Chapter V: Part 5

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt Within that haunted pile; Among them she, whose portrait still, With enigmatic smile, Lights up the mansion, like a gem Set in a tarnished diadem;--

The princess, at whose thrilling call Unnumbered patriots rose To drive from fettered Lombardy Her immemorial foes,-- A woman, loved from sea to sea, As Liberty's divinity.

But now the old, historic site Lives only in the past; Neglected and untenanted, Its life is ebbing fast; Each crumbling step, each mossy stone Is marked by Ruin for her own.

Yet one mysterious charm abides,-- The spring, whose ebb and flow Were praised in Pliny's classic prose Two thousand years ago,-- A fountain, whose perennial grace Millenniums could not efface.

Thrice daily in their polished cup Its crystal waters sink; Thrice daily do they rise again And overflow the brink,-- Since Pliny's day no more, no less, Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, Cascade, and storied spring, Ye are the same as when he loved Your varied charms to sing; 'Tis man alone who sadly goes! The lake remains, the fountain flows.

Like drops in its exhaustless flood, Our little lives emerge, Swirl for an instant, and are gone, Sunk by another surge! Whence come they? Whither do they go? O Roman poet, dost thou know?

POINT BALBIANELLO

From Lake Como's depths ascending, With embankments steep Stands a wooded headland, bending With majestic sweep Till its rugged shores, expanding, Join two charming bays, Now, as formerly, commanding Universal praise.

Years ago a papal Primate Built a hospice here, Which, from its delightful climate, Mild throughout the year, Soon became for convalescence A renowned retreat, Where pure air and strict quiescence Made all cures complete.

"Villa Balbi",--appellation Of the Primate's seat--, Gave its name to this location In a form more sweet,-- Soft, sonorous "Balbianello", Spoken, as if sung In the speech, so smooth and mellow, Of the Latin tongue.

Balbianello, Balbianello! Point of liquid name, With thy walls of golden yellow And thy flowers of flame, When thy varied charms enthrall me Under summer skies, Tenderly I love to call thee Como's Paradise.

From thy base, where in profusion Countless roses bloom, To thy crest, where sweet seclusion Reigns in leafy gloom, All is beauty, uncontested By a rival claim, All is symmetry invested With a storied fame.

Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, Which thy slopes ascend; Grand the loggia, old and faded, Where those pathways end;-- Noble arches, well recalling Mighty works of old, Columns which, when night is falling, Turn to shafts of gold.

In that loggia, fringed with roses, All my soul expands; Every arch a view discloses Of historic lands; Southward lies fair Comacina, Famed in classic lore, Northward Pliny's Tremezzina And Bellagio's shore.

Miles of liquid opalescence Stretch on either hand, Curving into lovely crescents, Each with sylvan strand; While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping Realms of stainless snow, Whence the milk-white streams come leaping To the lake below.

Many a far-off promontory Melts in silvery haze, Many a scene of song and story Tells of Roman days; Real and unreal, past and present, Make the vision seem Like the rapture evanescent Of a happy dream.

Yet this point, so well selected,-- Peerless in its day--, Now, abandoned and neglected, Sinks to slow decay; Sculptured saints, with broken fingers, Line the ancient walls, Like a loyal guard that lingers Till the rampart falls;

Vases, o'er the portal standing, Crumble into lime; Steps, ascending from the landing, Show the touch of time; And its one lone gardener, weeping As he tells his fears, Faithful watch has here been keeping Many, many years!

Even he must leave it lonely, When the night grows late; Then the mouldering statues only Guard its rusty gate; Then no eye its charm discovers, And its moonlit bowers Wait in vain for happy lovers Through the silent hours.

Will no champion protect thee, Fairest spot on earth? Doth a busy world neglect thee, Careless of thy worth? Even so, thy site elysian Still remains supreme,-- Acme of the painter's vision And the poet's dream.

AT LENNO

By Lake Como's sylvan shore,
Where the wavelets evermore
Seem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of yore,
Cease, O boatman, now to row!
While the Alpine summits glow,
Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.

Where the Tremezzina ends,
And the bay of Lenno bends
Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave descends,
On this strand of silver foam
Stood the Younger Pliny's home,
When the world at last lay subject to the dominance of Rome.

Here he passed his sweetest hours
'Mid his statues, books, and flowers
With a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours,
For the city's rush and roar
Never reached this tranquil shore,
And his writings prove completely that he yearned for them no more.

Here, as scholar, poet, sage,
He filled many a pliant page
With the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his age,
And his letters to his peers
Through a life of smiles and tears
Make me often quite forgetful of the intervening years;

For the beauty of the bay
And the magical display
Of its coronet of mountains have not altered since his day,
And the lake of which he wrote
At that epoch so remote
With the same caressing murmur laps my undulating boat.

Hence the subtle, tender spell
Of the place he loved so well
Holds me captive and enchanted, as these waters gently swell,
And a vague and nameless pain
Makes me long for,--though in vain--,
That delightful classic era, which will never come again.

Since the Goths' invading tide
Wrecked Rome's potency and pride,
Something wonderful has vanished, something exquisite has died;
And in spite of modern fame
And the lustre of its name,
Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the same.

So beside its sylvan shore,
Where the wavelets evermore
Seem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of yore,
Cease, O boatman, now to row!
For, while Alpine summits glow,
I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.

PERSONALLY ADDRESSED

LINES

written for a Golden Wedding, 1883

Just fifty years ago to-night,
When earth was mantled deep with snow,
The stars beheld with tender light
The fairest scene this world can show.

Two graceful forms stood side by side,
Two trembling hands were clasped as one,
Two hearts exchanged perpetual faith,
And love's sweet poem was begun.

For suns may rise and suns may set,
And tides may ebb and tides may flow,
Love is man's greatest blessing yet,
And honest wedlock makes it so.

"Father" and "Mother",--sweetest words
That human lips can ever frame,
We gather here as children now
To find your loving hearts the same.

Unchanged, unchangeable by time,
Your love is boundless as the sea;
The same as when our childish griefs
Were hushed beside our mother's knee.

Years may have given us separate homes,
Friends, children, happiness and fame,
But oh! to-night our greatest wealth
Is that we call you still by name.

God bless you both! for fifty years
You've journeyed onward side by side;
And still, for years to come, God grant
Your paths may nevermore divide;

But, just as sunset's golden glow
Makes Alpine snows divinely fair,
So may the setting sun of life
Rest lightly on your silvered hair!

Yes, suns may rise and suns may set,
And tides may ebb and tides may flow,
We are your loving children yet,
And time will ever prove us so.

TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND

To my hand thou com'st at last, Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,-- Often carried in the past By a hand that now lies cold In his grave beyond the sea, Many thousand miles from me.

Faithful staff! for many years Thou didst travel far and wide Through a life of smiles and tears,-- Rarely absent from his side, As the light of day for him Grew pathetically dim.

When with thee he walked abroad, Every crossing, every stair By thy touch was first explored, Ere his feet were planted there, With a sort of rhythmic beat On the pavement of the street.

Hence, when brought to face the gloom Of a way, to all unknown, Called to leave his sunlit room For death's darkness, quite alone, He instinctively again Called to mind his faithful cane.

To whose grasp should it descend, Since with him it could not go? Surely no one save a friend Would receive and prize it so! Thus to me wast thou bequeathed, To console a heart bereaved.

Friendship's gift, belovd wand! Thou shalt likewise go with me To the shore of the Beyond, To the dark, untravelled sea; Only left upon the strand, When my bark puts forth from land.

TO C....

Behind a laughing waterfall There lies a little fount of tears, Deep, dark, and rarely seen at all By those the sparkling torrent cheers.

Beneath a suit of armor bright, Shaft-proof and burnished, hard and cold, There beats, concealed from common sight, A tender woman's heart of gold!

To Mr. and Mrs. A.H.S., Brussels

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Two homeless birds, fatigued by flight, Have rested on the Belgian shore; And now, at the approach of night, Must spread their wings, and fly once more.

Two others, when they saw them come From out the dark and stormy west, Conveyed them to their pleasant home, And fed and warmed them, breast to breast.

Dear Birds of Brussels, do not crave The long, long route by which we came; More safe than any restless wave The sheltered nest of Auderghem.

Henceforth, however far we roam, 'Neath clouds that chill, or suns that burn, The memory of your lovely home Will make us certain to return.

For, stronger than the subtle spell That homeward draws the carrier-dove, Are the sweet bonds that clearly tell Of Friendship welded into Love.

TO M.C. OF ATHENS

Son of the race that gave the world its best, Of ancient Greece a noble type thou art,-- An Attic spirit transferred to the West, The blood of Hellas pulsing at thy heart; In homage to thyself and to thy land, Accept, I pray, these simple lines of mine; To one I offer both my heart and hand, Before the other kneel, as at a shrine.

TO J.B.

Within an Old World, classic vase She blossomed like a flower, And made Italian summer days Seem fleeting as an hour; Then left the antique vase in gloom,-- Yet o'er its edges climb Some petals, with a sweet perfume That triumphs over time.

TO M.P.

The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss, And rails at Evil's stride, But Love still holds aloft the Cross, And shows the Crucified.

One, safe in a secure retreat, Disdains the maddened throng; The other braves the seething street, And strives to right the wrong.

Self shudders at the angry waves, And dreams of what should be, But Love the sinking sinner saves, And stills the stormy sea.

TO MISS MARY C. LOW

A thousand eyes, by thee made bright, Have read thy cheering lines; A thousand hearts have felt the light That through thy poetry shines; Thou dost not know them all, 'tis true, But they all wait for thee, As wait the rosebuds for the dew, Queen of the Christmas Tree!

IN MEMORIAM. G.M.M.

His letter lies before me here, Scarce written ere the hand grew cold That traced the lines so fine and clear, Which still of love and friendship told.

This fragile film of black and white,-- A traveller over land and sea--, Is all the bond I have to-night Between the friend I loved and me.

I know not where his form may rest, Yet well I know Death cannot take His memory from the Central West And its proud city by the lake.

But where are now his loyal soul, His loving heart and gifted mind; Do they survive--a conscious whole-- The dwelling they have left behind?

Beyond this tiny orb we tread Who can the spirit's pathway trace, Or find a haven for our dead In seas of interstellar space?

O silent stars, that flash and burn Across the bridgeless vault of blue, Ye may receive, but ne'er return, The dead we sadly yield to you.

In vain we urge the old request; In vain the darkness we explore; Light lie the turf above thy breast, O friend, whom I shall see no more!

TO C.M.D.

If it be true, as some have dreamed, That all have lived and loved before, I cannot wonder it hath seemed That on some other shore, In former ages long ago, Our souls had met and learned to know The truths that now upon the sea Establish our affinity.

Heart leaps to heart and mind to mind: A look, a word, a smile, a phrase,-- And we at once a kinship find, A relic of those days, When we both watched the sunset kiss The storied Bay of Salamis, Or paced beside the classic stream That borders Plato's Academe.--

Perhaps our spirits met again, When Virgil wrote his deathless lines, And Horace praised, in lighter vein, His farm amid the Apennines; Or else we walked this old, old Earth When Grecian learning found new birth, And arm in arm watched Giotto's tower Rise heavenward, like a peerless flower.

Enough that we have surely met, No matter in what land or age; For, if such trifles we forget, We share a common heritage: And though in this brief life stern Fate Shall bid us once more separate, O brother poet, it must be That kindred spirits such as we Shall sail another ocean blue, Still you with me and I with you.

Sent with a Copy of "Red Letter Days Abroad" To J.C.Y.

Book of my youth, I send thee to a friend Met, comprehended, loved, alas! too late,-- Too near the sad, inevitable end Decreed by life's inexorable fate; Yet though an ocean's billows roll between, And two great continents our paths divide, The unseen subtly triumphs o'er the seen, We walk in spirit, ever side by side; He on the stately Mississippi's shore, I 'mid the snow and roses of Tyrol, But in my heart he dwells forevermore,-- Belovèd friend, and double of my soul.

To HON. JESSE HOLDOM OF CHICAGO,

on receipt of his picture and that of his baby in his arms.

Far from the great lake's pride,
Over the ocean vast,
Two faces picture, side by side,
The future and the past.

On one is the flush of dawn
And the light of the morning star;
On the other a shade, from knowledge drawn
And the dusk of the sunset bar.

One brow has the spotless sweep
Of a page that is white and fair;
The other forehead is graven deep
With lines of thought and care.

The eyes of the child look out
On a world all pure and sweet;
But those of the man are sad from doubt
And a knowledge of men's deceit.

To the baby's dainty ears
Only love's accents flow;
Through the man's alas! have surged for years
Stories of crime and woe.

Held in the infant's grasp
Is a tiny, lifeless toy;
In the father's firm yet tender clasp
Is his last great hope,--his boy!

Wisely the parent peers
Through the future's unknown skies,
For knowledge of life has awakened fears
Of the storms that may arise

When his darling boy no more
Can cling to his father's breast,
But when on the strand of the silent shore
That father shall be at rest.

Ah me! could the wisdom won
Through the father's fateful years
Be but transmitted to the son,
There were little need for fears.

But each must tread alone
The wine-press of his life;
Into each cup by Fate is thrown
The bitter drops of strife.

Forth from that fond embrace
Must the little stranger go;
For the rising sun must mount through space.
And the waning sun sink low.

TRANSLATIONS

THE KISS TO THE FLAG

Ta ra! Boom boom! A regiment is coming down the street; From every side an eager throng is hurrying to greet From overflowing sidewalk and densely crowded square, A brilliant, uniformed cortège whose music fills the air; For such a gorgeous spectacle is not seen every day; It gives the town a festival to view the fine array; All hearts are filled with happiness, and no one seems to lag, When he has thus a chance to see the soldiers ... and the flag. The old retired officers, their hats like helmets worn, Have thrust them gaily on one side at sound of drum and horn; The eldest, whose brave heart is stirred by that familiar strain, Surmounts, with stifled sigh, his chair, a better view to gain; Cafes, salons, mansards alike their windows open throw, And pretty girls wear radiant smiles to greet the passing show. Ah, here they are! Yes, here they come! preceded by the boys, Who imitate in fashion droll, yet with no actual noise, But merely by the gesturing of finger or of hand, The cymbals, flute, and (best of all) the trombones of the band. The babies even laugh and crow, upheld in nurses' arms, And have no fear of trumpets loud, or the bass-drum's alarms. The pavement of the boulevard is struck in perfect time; Six hundred echoes blend in one, and make the scene sublime; Six hundred hearts are throbbing there, imbued with martial pride; Twelve hundred feet with rhythmic beat make but a single stride. United, too, are all the hearts of those whose eyes pursue With admiration every line now passing in review. But when a gallant regiment appears thus on parade, A little vain of its fine looks, and conscious of its grade, Each soldier, (since a time of peace allows him to be gay), Aspires to be attentive to the ladies on the way, And stares at every pretty face, with no wish to be rude, But, then, you know, a regiment is never quite ... a prude! And this explains why Captain Short has said to Captain Tall, Despite the order which enjoins strict silence upon all,

"A lovely girl!" "Is that so? Where?" "Beside the window there." "By Jove! I'd like to know her. She is divinely fair!" Then both a little thoughtfully move on with some regret, And now the entire regiment the lovely girl has met;

Across the broad, resplendent ranks she looks now left, now right, Now straight before her, but as yet no smiles her features light; More than one mounted officer, with flashing sabre, wheels His well-groomed horse, and calls to him the sergeant at his heels; And makes excuse of some detail, endeavoring the while, Perhaps half consciously, to win the favor of a smile. In vain; the glance he hopes to gain, as hero of her heart, Comes not; but rank forbids delay, he must at once depart. The Colonel even has remarked this charming thoughtful girl, And gives to his fine gray moustache the customary twirl; A handsome man, with uniform whose gilded lustre shines From clanking spur to epaulette with stars and golden lines; He knows how potent is the spell such ornaments impart To make of soldiers demi-gods in woman's gentle heart. "The Flag! The Flag!" The crowd is thrilled to see it now advance! Hail, Colors of the Fatherland! Hail, Banner of Fair France! Hail, wounded emblem of the brave; blood-red, and heaven's blue, And purest white,--the noble Flag, now waving in our view!

Standard sublime, that moves all hearts, as now thy form unrolls, Our dead seem shrouded in thy folds, stirred by the breath of souls! The color-bearer, young as Hope, and still a charming boy, In rhythm to the beating hearts and symphony of joy, Sways gently, as he bears it on, the emblem of a land Whose sons will in united ranks all enemies withstand. The young lieutenant, on whose face the standard's shadow falls, Knows well it makes him pass admired between those human walls, And that its presence lifts him high above the rank and file, And gains for him a sentiment worth many a pretty smile. "That girl has smiled", the Colonel thinks, "but on whom'? Who can tell?" "It is the bearer of the flag, on whom her favor fell", Exclaims the Captain, who then adds, "Great Heavens! worse than this, She has not only smiled, but now she really throws a kiss!"

The Colonel, somewhat bent with years, sits up and swells his chest; "A charming girl" a sergeant cries, and tries to look his best; Each soldier, if a comrade laughs, a rival seems to fear; The chief of a battalion looks, and makes his charger rear. While several soldiers thus assume an air of martial pride, The color-bearer, whom the band has quite electrified, Caresses with a trembling hand the down upon his lip, In doing which he rashly lets the tattered banner dip. But she has seen within its folds, thus torn with shell and shot, The soul of one she dearly loved, who, dead at Gravelotte, Returned no more, but sleeps to-day within an unknown grave ... The maiden's kiss was for the Flag, the death-shroud of the brave.

(Translated from the poem by Jean Aicard, entitled "Le Baiser au Drapeau".)

EMILY'S GRAVE

Idly one day in a foreign town In a churchyard's shade I sat me down By the side of a little cross of stone On which was a woman's name alone. A cypress whispered in my ear That all was now neglected here; "Emily's Grave" was all I read; Nothing more on the cross was said; Neither a name, nor Bible verse, Nor date relieved the inscription terse,-- "Emily's Grave". So strange this seemed, my blood turned cold At thought of a tragedy never told. The flowers, the grass, and the humming bees Were blithe and gay in the sun and breeze, Yet no kind hand had ever strewn Sweet flowers, where only weeds had grown, And nothing brightened the lonely mound Whose edge was lost in the trodden ground. At length to the churchyard gate I went, And asked of a woman old and bent, "Who was the girl, whose cross of stone Bears nothing save these words alone,-- 'Emily's Grave'?" "Alas!" she answered, "many a year Hath passed since I beheld her bier; She was young, and came from a humble nest, And credulous too, like all the rest; So a stranger met her here one day And caught her in his net straightway. He said he was rich, and she should shine Like a queen in his castle by the Rhine, And, winning her love, he took her hence To where she found it was all pretence. He had basely lied to the simple maid, And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed, Abandoned her; then home once more She came, to sink at her mother's door. Of shame and grief she was quickly dead, For here she could no more lift her head; And her mother, wishing to efface All memory of her child's disgrace, Reared that small cross, to which she gave The title only,--'Emily's Grave'".

(From the German.)

SERENADE TO NINON

Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading? Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day; How dost thou live, still deaf to Love's sweet pleading? To-night's fair rose to-morrow fades away. To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost! What! Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be lost? Canst travel without book? In silence march to strife? What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk of life? I for a little love would give my latest breath; And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death! What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn, If from another's life our own heart's life be drawn? O youthful flowers, unfold! If blown o'er Death's cold stream, This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream; And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above, You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love!

(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)

THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "In part because I rest On Ortler's lordly crest; There share I with the snow The sunset's crimson glow."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "From drinking of the wine Of Etschland's peerless vine; Its juice so redly shines, That it incarnadines."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "My plumage hath been dyed In blood my foes supplied; Oft on my breast hath lain That deeply purple stain."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "From suns that fiercely shine, From draughts of ruddy wine, From blood my foes have shed,-- From these am I so red."

(From the German of Senn.)

ANDREAS HOFER

In Mantua in fetters The faithful Hofer lay, Condemned by hostile soldiers To die at break of day; Now bled his comrades' hearts in vain; All Germany felt shame and pain, As did his land, Tyrol.

When through his dungeon grating In Mantua's fortress grim He saw his loyal comrades Stretch out their hands to him, He cried: "God give to you his aid, And to the German realm betrayed, And to the land Tyrol!"

With step serene and steadfast, His hands behind him chained, Went forth the valiant Hofer To death which he disdained,-- That death, which by his valor foiled Had oft from Iselberg recoiled, In his loved land, Tyrol.

The noisy drum-beat slackened, And silenced was its roar When Andreas the dauntless, Stepped through the prison door; The "Sandwirt", fettered still, yet free, Stood on the wall with unbent knee,-- The hero of Tyrol.

When told to kneel, he answered: "That will I never do; I'll die, as I am standing, Die, as I fought with you; Here I resist your last advance, Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz, And with him his Tyrol!"

The soldier takes the kerchief Which Hofer will not wear; Once more the hero murmurs To God a farewell prayer; Then cries: "Take aim! Hit well this spot! Now fire! ... How badly you have shot! Adieu, my land Tyrol"!

(From the German.)

STREAM AND SEA

A river flowed through a desert land On its way to find the sea, And saw naught else than glaring sand And scarcely a shady tree.

The distant stars looked down by night, And the burning sun by day, On the crystal stream, so pure and bright; But the sea was far away.

Sometimes at night the little stream Would sigh for the sea's embrace, And oft would see, as in a dream, The longed-for ocean's face.

At last one day it felt a thrill It had never known before, As it reached the brow of a lofty hill, And saw the wave-lapped shore.

And it flung itself with a mighty leap From the crest of the hill above, Till its waters mingled with the deep;-- And the name of the sea was Love.

* * * * *

RACHEL

'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light Still lingered on the city's walls, and crowned Mount Olivet with splendor, while below, Among the trees of dark Gethsemane And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay, As if but waiting for the death of day To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud. To one who watched it in that golden light, Across the gulf between the sunlit hills, The city seemed transfigured, lifted high Above the gloom and misery of earth,-- A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings. The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt, And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold, Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque, But bore it as a captive bears his chains, Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft By thrilling memories of a noble past. The rays of dying day yet half illumed A dreary spot outside the city walls Where sat, apart, an old man and his child.

Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stone Which once had graced the Temple's sacred court; It was the "Day of Wailing", and the Jews,-- A poor scant remnant of their outcast race--, Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont, To read of all the glories they have lost, And count their endless list of shattered hopes. Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot, Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair, Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall, And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as if The historic stones held sentient sympathy. Their lamentations ended, all had gone To their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one, Save these two lingering mourners, who still sat With downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears. At length the old man raised his head, and spoke;--

"Our Fathers' God! whose all-protecting hand Led us, Thy people, to this chosen land, Through the cleft waters of a distant sea, That we might rear a temple here to Thee; Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine, And in Thy majesty and power divine Wast daily by our suppliant race adored As sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord; Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and die In foreign countries' harsh captivity? Our race is scattered now the wide world o'er; Our wailings rise to Thee from every shore; Baited or banished by the Christian Powers, Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers, Like pariah dogs, an execrated race, We crouch to-day within our 'Wailing Place', Begging, and paying dearly for, the right To bathe with tears this consecrated site. How long, O Israel's God, shall this endure? Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure? Oh, speed the day when once again Thy name Shall here be worshipped, and the sacred flame Of pure, atoning offerings shall rise, And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice!"

Tears choked his utterance, and the old man wept, His meagre frame convulsed with mighty sobs,-- Pathetic tokens of a broken heart. His daughter crept beside him, drew his head,-- Adorned with thin, white hair,--upon her breast, And soothed him as a mother might her child; Then, when his grief abated, took his hands,-- So worn and white,--within her own soft palms, And chafed them gently with a loving care; Then pressed them to her lips, and lightly lay Her warm cheek next his own, while murmuring words Of tender, filial love in that old tongue Which once had rung in triumph on this spot, When poets of her race in glowing words Had sung their glorious, prophetic strains.

"Father," she whispered, "shall we now despair, When we at last inhale the sacred air Of our ancestral glory, and have come, Despite long years of waiting, to our home? Didst thou not say, when far beyond the sea, In our dark days of want and misery, That thou hadst but one prayer,--to go to die Upon the hill where Zion's ruins lie? Now this is granted, and thou hast attained Thy dearest wish, with ample wealth retained To keep us here from want, till on the breast Of Olivet's gray slope in death we rest."

She paused, and faintly smiled, while at her voice Her father turned his tear-dimmed eyes to hers, As one who hears soft music with delight. The sunset glow fell full upon her face,-- A rich, dark oval, crowned with raven hair; Her lustrous eyes were shrines of tenderness, Large, dark, profound, and tremulously bright, And fringed by lashes of the deepest hue, Which swept the downy smoothness of her cheek; While her full lips, inimitably arched And exquisitely mobile, told her thoughts, Ere their soft motion framed them into speech; Divinely there had Beauty set her seal; As who should say,--"Behold a perfect type Of southern loveliness, in whose warm veins The blood of good, ancestral stock runs pure, Maintained through centuries of Spanish suns." The old man fondly took her hands in his, And, bending forward, kissed her broad, fair brow; Then in a faint and weary voice replied;--

"Rachel, my well-belov'd, I have in thee The only blessing left on earth to me, The one sweet solace in my dreary life Of fourscore years of racial hate and strife; Dear Comforter, 'tis true, our feet now stand Within the limits of our people's land; Behind us are the obloquy and pain Endured in cruel, persecuting Spain, Yet feel I still more keenly here than there The degradation which our people share; Each object here speaks sadly to the Jew Of all the grandeur which his race once knew. But let that pass; there is another pain Which hurts me sorely, Rachel, and in vain I seek a remedy; it is that thou Hast now new lines of sorrow on thy brow. 'Tis true, thou art a Jewess, and must know The shame which constitutes thy people's woe; But I detect the signs of some new grief For which the lapse of time brings no relief; Thy cheek hath paled since our arrival here, And often on its pallor gleams a tear."

At first she spoke not; but at length her lips Moved, quivering as in pain, while o'er her face An ashen paleness came, which whiter seemed From startling contrast with her ebon hair; "Father", she murmured, "speak of that no more! I shared thy coming to this Syrian shore, And here shall die, for nothing more I crave Than on these lonely hills to find a grave. My life, though like a flower deprived of light, Hath yet known moments so divinely bright, So full of rapture, that I then forgave The insults we endured, and still could brave Existence in Seville, if thou wouldst stay; But in thy absence how could I betray My dying mother's trust and farewell prayer That I henceforth thy lonely life should share?"

She paused, and from her lips a stifled moan Revealed the torture that her soul had known. Her father noted it, and with a sigh Of self-reproach attempted a reply;-- "Dear child, thy love for me hath cost thee much; For young Emanuel,--shrink not from my touch!-- Was dear to thee; I knew it, and confess That I, to consummate thy happiness, Had given thee to him with full consent, (Who with Emanuel would not be content?) Had not my vow and purpose of long years Compelled me to depart despite thy tears. I knew the struggle, Rachel, in thy heart, I felt the anguish of thy soul to part From one for whom thy love was so intense; In truth, for weeks I suffered in suspense, Lest thy impetuous temperament might lead Even thee to leave me, in my hour of need, Infirm with years, to sail alone from Spain, Go unattended on the stormy main, And lay my poor, worn body in a grave Unknown, uncared for, by a foreign wave. God bless thee, Rachel, that thy noble soul Could make this filial choice, and thus control A love which, though supreme, could not efface Thy duty, as a daughter of thy race; Thy ancestors were princes on this hill! Within thy veins their blood runs nobly still!"

Rachel sat motionless, with outstretched hands, And fingers interlocked; her steadfast eyes Had hopeless sorrow in their stony gaze, As though they read Fate's sentence of despair. At length she turned her face; the light had fled From her young features, just as in the west The glow had faded from the sky, and left A wintry coldness in the unlit clouds. She seemed about to speak, when, sweet and clear, From out the shadow of the ancient wall Soft vocal music stirred the evening air, With plaintive passion thrilled,--a proof that love Inspired the words that floated into song,--

Light of the glorious, setting sun, Gilding the Syrian shore, Ere the bright, lingering day be done, Guide me to her whose heart, well won, Holds me forevermore.

Moon, that hath spanned the silvered plain, Olivet's brow to kiss, Lead her by memory's golden chain Back to the olive groves of Spain; Back to our days of bliss!

Star of the evening's darkening sky, Gemming the lonely hill, Whisper to her that I am nigh, Waiting in hope for her reply; Tell her I love her still!

The song had ended; Rachel stood erect, Her pale lips parted breathlessly, her head Bent forward to receive the words, which came Like grateful raindrops to a drooping flower; Her slender form was quivering with delight And sudden rush of feeling; she scarce knew If this were all a dream, or if in truth She heard Emanuel's welcome accents there; Her heart for that brief moment wanted naught To supplement its rapture; 'twas enough To stand thus in expectancy, and know The idol of her soul was drawing near. At length her father touched her hand, and spoke;--

"'Tis he, my Rachel; thy sweet power hath drawn Thy lover o'er the sea! Again the dawn Of love and hope is kindled in thy face; The concentrated beauty of thy race Illumes thy features; now alas! I know That thy self-sacrifice hath cost thee woe Intenser than I thought; I too rejoice To hear the music of Emanuel's voice, Although I tremble lest his purpose be To lure thee, Rachel, far away from me."

His daughter, even in the thrill of bliss Which filled her throbbing heart, yet saw the pain That marked his closing words; and, turning, twined Her arms about the old man's drooping neck; "Dear Father, fear not that," she gently said; "Though it be true that ardent love hath led Emanuel to this distant Syrian shore, Thy lot shall still be mine forevermore; Doubt not thy faithful child, for none the less 'Twill be thy Rachel's greatest happiness At thy dear side to minister to thee; For only death can come 'twixt thee and me!"

She paused, and hid her face upon his breast; Her father clasped her fondly in his arms, And bent his cheek to hers, his whitened locks On her dark tresses glistening like the snow. 'Twas thus Emanuel found them; silently He stood before them in a dread suspense; His very soul seemed poised upon the word Which left at last his trembling lips,--"Rachel!" She raised her head, and their bright, ardent eyes Exchanged the voiceless language of the soul; A joy ineffable diffused its flush O'er both their faces; yet she did not speak, But only clung the closer to her sire, As if in fear to lose her self-control. At length Emanuel spoke in tones so charged With deep emotion that the very air Seemed tremulous with thoughts transcending speech;--

"Rachel, my more than life! Canst thou forgive The momentary thought that I could live Without thee? See, our separation ends! Henceforth I know no country, home or friends Save thine, my love! I gladly leave them all, Obedient to a higher, nobler call,-- The cry of my whole being to be near Thee, thee, my Rachel, now so wholly dear, That life without thee is but lingering death! Already with thee a diviner breath Of inspiration lifts my soul to gain The purest, loftiest heights I can attain! Not to entice thee from thy father's care, Have I come hither, but to seek a share In that dear filial duty, and to give Love, loyalty and homage, while I live, To him, the honored hero of our race, Beside whom here I also crave a place. Not only do I plead my love anew, But also thus lay open to thy view The dearest wishes of my soul, and wait To learn thy answer. Do I come too late?"

In doubt, 'twixt hope and fear, she raised her eyes To read her fate in her lov'd father's face; Who, taking her fair hands within his own, Advanced with her to where Emanuel stood, And laid them in her lover's eager grasp. With softened radiance, from their lonely paths, The far-off stars beheld their kneeling forms, While, with his hands in benediction raised, The old man stood absorbed in silent prayer.

* * * * *

The old, old story, ever new
Alike in Gentile and in Jew;
For Love remains man's sovereign yet
In Eden and on Olivet.