Chapter IV: Part 4

Never know you days of rest; Ceaseless is your humble quest Of the pittance that you ask For your arduous daily task. Every morning sees your form Pass through sunshine or through storm; Every evening hears your feet Trudging up the darkened street; For your gait is always slow, Coming from Menaggio.

Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; Once those arms were round and white; And the feet, now roughly shod, Lightly danced upon the sod, As to womanhood you grew And a lover's rapture knew; For you once were fair, 'tis said, Early wooed and early wed, And your husband long ago Died in old Menaggio.

Children? Aye, but not one cares How the poor old mother fares! You must struggle on alone; They have children of their own, And for them, devoid of shame, All your scanty earnings claim! Can you walk? Then go you must, Plodding on through rain and dust, Summer heat and winter's snow To and from Menaggio!

Christmas Eve! Through glistening green Gleams a merry, festive scene; Trees, with candles burning bright, Wake in children's hearts delight. Where such peace and comfort reign, None observes the window-pane, Where your wan face sadly peers Through a mist of falling tears At a joy you never know, Carrier from Menaggio!

Much that makes those children gay You have brought them day by day, Thankful that you thus could earn Wood to make your hearthstone burn. Not for you such food and light, Clothing warm and candles bright! You are grateful, if you gain Bread to stifle hunger's pain. Ah! it was not always so In old-time Menaggio!

* * * * *

She has turned to climb the hill. Stay! why lies she there so still? Have her old limbs failed at last In the chilling wintry blast? Since for threescore years and ten She has done the work of men, 'Tis not strange that she should fall Weak and helpless by the wall, Nevermore to come and go To and from Menaggio.

Gently lift her old gray head! Bear her homeward! She is dead. Fallen, like a faithful horse At the limit of its course; Fallen on the stony road, Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; And the heart within her breast For the first time finds its rest,-- Rest that it could never know Coming from Menaggio!

Sound again, O Christmas bells! "Peace on Earth" your song foretells. It has come, in truth, to one Whose long pilgrimage is done. Merciful her quick release, Blessèd her eternal peace! Yet I know that, day by day, As she no more comes my way, I shall miss her, as I go To and from Menaggio.

EVENING ON LAKE COMO

Beside my garden's ivied wall, Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, I stand, as evening shadows fall, And marvel at the matchless scene, While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, Perpetual music at my feet.

The year grows old,--yet on the breeze Still floats the perfume of the rose; Still gleams the gold of orange trees, Regardless of the Alpine snows; For while, above, Frost reigns as king, Below prevails the warmth of Spring.

In Tremezzina's sheltered bay The wintry storms forget to rave; Without,--the white caps and the spray, Within,--a shore with scarce a wave,-- A favored spot where tempests cease, And Heaven whispers, "Here is Peace."

Across the water's purple bloom Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom With glistening walls of pink and white,-- The wraith of some celestial strand, The fringe of an enchanted land.

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings Its good-night lyric to the lake; A skiff glides by on slender wings With scarce a ripple in its wake; And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, Float idly in an ideal world.

The swan-like steamers come and go; The ruffled water finds its rest; The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; And, trembling on the tranquil air, Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer.

Oh, peerless strand! I yearn no more To mingle with the maddened throng; Enough for me this wave-kissed shore, The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, And storied towers of long ago.

Between me and the world's unrest The lake's broad leagues of water lie; Above my wave-protected nest Serenely bends a cloudless sky; And homeward from life's stormy sea The dreams of youth come back to me.

DELIO PATRI

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the Island of Lake Como, 1910, and belonging formerly to a temple of Delian Apollo,--the "Delian Father,"--which no doubt existed there.)

Once more Lake Como's storied isle Reveals the Roman past! Again a stone of classic style The spade hath upward cast; How can such relics thus endure Two thousand years of sepulture?

More eagerly than those who toil For nuggets of mere gold, We seize and rescue from the soil This monument of old,-- An altar-fragment, much defaced, Yet on whose surface words are traced.

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime The legend chiselled there, Which now, triumphant over time, Still proves the sculptor's care, Engraved when on this wave-girt hill The Pagan gods were potent still.

'As on their own peculiar page The fingers of the blind Decipher truths of every age, As mind communes with mind, So, one by one, these letters spell A name the ancient world knew well.

For "Delio Patri" heads the lines Inscribed upon this stone, And instantly the mind divines What, else, had been unknown, Since that familiar name makes clear Apollo once was worshipped here;

Perhaps because the spot suggests That other tiny isle, Upon whose shore forever rests The Sun-God's tender smile,-- Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, Both he and Artemis were born.

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, And lower still we read In characters, now half effaced, The motive for his deed;-- "Onesimus this altar reared To One he gratefully revered."

Faith, grateful reverence,--these are traits Worth more than rank or fame, And what this brief inscription states Does honor to his name, And makes us wish still more to know Of him who built here long ago.

"And is this all?" the cynic sneers, "The remnant of a shrine?" Alas for him who never hears Or heeds the world divine And in this fragment fails to see A stepping-stone to Deity!

The Sun-God's shrines in ruins lie, But not the glorious sun! A thousand transient faiths may die. All prototypes of One, Since under every form and name Their essence still remains the same.

ACQUA FREDDA

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall I pause to feel the mountain breeze, And watch the shadows eastward fall From immemorial cypress trees.

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, Those dusky phantoms downward creep To where, by Lenno's curving bay, The peaceful village seems to sleep;

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow Turn crimson 'neath the farther shore, And here and there the sunset glow Threads diamonds on a dripping oar.

But now a tremor breaks the spell, And stirs to life the languid air,-- It is the convent's vesper-bell,-- The plaintive call to evening prayer;

That prayer which rises like a sigh From every sorrow-laden breast, When twilight dims the garish sky, And day is dying in the west.

Ave Maria! we who miss A mother's love, a mother's care, Implore thee, bring us to that bliss We fondly hope with thee to share!

How sweet and clear, how soft and low Those vesper orisons are sung, In Rome's grand speech of long ago, Forever old, forever young!

And those who chant,--that exiled band, Expelled from France with scorn and hate, How fare they in this foreign land? Is life for them disconsolate?

Have they escaped the sight of pain, Of social strife, of hopeless tears? Does life's dark problem grow more plain, As pass in prayer the tranquil years?

I know not; dare not ask of them; Their souls are read by God alone; But he who would their lives condemn, Should pause before he cast a stone.

So full is life of hate and greed, So vain the world's poor tinselled show, What wonder that some souls have need To flee from all its sin and woe?

I would not join them; yet, in truth, I feel, in leaving them at prayer, That something precious of my youth, Long lost to me, is treasured there.

THE POSTERN GATE

I chose me a lovely garden, Beneath whose ivied wall A lake's blue wavelets murmur As evening shadows fall,--

A garden, whose leafy windows Frame visions of Alpine snow On peaks that burn to crimson In sunset's afterglow.

And there, in its sweet seclusion, I built me a mansion fair, With many a classic statue And Eastern relic rare,

And volumes, whose precious pages Hold all that the wise have said,-- The latest among the living, The greatest among the dead.

And I sat in those fragrant arbors Of laurel and palm and pine, And held in the tranquil twilight My darling's hand in mine;

And said "We will here be happy, And let the mad world go; Its gold no longer tempts us, Still less do its pomp and show;

"No more shall its cares annoy us, And under these stately trees With Nature and Art and Letters Our souls shall take their ease."

But a brood of griefs pursued us, Like evil birds of prey; They lodged in the trees' tall branches, They shadowed the cloudless day;

They flew to the darkened casement, And beat on the wind-swept shade, And oft in the sleepless midnight We listened and were afraid;

And daily came the tidings Of folly and crime and woe, And one by one kept dying The friends of long ago.

For the Past is ever one's master, And Memory mocks at space, And Trouble travels with us, However swift our pace;

And envy is always envy, Though called by a foreign name, And perfidy, greed, and malice Are everywhere the same.

I thought I had left behind me That gloomy realm of care, But really one never leaves it, Its shadow is everywhere.

So I learned at last the lesson That walls, and gates, and keys Can never exclude life's sorrows; They enter as they please.

And if we ever acquire The perfect life we crave, A subtle warning tells us Its background is the grave.

Perhaps I have almost reached it, For when I am walking late, I see a shrouded stranger Beside my postern gate;

And a sudden chill creeps o'er me At sight of that figure grim, For I fancy that he is waiting For me in the twilight dim;

And I know he will one day beckon With gesture of command, And I shall follow him mutely. Away to the Silent Land,

And all that I here have treasured In fountain, and tree, and stone Will pass to the hands of others, Whom I have never known.

Hence over his sombre features There flickers a ghostly smile, As if he would say, "What matter? Your cares are not worth while;

"The trouble which gives you anguish, The woes o'er which you weep, Will all be soon forgotten In my long, dreamless sleep.

"Enjoy the fleeting moment; I cannot always wait, And the glow of the coming sunset Is gilding the postern gate."

UNDINE

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call Murmurs caressingly under my wall, Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate? What is the cause of this passionate strain, Voiced by thy wavelets again and again?

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn; White, on the rocks of the fountain below, Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, Sung so alluringly under my wall.

Leaf-woven ladders of ivy-wreathed vines Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, Tempting the lover to clamber with ease Up to the garden, to woo and to take Lovely Undine away to the lake.

Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, White gleam their feet on its background of green; Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, Never is reached by their glittering spray.

Hear you that music, half song and half sigh? Sylph-like Undine is making reply:-- "Though I so motionless sit here above, I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; Others regard me as passionless stone, Only to thee shall my nature be known.

"Men who behold me, praise merely my art, Never suspecting I too have a heart; Under the marble the world cannot see All I am keeping there only for thee; Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet.

"Under the wall thou hast bravely assailed, Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, Passes this fountain; though cradled in snows, Straight to thy waters it secretly flows; Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, On that swift current I come to thee, dear!"

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; Silence and mystery brood over all; Still my Undine sits facing the dawn; 'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone,-- Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep.

JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA

Day by day,
As if in May,
We sail Azzano's beautiful bay;
High and low
The mountains show
Luminous fields of stainless snow,
But the air is soft, and the sun is warm,
And the lake is free from wind and storm.

Far and nigh,
Deep and high,
The Alps invade both lake and sky;
Base to base
Their forms we trace,
These in water, those in space,--
Duplicate peaks on single shores,
As shadow sinks, and substance soars.

To and fro
We idly go,
Bidding our oarsmen lightly row;
Here and there
Halting where
The vision seems supremely fair;
Happy to let our little boat
In a flood of opaline splendor float.

Far away
Seems to-day
The clamorous world of work and play;
Ours indeed
A different creed
From that of the modern god of Speed,
Whose converts suffer such grievous waste
In strenuous labor and feverish haste!

East or west,
A tranquil nest,
When curfew rings, is always best,
A landscape fair,
A volume rare,
And a kindred heart, one's peace to share,--
What is there better from life to take
In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake?

THE WANDERER

Wandering minstrel at my gate, Shivering in the winter gloaming, How appalling seems your fate,-- Destined to be always roaming, Singing for a bit of bread And a shelter for your head!

Your sweet voice is all you own, Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, And you are not quite alone, For a dog your crust is sharing; Yet o'er many a weary mile You have brought ... a song and smile!

I, who have abundant land, Home with comforts beyond measure, Gardens, loggias, and a strand Where a boat awaits my pleasure, Wonder what would be your story, Were I tramp, and you signore!

Would you weary of control? Long to slip your gilded tether, And with Leo once more stroll, Heedless of the wind and weather? You could hardly do that all, Once ensconced behind my wall.

Every one must make a choice, Life is based on compensation; You have nothing but your voice, I have more, ... but more vexation! Minstrel, you at least are free; Give your smile to slaves like me!

SECLUSION

Shut out the World, shut in the Home! The sea is deeper than its foam; Retain the gem, reject the paste; Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, Its tumult and its senseless waste.

Within are love, and books, and flowers,-- Creators of life's happiest hours; Without are those whose baneful call, If once they pass within thy wall, May blight the beauty of it all.

Think not they come for love of thee! They seek from ennui to be free, To ask some boon, or tell some tale Which, true or false, will rarely fail To leave behind a poisoned trail.

What else indeed can such as they Invent to pass their time away? Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, Their reading is the daily press, Their mental life a wilderness.

What though their dwellings rise near thine? Propinquity is not a sign Of loyal hearts or kindred views; Thou surely hast a right to choose Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse.

Decline to let those mar thy joy, Whose manners wound, and words annoy; The vapid, heartless throng eschew; Admit alone,--alas, how few!-- The really kind, the really true.

Yet when did ever a recluse Escape the baffled crowd's abuse? The social world will ne'er condone Thy preference to live alone Amid resources of thine own.

Well, let it scoff, malign, or ... worse! Thou hast an independent purse; Alike to thee its smile or sneer, It hath no power to cause thee fear, Nor is its censure worth a tear.

Hence, 'mid thy flowers, books, and trees Strive not the multitude to please; Regard its humors as the spray Which winds blow lightly o'er the bay; Live thine own life, and win the day!

ONE MORE

With a smile and a kiss he went away; At the gate he turned and waved his hand, Then plunged once more in the sordid fray, Whose strain she could not understand.

She really thought that she loved him well, But she loved herself and children more, And realized only when he fell What all his friends had known before.

He had always hid his own distress, And answered us with a brave "Not yet," For boys must play and girls must dress, As do their mates in the social set.

At least she claimed that this was so, And he too dearly loved them all To spoil their place in the passing show, And so rode on for a fatal fall.

He had earned enough for a simple life, If only they a word had said, So weary was he of the strife; But they were dumb, and he ... is dead!

Yes, he is gone, and they are here; And now the purse he died to fill Will keep them well for many a year,-- Of course submissive to "God's will"!

One victim more in the cruel race With rivals he himself despised, For children who can ne'er replace The father whom they sacrificed.

UNDER THE PLANE TREE

Under my wall
And plane-tree tall
The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall;
In they creep,
Out they sweep,
And ever their rhythmic measure keep,
As the light breeze over the water steals,
And fills the sails of a score of keels.

Soft and low,
In the evening glow,
Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow;
Clear and sweet,
Fair and fleet,
It came from the mountain, the lake to meet,
And here, where ivy and roses twine,
Streamlet and lake their lives combine.

One by one,
In shade or sun,
Each river of life its course must run;
Slow or fast,
Small or vast,
All come to the waiting sea at last,--
The source from which they first arose,
The home in which they find repose.

"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE"

Marble fragment, freed at last From thy prison of the past, By a spade-thrust brought to light After centuries of night,-- Let me take thee in my hand, And thy legend understand.

On thy mutilated face It is difficult to trace All that once was graven here; But at least two words are clear,-- Reading still, as all agree, "Conjugi Carissimae."

"To my well-belovèd wife";-- Only this; but of her life, Rank or title, age or name, Or the place from which she came, Nothing further can be known Than is taught us by this stone.

Touching words they are, which tell Of a husband's last farewell; Cry of a despairing heart That has seen a wife depart On death's dark, uncharted sea;-- "Conjugi Carissimae!"

Was this lady still a bride, Or a matron, when she died? Had she children? Was she fair? Bright with joy, or bowed with care? Ah, pathetic mystery! "Conjugi Carissimae."

Yet, in truth, what matters all, Save the fact these words recall? She was loved,--a consort mourned In the home she had adorned; And her husband long ago Left the words which tell us so.

Strange, that these alone remain,-- Words of mingled love and pain! Time, which broke or blurred the rest, Tenderly has spared the best; For what better could there be? "Conjugi Carissimae."

Ancient relic, white and pure, May thine epitaph endure, While the lake with dimpled smile Mirrors this historic isle! Precious are thy words of old, Worthy of a script of gold!

Soon upon this island's shrine Shalt thou like a jewel shine,-- Dearest of its treasure-trove, Emblem of a deathless love From its sepulchre set free,-- "Conjugi Carissimae."

THE PAGAN PAST

What sylvan god was worshipped here? What nymph once made this grove her home, And bathed within its fountain clear, When Caesar ruled the world at Rome?

Did Pan frequent this charming site, So hidden from the haunts of men? Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night Within this moon-illumined glen?

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines Form trellised screens for distant snow, And trace in arabesque designs Their profiles on the Alpine glow?

So sure were Dryads to select A region thus supremely fair! So apt were mortals to erect In such a place a shrine for prayer!

The two millenniums have not brought Diminished splendor to this bay; The strand which Pliny loved and sought Is no less beautiful to-day.

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, And white magnolia-blossoms gleam Above my wave-lapped garden wall, I seem to see, as in a dream,

The kneeling forms of those who laid Their floral offerings on that shrine, And here their grateful tribute paid To beauty, rightly deemed divine.

Doth some Divinity each morn Cast over me its ancient spell, That this sweet landscape seems forlorn Without the gods who loved it well?

Men tell me they are dead and gone, But when my soul is moved to pray, I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, They are not very far away.

For I, who love this classic lake, And cruise along its storied shores, See Roman galleys in my wake, And hear the stroke of phantom oars.

It matters not which way I steer, Or if my course be slow or fast, The Pagan world seems always near; I sail, companioned by the Past.

RETIREMENT

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, Take me once more, like a child, to your breast! Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, Welcome me back, if it be not too late, Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, Hush of the forest and cadence of streams!

What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste? Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, Idle frivolity, senseless display, Youth without reverence, faith in decay.

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, Gladly go back to the humming of bees, Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, Gladly dispense with the voices of men, Thankful to hear only Nature again.

Out from the mob with its furious pace Into the cool, quiet reaches of space; Rid of Society's glittering chains, Fleeing a prison and finding the plains; Far from the clangor of murderous cars, Losing the limelight, but gaining ... the stars!

Others may live in the turbulent throng, Others may struggle to rectify wrong, Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, I too have striven and laughed in my day; But of life's blessings I crave now the best,-- Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest.

IN NOVEMBER

Under my trees of green and gold I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, With never a hint of winter's cold, Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze Which spreads from the gleaming lake below To gild the edge of the distant snow.

Closed are the stately inns once more; Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest; Many have gone to a southern shore, Some to the east and some to the west; But the smiling landlords count their gains, And we know well that the best remains.

For the walls are lined with precious books, And the hearth and home are always here, And the garden hath a score of nooks, Where flowers bloom throughout the year; And now that the restless crowd is gone I hear the flute of my rustic Faun.

Why should I grieve, if from my trees The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one? Through the clearer space with greater ease I feel the warmth of the genial sun; And though the plane-trees stand bereft, The pines and cypresses are left.

Does the gay world leave us? Well, good-bye! It will come again--perhaps too soon! We have the mountains, lake, and sky, And solitude is a precious boon. Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet,-- Their memory, after all, is sweet.

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

Over the water the shadows are creeping, Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, Only the fountain sings on as before.

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, Voices of absent ones seem to be calling:-- "Come to us! Come! thou hast waited too long."

Vainly I call it a childish delusion, Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion Voices I loved in the land of my birth.

Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, Waking within me a mingled emotion,-- Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear;

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me Many, alas! will await me no more; Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, Cold are the arms that embraced me before!

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, Dim and unknown is the opposite shore, But in the fatherland some are still keeping Lights in the window and watch at the door.

THE CASCADE

From the mountain gray
It has made its way
To my garden green and cool,
And there, from the edge
Of a rocky ledge
Leaps down to a crystal pool.

With a plunging flash
It falls, to dash
That crystal into foam;
And then at a bound
Slips under ground
To the lake,--its final home.

In the morning light,
In the silent night,
When the moonlight gems the scene,
It laughs and sings,
And a light spray flings
O'er stately walls of green.

For in and out,
And round about,
Grow flowers, plants, and trees,
From the lowly moss
To the boughs that toss
Their leaves in the passing breeze.

On its outer zone
Of massive stone
Two marble statues stand,--
The silver sheen
Of the pool between,--
One form on either hand.

One of the pair
Is a woman fair,
With parted, smiling lips;
For her each hour
A honied flower,
And she the bee that sips.

The other, a faun,
From whom is gone
The power to frankly smile;
For whom each day,
As it drags away,
Makes life still less worth while.

The face of the one
Is like the sun,
With its warmth, and light, and cheer;
But the faun looks down
With ugly frown,
And his lips retain a sneer.

Youth and age,
Child and sage!
The former with life unknown;
The latter burnt
By lessons learnt,
With a heart now turned to stone.

Yet the torrent speeds,
And never heeds
The statues' smiles or sneers;
They come and go,
But the water's flow
Has lasted a thousand years.

BIRD SLAUGHTER

Poor, little bird! the chase is ended; No longer hast thou cause for fear; Within these walls thou art befriended; No sportsmen can molest thee here.

Without, they doubtless still await thee, And scan with eager eyes the sky; Sweet, winsome thing! how can they hate thee? Why should they wish to see thee die?

So limp and helpless! wilt thou never Recover from thy fear and flight? How breathless was thy last endeavor To reach this shelter, when in sight!

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; Do I, too, seem like all the rest? Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me ... Alas! there's blood upon thy breast.

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently Uplift and hold thee in my hand; Thou gazest on me so intently, Thou must my motive understand.

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; This wing will never rise again; In vain thy look, so wild and pleading! I cannot cure or ease thy pain.

Too well the hunters have succeeded; Thy little life is ebbing fast; My presence now is all unheeded; 'Tis over; ... thou art dead at last.

Yet thus, within my garden dying, Thy fate hath caused me less regret Than that of all thy comrades, lying Half dead and mangled in the net!

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly The lofty Alps to seek the sun? Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, Or is her life-course also run?

Within the voiceless empyrean No birds are passing on the breeze; No songster lifts its joyous paean, And silent stand my empty trees;

For at the base of every mountain, Where southward-moving birds repose, In every grove, at every fountain, Lurk merciless, insatiate foes.

With cruel craft those foes surround them, Ensnaring hundreds in a day, Indifferent if they tear and wound them, Proud only of the heaps they slay.

What care these brutes if songs of rapture From thrush and lark are no more heard? What matter if their modes of capture Denude the land of every bird?

Whole regions, where they once abounded, Are now as silent as the tomb; The birds have vanished,--slain or wounded, Pursued, by thousands, to their doom.

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, The Nemesis of Nature wakes; Her flawless balance must be righted; If Ceres gives, ... she also takes!

Still worse, a moral degradation Thus cradled, vitiates the race; Among the rising generation A lust for slaughter grows apace.

Even children kill the birds thus captured,-- And, since none censures or withstands, They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured To crush them in their blood-smeared hands!

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, Its frail legs raw from rasping strings! A carriage comes,--he flings within it The tortured bird ... to sell its wings!

And oft as it may be rejected, The little victim, mad with thirst, Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, Till pain and hunger do their worst.

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman! Beneath you swells a threatening flood; If you and yours remain inhuman, It yet may drown you in your blood.

You smile, and call this sentimental; You will not smile in later times! For cruelty, so fundamental, Already breeds the worst of crimes.

THE IRON CROWN

On the classic shore of Como, 'Neath a headland steep and bold, Which, though leaden at the dawning, In the sunset turns to gold, Nestles beautiful Varenna, Still invested with renown By the legend that connects it With the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Far above it on the mountain Stands the castle, old and gray, With its battlements in ruin And its towers in decay; But a subtle charm still lingers Round that residence sublime, And the beauty of its story Is triumphant over time.

As we trace its ancient pavement, As we tread its roofless halls, How alluring is the figure Which this castle still recalls! For 'tis Queen Theodelinda Whom its ruined arches frame, And the passing breeze seems laden With the music of her name.

As we gaze from ivied ramparts On the storied lake below, We forget the world about us For the world of long ago, When the Lombards had descended From the mountains to the plain, And all Italy lay mourning For the thousands of her slain;

When their brave, ambitious leader, Not content to make his home By these northern lakes of beauty, Had resolved to capture Rome! For no longer could her legions His resistless course withstand, And the road lay open, southward, To the conquest of the land.

When his valiant host stood ready And impatient for the start, What reversed their king's decision? What so changed the warlord's heart? 'Twas the passionate entreaty Of his wife,--a Christian queen; 'Twas the conquest of the pagan By the lowly Nazarene.

Through her prayers Rome's agèd Pontiff From the threatened doom was freed; By her aid the Church was strengthened As the king professed its creed; And Saint Peter's great successor, Thus preserved from grievous loss, Gave to her, his faithful daughter, A true relic of the Cross.

What to pious Theodelinda Could be recompense more sweet Than the nail, forever sacred, That once pierced her Saviour's feet? Which, when rounded to a circlet, (To fine wire beaten down,) Then became the precious basis Of the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Through the ages that have followed What a line of the Renowned Have been proud to wear this emblem, As they, each in turn, were crowned! Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, German Kaisers by the score, And at last poor King Umberto, Basely slain at Monza's door!

Since that coronet was fashioned Fifteen centuries have passed O'er the castle by Lake Como, Where the good queen breathed her last; But the Crown is still at Monza, And its iron basic line Tells the world of human glory And the death of the Divine.

CONTRASTS

The wind is roaring down the lake, The clear, cold moon rides high, The mountains, crystal to their crests, Indent the starlit sky; The wild sea beats my garden-wall, And all its peace transforms; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When swept by Alpine storms!

My soul to-night is dark and sad From proofs of hate displayed, From envy and rapacity, And kindness ill-repaid; The baseness of humanity Hath spoiled a cherished dream; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When Evil reigns supreme!

The gale hath blown itself to rest, The sun turns all to gold, Once more the crystal mountain-sides A waveless plain enfold; And some will laugh, and lightly say The storm hath left no stain, But in my park one perfect rose Will never bloom again!

IN MY PERGOLA

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, I watch the flush of morning rise, While birds and flowers once more wake, To share with me my paradise.

Within this waveless bay of rest The Alpine winds contend no more, But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast, And sink to silence on its shore.

The breath of dawn descends the hills, And round me, as I greet the day, I hear the lilt of laughing rills And songs of fountains at their play.

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling Athwart the trellised path I tread, And incense-breathing roses swing Their pendent censers o'er my head.

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled This arbor, roofed with cups of gold? What Eastern casket ever held The perfume which their leaves unfold?

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, And touch my lips with odors sweet! Enfold me in your ardent glow, While petals flutter to my feet!

Let, for to-day, the dream remain That life is rose-hued, like this aisle,-- A fragrant pathway, free from pain, With every sun-kissed flower a smile!

EVANESCENCE

Passing ships! Passing ships! The white foam sparkling at your lips And countless jewels in your wake Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, While on your decks a smiling throng Surveys this realm of sun and song.

Slipping by! Slipping by! O'er waves that duplicate the sky I watch you daily come and go, But rarely is there one I know Of all who at your railings stand, To view with joy this storied land.

On ye pass! On ye pass! At times I follow through my glass Your silent course from sunset light To meet the dusky veil of night, As swiftly round the curving shore Glide faces I shall see no more.

Sailing on! Sailing on! The transient voyagers now are gone; Yet though the hills their features hide, One memory of them will abide,-- The thought of their enraptured gaze In this the gem of Larian bays.

Gliding by! Gliding by! Why is it that I look, ... and sigh? What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn For strangers who will ne'er return? I would not really have them stay, Yet grieve to see them fade away.

Hail-farewell! Hail-farewell! Those passing steamers seem to tell That all ships, whether slow or fast, Will cross life's little bay at last, While we who linger on the strand Must daily mourn some vanished hand.

LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN

From Como's curving base of blue, To where the snow lies cold and clear, Ascends in steps of varied hue The pageant of the passing year, As scores of mountain-sides unfold Their gorgeous robes of red and gold.

Meanwhile, where shore and lake unite, I see, projected far below, A counterpart in colors bright, Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,-- Two pictures of an ideal land, Divided by a single strand.

O matchless view, thus doubly fair, Impress thy beauty on my heart, That, when no longer really there, I still may see thee as thou art! Alas, that they should ever go,-- Those steps of light, those thrones of snow!

The day declines, the colors pale, The peaks will soon be ashen gray; Yet, though the shades of night prevail, The darkness hath not come to stay; And if no leaves of gold remain, The sun will bring the Spring again.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS FIRST CONSUL

Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio.

Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Rises this reincarnation of Mars! Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, Genius ascending its path toward the stars!

Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory Treated by Art so superbly as here; Never a phase of his marvellous story Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear.

Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, While on his lips an expression still lingers, Stamped by a character born to command.

Hero of history, what art thou scheming, Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth?

All that thou dreamest of paramount power Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime! Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; Fortune avenges her favors ... with time!

Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, Hailing as godlike thy dominant name, Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame.

Waiting is also that island of anguish, Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, Facing forever its measureless past!

Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, Millions will hail thee again with devotion, Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine!

Face of Napoleon, nobly recalling Days of the mythical heroes of yore, Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are falling,-- Beautiful gem of the Larian shore.

DAY AND NIGHT

Twilight is falling on lake and on land, Softly the wavelets steal in to the strand, Fisher-boats, floating like sea-gulls at rest, Glow in the lingering light of the west, Far-away vesper-bells hallow the air, Ave Maria! the world seems at prayer.

One more immaculate sunset exposed, One chapter more of life's history closed, One more bead told on the chaplet of time, One further stride in Earth's orbit sublime;-- Linked to the measureless chain of the past, One added day, ... to so many their last!

Slowly the colors diminish and die, Slowly the stellar hosts people the sky, Lost is the light on the fishermen's sails, Sweet is the exquisite peace that prevails, Silence and solitude brood o'er the deep, Ave Maria! the world seems to sleep.

One more magnificent pageant to face,-- Numberless systems in infinite space; Once more our planet in majesty rolls On through the darkness its burden of souls;-- Linked to the limitless chain of the past, One added night, ... to so many their last!

PASSING AND PERMANENT

Stately boats, with happy crowds,
Passing up the lake,
Leaving, under sunset clouds,
Jewels in your wake,
From my garden's sheltered strand
I can watch you glide,
As through some enchanted land
On a silver tide.

To your eyes, O joyous throng,
All this scene is new;
Like a burst of seraphs' song,
Comes its matchless view;
You have traversed land and sea
For this wondrous sight,
Which the gods vouchsafe to me
Every day and night!

One long, serial pageant this
Of supreme content!
Every face suffused with bliss,
Every eye intent;
Griefs and troubles slip away
On this charming shore,
And throughout a transient stay
Will return no more.

Yet beware! Gardens fair,
Lake, and snow-capped crest
For a while may banish care
From the saddest breast;
But it quickly, even here,
Finds the heart again,
With the old-time sigh and tear,
And the well-known pain.

Careless crew, I envy you!
You will grieve to go,
But, believe me, if you knew,
You would choose it so;
Leave the lake while still you laugh;
Be content to pass;
Though its wine be sweet to quaff,
Do not drain your glass!

TRIPOLI

Hear the singing on the boats, As they halt beside the pier! Ah, those fresh Italian throats, How they cheer! Yet the words they sing so loud Bring depression to my heart, As I watch the youthful crowd Thus depart.

"We are going o'er the sea!
Loyal sons of Italy,
We are bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!"

See that lad of twenty years,-- Who is stretching out his hand Toward his mother there in tears On the strand! Should he perish in the strife Under Afric's burning sky, There were nothing left in life-- She must die.

Yet he's going o'er the sea!
At the call of Italy,
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

Now the plank is pulled to land, And the last farewell is o'er, As the steamer, at command, Leaves the shore; There are shouts and ringing cheers, For the boys are brave and strong, Yet one feels that there are tears In their song:

"We are going o'er the sea!
Loyal sons of Italy,
We are bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!"

Ah, that mother who is left! She is weeping now alone, Like a Niobe bereft Of her own; And at length I dare to speak To the woman seated there, With the tears upon her cheek, In despair.

He has gone across the sea!
Who so dutiful as he?
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

"Nay, good mother, do not weep! Since the summons comes from Rome, Can we really wish to keep Sons at home?" "And why not?" she made reply; "We have no invading foe; I would send my son to die, Were it so."

But he's gone across the sea!
Gone with thousands such as he!
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

"What is Africa to me, If it swallow up my child? What care I for Tripoli, Spot defiled! Did not Abyssinian sand Drink sufficiently our gore? Must we stain that fatal strand, As before?"

Yet he's gone across the sea,
Who more valorous than he?
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

"Have we no great uses _here_ For the millions we outpour? Are our consciences quite clear In this war? Are there no more roads to build, Schools to found, and farms to work. That we let our boys be killed By the Turk?"

Yet we send them o'er the sea!
Youthful sons of Italy,
They are bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

"We are hungry, yet behold, How the price of food goes higher! And the nights will soon be cold Without fire! Who will earn for me my bread? Who my little home will save, When he lies there cold and dead In his grave?"

But he's gone across the sea!
Who so good and kind to me?
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

To the churchyard, near the bay, Went the mother in her grief, For her soul was moved to pray For relief; And deep sobs convulsed her breast, As she knelt upon the sod, Where her husband lay at rest, Safe in God.

For the boy was o'er the sea,
Whom she rocked upon her knee;
He had gone to Tripoli,
Tripoli!

She was buried yesterday With her husband, side by side; Ere two months had passed away She had died! For one morning she had read Of her son among the slain, And they saw her old gray head Sink in pain.

Nevermore across the sea
Will he come to Italy!
He was killed in Tripoli,
Tripoli!

There was nothing more to tell Of a lad so little known; He was reckoned "one who fell," That alone. Was he wounded? Did he lie Long ill-treated by the foe? And not know!

Yes, he lies beyond the sea!
(Can it be that _that_ is he?)
In the sands of Tripoli,
Tripoli!

She had asked for nothing more, But in silence slowly failed, Dreaming ever of the shore, Whence he sailed. Till her face, so wan and white, Flushed at last with sweet surprise, And a strangely tender light Filled her eyes.

Then for her was "no more sea"!
She had found the soul set free
From the sands of Tripoli,
Tripoli!

INFLUENCE

We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds,-- Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The passing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then--nevermore To be recalled--our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me.

LEO

I made a journey o'er the sea, I bade my faithful dog good-bye, I knew that he would grieve for me, But did not dream that he would die! And how could I explain That I would come again?

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn A life-long master they adore, Till in his mind the fear was born That he should never see me more.

Ah! then, on every boat intent, He watched the crowd upon the pier, While every look and motion meant "Will _he_ not come? Is _he_ not here?"

At last he merely raised his head, To see the steamers passing by, Then sank again upon his bed, And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh; For how could one explain That I would come again?

I hastened back by sea and land, Forced homeward by remorse and fear; But no glad barking swept the strand, Nor did he meet me on the pier!

I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, And then beheld him near the wall, Though tottering, still upon his feet, And creeping toward me down the hall.

No wish had he to sulk or blame, Nor did he need to understand, But simply loved me just the same,-- In silence licking face and hand.

In silence? What could this portend? Such muteness he had never shown; Was he so very near the end? Ah, Leo, had I only known!

For his grand eyes, so large and bright, Though turned, through sound, my form to find, Were totally devoid of sight; He faced me in the darkness ... blind!

What could such gloom have been to him, As weeks and months had crept away, While all the outer world grew dim, Till endless night eclipsed the day!

What had it meant to him to wake And mid familiar things to grope? To hear old sounds on shore and lake, Yet wander darkly without hope!

But now, his head upon my knee, He tried in various ways to show That, though my face he could not see, He knew the voice of long ago. Yes, now it was quite plain That I had come again.

Within my arms he breathed his last, In my embrace his noble head Drooped back, and left to me ... the Past, With tender memories of the dead.

He lies beneath the stately trees, Whose ample shade he loved the best, Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest.

Yet somehow still I watch and wait For him, as he once watched for me; At every footstep near my gate I look, his bounding form to see.

Good-night? ... Good-bye! for I must leave thee, My boat is waiting on the shore; May I not hope that it will grieve thee, When thou shalt see me here no more?

Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted; "Have statues souls?" the cynic sneers; But I am happier to have doubted, And loved thee thus these many years.

Behind the form is the ideal, Forever high, forever true; Behind the false exists the real, Known only to the favored few.

Not all can hear the music stealing From out that lightly-lifted flute; To those devoid of kindred feeling Its melody is always mute.

But thou to me hast been a token Of classic legend, wrought in stone; In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, Made all the storied past mine own.

And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, The old-time Genius of the Place, Aware of those who still adore thee, Unchanged by time, or creed, or race.

Through thee came also inspiration For many a rare, poetic thought; And oh, how much of resignation Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught!

Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, Thou still canst smile at every morrow, For Nature lives, though Pan is dead.

Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing When altars crumbled far and near, When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing, And worship lessened year by year.

Above thee still rose lofty mountains, Before thee lay the lake divine, Around thee sang the crystal fountains,-- With all these treasures, why repine?

Religions changed, and shrines were banished, Years slipped away, men came and went, But thou, whatever pleasures vanished, With what thou hadst wast still content.

Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, As cherished fancies fade away; For thee the simple soul of gladness,-- The careless rapture of to-day!

Farewell! within my heart abiding I hear thy music, gentle Faun,-- The wounds of disillusion hiding, The prelude to a happier dawn.

WAKEFULNESS

Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streams
Meet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams,
Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep!
Sleep, so dear to me,
Sleep, come near to me,
Sleep, sweet sleep!

Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way,
Striving, ever striving to forget the day,
Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep!
Sleep, so dear to me,
Sleep, come near to me,
Sleep, sweet sleep!

By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink,
Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link,
Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep,
Sleep, so dear to me,
Sleep, come near to me,
Sleep, sweet sleep!

Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call,
And the welcome darkness that envelops all,
If no more to waken, then no more to weep,
Sleep, so dear to me,
Sleep, come near to me,
Sleep, sweet sleep!

VILLA PLINIANA

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Slope swiftly to the deep, And silvery streams from ledge to ledge In foaming splendor leap,-- A broad expanse of saffron walls, A wilderness of mouldering halls.

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight On every darkened room, And oozing mosses drip decay Through corridors of gloom, While Ruin lays a subtle snare On many a yielding rail and stair.

There seats, which beauty once enthroned, In tattered damask stand; In gray neglect a faun extends A mutilated hand; And silence makes the festal board Mute as the stringless harpsichord.

The boldest hesitate to tread Those gruesome courts at night; 'Tis whispered that a spectral form Then haunts the lonely height; For he who built this home apart Had stabbed his rival to the heart.

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought Amid those scenes sublime; Forever lurked within his breast The nemesis of crime; Not all that flood of limpid spray Could wash the fatal stain away.