain!"

VIII.

The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast-- Through the forest a horseman comes dashing at last, With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold: "Ha, Olgard! hast brought me the ducats of gold? Let's see--is it amber thou'st won for thy ride?" "Oh, father--no, father--a young Polish bride!"

IX.

The snow on the valley falls heavier still, A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill; Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies-- "How now, my brave son--hast thou brought me a prize? Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride? Come show me!" "No, father--a young Polish bride!"

X.

Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall-- A horseman rides fiercely through snow-flakes and all; Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast-- "Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to the feast! I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides, We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!"

THE LADY BEATRIZ.

ROMANCE.

FROM THE SPANISH.--THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

"Bodas hacian en Francia."

There were stately nuptials in France,
In the royal town of Paris:
Who is it leads the dance?
The lovely Lady Beatriz.

Who is it gazes on her,
With looks so earnest and bright?
'Tis her noblest Page of Honour,
Don Martin, Count and Knight.

The bride and her maidens advance--
Young Count, why lookest thou so?
Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance,
Or on me? Oh! I fain would know.

I gaze not upon the dance,
Sweet Beatriz, lady mine;
For many a galliard I've seen in France,
But never such beauty as thine.

Then if thou lovest me so, young Count,
Oh! take me away with thee;
For nor gay nor young, though a prince's son,
Is the bridegroom they'd wed with me.

There was mourning in France, I ween,
In the royal town of Paris;
For no more was seen either Count Martín
Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.

A SERVIAN SONG.

I.

Wherefore neighest thou so sadly? Stampest with the hoof so madly? Speak, my steed--why at the tent, With thy stately neck down bent?

II.

Have not my own hands caress'd thee? Proudly in gay trappings dress'd thee? Yet thou com'st not as of old, Champing at thy curb of gold.

III.

Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing, Silken shabrack downward flowing, Silver hoof and broidered rein. Gemm'd with trophies from the slain?

IV.

And the horse, he answered sadly-- Stamp I with the hoof so madly? Tramp of steed I hear afar, Trumpet clang and din of war.

V.

But soon a stranger will bestride me, Other hand than thine will guide me, Never more by thee caress'd, Or proudly in gay trappings dress'd.

VI.

See, the foe, with fury glowing, Rends my glittering shabrack flowing, Curb of gold and broidered rein Fiercely does he cleave in twain.

VII.

And my stately neck is drooping, 'Neath a fearful burthen stooping-- There a dead man lies supine, Cold as ice--the Form is thine!

INSTABILITY.

FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY

"Como estoy alegre
Tristezas temo."

When the day is brightest,
Darkness draweth near;
When the heart is lightest,
Coming grief I fear.

Eyes of heavenly splendour,
Radiance o'er me fling;
But when their light's most tender
I fear its vanishing.

Lips, where passion keepeth
Holiest incense, bend to mine;
But when woman speaketh,
Who would trust so false a shrine?

Even in twined caresses
Where love has woven his spells,
Of the mutual love that blesses,
I hear a voice which tells.

As light with darkness weddeth,
So must pleasure with annoy,
And sorrow ever treadeth
On the doomed path of joy.

A WARNING.

FROM THE DANISH.

I.

Fair Guniver roam'd in the sunset light, Through wood and wold, In sweet dreams of love, but her heart was bright As proven gold. Yet ever a voice to the maiden spoke, Beware--beware of the false men-folk!

II.

Fair Guniver fished by a lonely stream, With silken line, And smiled to see in the silvery gleam Her image shine. Yet ever a voice still whispered there, My child, of the false-men folk beware!

III.

Lo! a Merman rose from the sedgy reeds, With glittering eyes, And a mantle of pale-green ocean weeds Draped kingly-wise; And wreath'd with the mist of his flowing hair, Was a crown of the river-lotus fair.

IV.

Sweet Guniver, said he, in tones that fell So low and clear, Like music that breathes from the caverned shell In the listener's ear: I've gazed on thy beauty down deep in the sea, And my heart pines away for the love of thee.

V.

Yet I ask thee to grant but one demand, Oh! let me rest My burning lips on thy snow-white hand, One instant blest: And dream not of harm, for a Merman's truth Is pure as a maiden's in stainless youth.

VI.

Fair Guniver, heed not the tongues that tell Of man's vain wile, For our artless souls, thou knowest full well, Disdain all guile. Is it much to ask for thy hand to rest One moment, in love, on thy throbbing breast?

VII.

'Tis a gentle prayer, she answered, to sue For one alone; So, beautiful Merman, here take the two Within thine own; And if, as thou sayest, my hand can bless, Place both to thy lips in one love caress.

VIII.

He took her white hands, and he drew her down, With laughter hoarse; But the fishermen weep, for they look upon Fair Guniver's corse. And still, by her lone grave, the same voice spoke, Beware--oh! beware of the false men-folk!

CASSANDRA.

FROM SCHILLER.

I.

Joy in Ilion's hall resoundeth,
Ere the mighty city fell;
Festive hymns of triumph sounded
With the gold harp's richest swell.
Each stern warrior rests at last
From that strife of direst slaughter;
For the brave Pelides weds
Royal Priam's loveliest daughter.

II.

Troop on troop, with laurel garlands,
Slowly swept the bridal train
Onward to the sacred temple
Where arose the Thymbrian's fane.
By them ran, with long hair streaming,
Ivy-crownéd Mænades;
One alone, of sorrow dreaming,
Wandered in her wretchedness.

III.

Joyless, while they chant their praises--
None to soothe her, none to love--
Did Cassandra tread the mazes
Of Apollo's laurel grove;
To the wild wood's deepest shadow
Fled the mystic maiden now,
And she dashed the priestess-fillet
Wildly from her throbbing brow.

IV.

"Everywhere are sounds of gladness,
From each happy heart awoke;
I alone must rove in sadness,
I alone must grief invoke.
Joy illumes my father's features,
Garlanded my sisters stand--
Yet I hear the rushing pinions
Of Destruction o'er our land.

V.

"Wildly high a torch is flashing,
But 'tis not from Hymen's hand;
Upward see the red stream dashing,
But 'tis not an altar brand.
Costly viands, festal dances,
Wait the bridegroom and the bride--
Yet the Avenger's step advances,
Who will crush them in their pride.

VI.

"And they mock my prophet wailing,
And they scorn my words of woe;
Fatal gift and unavailing--
Still I've wandered to and fro,
Shunn'd by all the happy round me,
Scorned by all where'er I trod;
Heavily thou hast foredoomed me,
Oh! thou mighty Pythian God!

VII.

"Why on me was laid the mission:
Lift the future's mystic shroud?
Why to me the seer's vision
'Mid a spirit-darkened crowd?
When the mortal arm is weak,
Wherefore give the prophet's power?
Can it turn the stream, or break
Clouds of woe that darkly lower?

VIII.

"Wherefore lift the pall o'ershading
Dark and dread Futurity?
Ignorance is joy unfading--
Knowledge, death and misery.
Oh! recall thy mournful mission--
Take the future from my sight:
Fatal is the prophet's vision
To the form that shrines its light.

IX.

"Give me back the happy blindness,
Ere my childhood felt thy spell;
Never sang I in joy's wildness
Since I heard thy oracle.
Clear the future lies before me,
But the present veiled away;
Oh! to life and joy restore me--
Take thy cruel gift away!

X.

"Never round my perfumed tresses
May the bridal wreath entwine;
'Mid thy temple's drear recesses
Doomed in loneliness to pine.
Never o'er my youth of weeping
Did one happy moment rise--
Never aught but sorrow reaping
From thy fatal mysteries.

XI.

"See my gay companions round me,
Blessed with all that love can give;
I alone, my youth consuming,
Live to weep, and weep to live.
Vain to me the sun, the skies,
The flowers on the green earth bending;
Who the joys of life would prize
That could know their bitter ending?

XII.

"Thou, Polyxena, art happy
In thy love's first deep excess,
Hellas gives her bravest hero
To thy young heart's fond caress.
Proudly is her bosom heaving,
Conscious of her bridegroom's love,
Whilst her dreams of pleasure weaving,
Envies not the Gods above.

XIII.

"And I, too, have trembled gazing
Upon one my heart adored--
In his deep eyes' soft appraising
Reading love's unspoken word.
Bridal vows I'd fain have uttered,
Oh, to him how willingly!
But there stepped a Stygian spectre
Nightly between him and me.

XIV.

"Pale and hideous phantoms haunt me,
From the realms of Proserpine;
Ghastly shades of gloom confront me,
Everywhere my steps incline;
Even in festive scenes of pleasure,
Stifling bright youth's careless glee--
Oh! that I could know the treasure
Of a young heart's gaiety!

XV.

"Ha! the murderer's steel is beaming!
The murderer's eye glares wildly bright!
Whither shall I fly the gleaming
Of the Future's lurid light?
All in vain I turn my glances--
Still the vision's ghastly hand
Points my doom as it advances:
Death within the stranger's land."

XVI.

Does the prophet-maiden falter?
Hark! those wild disordered cries!
Slain before the sacred altar,
Dead the son of Thetis lies.
Eris shakes her wreathed serpents--
All the Gods their temples shun--
And a thunder-cloud is resting
Heavily on Ilion!

UNDINÉ.

FROM THE DANISH.

I.

Undiné by the lonely shore,
In lonely grief, is pacing;
The vows her perjured lover swore
No more with hope retracing.
Yet none in beauty could compare
With ocean's bright-haired daughter.
Her cheek is like the lotus fair
That lieth on the water;

II.

Her eye is like the azure sky,
The azure deep reflecteth;
Her smile, the glittering lights on high,
The glittering wave collecteth.
Her robe of green with many a gem
And pearl of ocean shineth,
And round her brow a diadem
Of rosy coral twineth.

III.

Like diamonds scattered here and there,
The crystal drops are glistening
Amid her flowing golden hair,
As thus she paceth listening--
Listening through the silver light,
The light that lover loveth;
Listening through the dark midnight,
But still no lover cometh.

IV.

An earthly love her heart enthralls,
She loves with earth's emotion;
For him she left her crystal halls
Beneath the crystal ocean.
Abjured them since he placed that day
The gold ring on her finger,
Though still the sparkling diamond spray
Around her robe would linger.

V.

And she hath gained a human soul,
The soul of trusting woman;
But love hath only taught her dole,
Through tears she knows the human.
So from her sisters far apart,
Her lonely path she taketh,
With human sorrow in the heart
That human love forsaketh.

VI.

She weaves a crown of dripping reeds,
On which the moon shines ghastly--
"A wedding crown my lover needs,
My pale hands weave it fastly."
She treads a strange and solemn dance,
The waves around her groaning,
And mingles, with prophetic sense,
Her singing with their moaning.

VII.

"My bridegroom, nought can save thee now,
Since plighted troth is broken--
The fatal crown awaits thy brow,
The fatal spell is spoken.
Thou'rt standing by another bride,
Before the holy altar--
A shadowy form at thy side
Will make thy strong heart falter.

VIII.

"To her, within the holy church,
Thy perjured vows art giving;
But never shalt thou cross the porch
Again amidst the living.
I wait thee 'neath the chill cold waves,
While marriage-bells are tolling;
Our bridal chant, 'neath ocean's caves,
Be ocean's billows rolling."

IX.

The bridegroom, in his pride of youth,
Beside the fair bride standeth--
"Now take her hand to plight thy troth,"
The solemn Priest commandeth.
But lo! a shadowy form is seen
Betwixt the bridal greeting,
A shadowy hand is placed between,
To hinder theirs from meeting.

X.

The priest is mute, the bridegroom pale--
He knows the sea-nymph's warning;
The fair bride trembles 'neath her veil,
The bridal's turned to mourning.
No more within the holy church,
Love's holy vows are giving;
They bear the bridegroom from the porch--
The dead amidst the living!

+NOTE TO UNDINÉ.+