Chapter IV: Part III (1)

She struck but once, no need hath lightning stroke
For second blow to rend the heart of oak,
Nor waited there to see how Gray Cloud died;
Her fury all in that fierce outburst spent,
As from a charnel cave she fled the tent;
The wolfish dog suspiciously outside
Sniffed at her moccasins but let her pass.
Her tipi soon she reached, distant no more
Than arrow from a warrior’s bowstring sent,
Paused but to wipe her knife upon the grass,
And found her usual couch upon the floor.
But not to sleep; she closed her eyes in vain,
Shutting away the moonlight from her view;
Darkness and moonlight wore the same dread hue,
Flooding the universe with crimson stain.
She clasped her bosom with her hands to still
The throbbing of her heart that seemed to fill
With tell-tale echoes all the air; an owl
The secret with unearthly shrieks confessed,
And Gray Cloud’s dog sent forth a doleful howl
At intervals; but worse than all the rest,
That dreadful drum still beating in her breast,
As furious war-drums in the scalp-dance beat
To the mad circling of delirious feet.

Early next morning, as the first faint rays
Of sunlight through the rustling lindens played,
Two children sent to seek the conjurer’s aid,
Gazed on the sight, with horror and amaze,
Of Gray Cloud’s lifeless body rolled in blood.
Fast through the village spread the news, and stirred
With mingled fear and wonder all who heard.
The oracles were baffled and dismayed,
And spoke with muffled tones and looks of dread:
“Some envious foeman lurking in the wood,
With medicine more strong than his,” they said,
“Stole in last night and gave the fatal wound.”
The warriors scoured the country miles around,
Seeking for sign or trail, but naught they found:
The murderer left behind no clue or trace
More than a vampire’s flight through darkling space.

The Raven with a stoic calmness heard
Of Gray Cloud’s death, nor showed by look or word
The wrath that to its depth his being stirred.
Winona heard the news with false surprise,
As if just roused from sleep she rubbed her eyes;
When she arose her knees like aspens shook,
But this she quelled and forced a tranquil look
To feign the calmness that her soul forsook.
And when the mourning wail rose on the air,
Winona’s voice was heard commingling there.
She gathered with the other maidens where,
On a rude bier, the conjurer’s body lay
Adorned and decked in funeral array.
She flung a handful of her sable hair,
And wept such tears above the painted clay[14]
As weeps a youthful widow, only heir,
Over the coffin of a millionaire.

Moons waxed to fulness and to sickles waned.
The gossips still conversed with bated breath.
The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud’s death,
Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remained
A blighting shadow o’er the village spread.
But youthful spirits are invincible,
Nor fear nor superstition long can quell
The bubbling flow of that perennial well;
And so the youths and maidens soon regained
The wonted gayety that late had fled.
All save Winona, in whose face and mien,
Unto the careless eye, no change was seen;
But one that noted might sometimes espy
A furtive fear that shot across her eye,
As in a forest, ’thwart some bit of blue,
Darts a rare bird that shuns the hunter’s view.
Her laugh, though gay, a subtle change confessed,
And in her attitude a vague unrest
Betrayed a world of feelings unexprest.
A shade less light her footsteps in the dance,
And sometimes now the Raven’s curious glance
Her soul with terrors new and strange oppressed.

Grief shared is lighter, none had she to share
Burdens that grew almost too great to bear,
For Redstar sometimes seemed to look askance,
And sought, they said, to win another breast.
Winona feigned to laugh, but in her heart
The rumor rankled like a poisoned dart.
Sometimes she almost thought the Raven guessed
The guilty secrets that her thoughts oppressed,
And sought, whene’er she could, to shun his sight.
Apart from human kind, still more and more,
The Raven dwelt, and human speech forbore.
And once upon a wild tempestuous night,
When all the demons of the earth and air
Like raging furies were embattled there,
She, peering fearfully, amid the swarm
Flitting athwart the flashes of the storm,
By fitful gleams beheld the Raven’s form.
To her he spoke not since the fateful night
His chosen comrade passed from human sight,
Save only once, forgetting he was by
And half forgetting too her cares and woes,
Unto her lips some idle jest arose.
“Winona,” said the Raven, in a tone
Of stern reproof that on the instant froze
All thought of mirth, and when she met his eye,
As by a serpent’s charm it fixed her own;
The hate and anger of a soul intense
Were all compressed in that remorseless glance,
The coldly cruel meaning of whose sense
Smote down the shield of her false innocence.
She strove to wrest her eye from his in vain,
Held by that gaze ophidian like a bird,
As in a trance she neither breathed nor stirred.
And gazing thus an icy little lance,
Smaller than quill from wing of humming-bird,
Shot from his eyes, and a keen stinging pain
Sped through the open windows of her brain.
Her senses failed, she sank upon the ground,
And darkness veiled her eyes; she never knew
How long this was, but when she slowly grew
Back from death’s counterfeit, and looked around,
So little change was there, that it might seem
The scene had been but a disordered dream.
The Raven sat in his accustomed place,
Smoking his solitary pipe; his face,
A gloomy mask that none might penetrate,
Betrayed no sign of anger, grief, or hate;
Absorbed so deep in thoughts that none might share,
He noted not Winona’s presence there;
From his disdainful lips the thin blue smoke
From time to time in little spirals broke,
Floating like languid sneers upon the air,
And settling round him in a veil of blue
So sinister to her disordered view,
That she arose and quickly stole away.
She shunned him more than ever from that day,
And never more unmoved could she behold
That countenance inscrutable and cold.

But Hope and Love, like Indian summer’s glow,
Gilding the prairies ere December’s snow,
Lit with a transient beam Winona’s eye.
The season for the Maidens’ Dance drew nigh,
And Redstar vowed, whatever might betide,
To claim her on the morrow as his bride.
What now to her was all the world beside?
The evil omens darkening all her sky,
Malicious sneers, her rival’s envious eye,
While her false lover lingered at her side,
All passed like thistle-down unheeded by.

The evening for the dance arrived at last;
An ancient crier through the village passed,
And summoned all the maidens to repair
To the appointed place, a greensward where,
Since last year unprofaned by human feet,
Rustled the prairie grass and flowers sweet.
None but the true and pure might enter there—
Maidens whose souls unspotted had been kept.
At set of sun the circle there was formed,
And thitherward the happy maidens swarmed.
The people gathered round to view the scene:
Old men in broidered robes that trailing swept,
And youths in all their finery arrayed,
Dotting like tropic birds the prairie green,
Their rival graces to the throng displayed.
Winona came the last, but as she stept
Into the mystic ring one word, “Beware!”
Rang out in such a tone of high command
That all was still, and every look was turned
To where the Raven stood; his stern eye burned,
And like a flower beneath that withering glare
She faded fast. No need that heavy hand
To lead Winona from the joyous band;
No need those shameful words that stained the air:
“Let not the sacred circle be defiled
By one who, all too easily beguiled,
Beneath her bosom bears a warrior’s child.”

Winona swiftly fleeing, as she passed,
One look upon her shrinking lover cast
That scared his coward heart for many a day,
Into the deepest woods she took her way.
The dance was soon resumed, and as she fled,
Like hollow laughter chasing overhead,
Pursued the music and the maidens’ song.
Just as she passed from sight an angry eye
Glared for a moment from the western sky,
And flung one quivering shaft of dazzling white,
With tenfold thunder-peal, adown the night.
Her mother followed her, and sought her long,
Calling and listening through the falling dew,
While fast and furious still the cadence grew
Of the gay dance, whose distant music fell,
Smiting the mother like a funeral knell.
High rode the sun in heaven next day before
The stricken mother found along the shore
The object of her unremitting quest.
The cooling wave whereon she lay at rest
Had stilled the tumult of Winona’s breast.
Along that shapely ruin’s plastic grace,
And in the parting of her braided hair,
The hopeless mother’s glances searching there
The Thunder-Bird’s mysterious mark might trace.

So died Winona, and let all beware,
For vengeance follows fast and will not spare,
Nor maid, nor warrior that dares offend
Who hath the cruel Thunder-Bird for friend.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Thunder-Bird, a supernatural winged creature which causes thunder and lightning by the flapping of its wings and the winking of its eyes.

[2] The name given by the Dakotas to the first-born, if a female.

[3] Tipi, skin tent.

[4] An edible root found on the prairies.

[5] The Crow Indians, hereditary foes of the Dakotas, call themselves Absaraka, which means crow in their language.

[6] Each Indian guest at a banquet carries with him his own wooden bowl and horn spoon.

[7] Many Indians believe in the transmigration of souls, and some of them profess to remember previous states of existence.

[8] A renowned chief formerly living on Lake Pepin.

[9] A supernatural monster inhabiting the larger rivers and lakes, and hereditary foe of the Thunder-Bird.

[10] The falls of St. Anthony.

[11] The name given to the first-born, if a male. Upon becoming a warrior or performing some notable feat, the youth is permitted to select another name.

[12] Hereditary foe of the Dakotas.

[13] The Dakotas formerly disposed of their dead by fastening them to the branches of trees, or to rude platforms. This is still practised to some extent.

[14] The Indians paint and adorn a body before sepulture.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

TO A YOUNG MAN.

Caress thy pleasures with a reverent touch,
Too soon at best their early fragrance flees.
Seek not to know, to see, or taste too much:
The sweetest, deepest cup hath still its lees;
The blushing grape is not too rudely pressed,
When gushes forth its richest and its best.

Bird, bubble, butterfly on light wing straying,
With changing tints of crimson, blue, and gold,
Upon warm waves of summer sunlight swaying,
When thy frail, flaming wing the boy shall hold,
Alas, how soon its fragile charms expire!
E’en so when strong men seize their soul’s desire.

Rend not with ruthless hand the lily’s bell,
To gather all its sweetness at a breath;
Spill not the pearl deep in its bosom’s cell,
The crystal gift Aurora’s tears bequeath.
So shall a delicate perfume be thine,
Through all the weary hours of day’s decline.

The gentlest spirits of the earth and air—
Sweet mysteries to ruder men unknown—
Will yield delights as delicate as rare,
The secret bowers of Love shall be thy own,
The one great bliss, so long thy hope’s despair,
Will press with eager feet to find thee there.

TELL ME, DEAR BIRD.

In the warm twilight where I mused, there came
A bird of unknown race with breast of flame.

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,
I conjure thee, e’en by his sacred name,
How may I lure and win Love to my side?
There is no lure for Love, in patience bide,
And if he cometh not await him still,
Love cometh only when and where he will.

But when he cometh, bird with breast of flame,
Teach me his roving feet to bind and tame.
Many have sought to bind him, but in vain;
He will not brook nor gold nor silken chain.
If he is caught, Love languishes and dies,
And ’tis not Love, if free to stay, he flies.

Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame,
When true Love comes, how may I know his name?
What are the golden words upon his tongue:
What message sweeter than a seraph’s song?
Love hath no shibboleth, and where are words
For the enraptured songs of summer birds?

Tell me, dear Love, O bird with breast of flame,
The deepest sense and meaning of thy name?
Two all-sufficing souls for woe or bliss,
But what they do, or what their converse is,
Love only knows; they walk where none may see,
Wrapped in the shades of a sweet mystery.

PERDITA.

Far away under Hesper,
In seas never crossed,
Like a faint-uttered whisper,
Forgotten and lost;
Where no sail ever flies
O’er the face of the deep,
A lost island lies
Forgotten, asleep.
An island reposes,
Distant and dim,
Where a cloud-veil of roses
Never uncloses,
Dreams and reposes
On the horizon’s rim.
An island arrayed
In such magical grace,
It would seem to be made
For some happier race.
Each valley and bower
Has a charm of its own;
A perfume each flower,
Elsewhere unknown;
A charm of such power
That once known to the heart,
If but for an hour,
It can never depart.
E’en the surges of ocean,
Ceasing their roar,
Their rage and commotion,
Sigh in on the shore
With a melody saintly,
As vespers that seem
Chanted so quaintly,
By sisters so saintly,
Mingling so faintly
With the voice of a dream.

One summer time olden,
That standeth alone
With its memories golden,
That isle was my own.
O island enchanted!
Where now does she rove—
The bright nymph that haunted
Thy fountain and grove,
While still at her side,
Whereever she strayed,
By the mountain or tide,
My footsteps were stayed?
Do her pulses still beat
To the pulses of yore?
Say, now, do her feet
Tread some pitiless shore,
Still hoping to meet
One who cometh no more?

O that summer! its ray
In my heart lingers yet,
Long after the day-
Star it came from has set.
My star of the night
And of morning was she,
My song-bird, my white-
Wingèd bark on the sea;
My rainbow, illuming
With beauty and light;
My rose-garden, blooming,
Sweetly perfuming
The hours of the night.

But at last, in its fleetness,
It seemed that each day
From the charm and the sweetness
Took something away,
Till the flowers all faded
From summer’s bright crown,
The skies were o’ershadowed,
The forests were brown.
In the voices of morning
There crept a new tone,
A faint whispered warning
From regions unknown,
And over each heart
Stole a mystical fear
That our joy would depart
With the flight of the year.
A pale, cold, new-comer
Had entered our isle,
From a land beyond summer
And sunshine and smile,
Subduing us quite,
Though we saw not his face,
As winter gives blight
When it cometh apace.
Her glances and mine
Sought each other no more,
Each fearing some sign
Not seen there before.
Yet no word was revealing
Misgiving or chill;
Each sought for concealing
The deathly, congealing
Foreboding of ill.

But at last came a night
When our last song was sung,
And like children in fright
Together we clung.
No farewell was spoken,
Our voices were dumb,
But we knew without token
That parting was come.
In the darkness that bound us
A night-bird did sing,
And the black air around us
Was moved by his wing,
As in vulture waves sweeping
He sped from the shore,
And away from my keeping
My Day-star he tore.

STANZAS TO ⸺.

Bitter bewailing
Sweet Life’s sad failing
Is unavailing
Your prayers or mine.
Years onward sweeping
Bring blight for reaping,
For laughter weeping,
Wormwood for wine.

The old sweet vision
Comes to derision
The dream Elysian
That once was ours.
The rushing river
Mocks our endeavor,
And soon will sever
My bark from yours.

One joy shall bide me
Whate’er betide me,
This still shall guide me
Till life shall fleet;
Though friends forsake me,
Fate rudely shake me,
And Time shall break me
Beneath his feet,

No power above me
From this can move me—
My Queen did love me!
One golden day
Her proud heart found me,
Her arms were around me,
Her red lips crowned me
A King for aye.

O rapturous meeting!
Thy passionate greeting
Was the high beating
Of a young soul,
For one full yearning,
Hour spurning,
The fetters burning
Of Fate’s control.

The chilling power
Of rank and dower
That sacred hour
Soon overcast,
And from our faces
Swept the faint traces
Of those embraces,
The first and last.

She may recover,
When days are over,
Some happier lover,
Forsaking me.
I, e’en though hated,
Am consecrated;
More meanly mated
Can never be.

Let new flames redden
Where light loves deaden,
Let pulses leaden
Leap forth anew;
But on this altar
Till breath shall falter,
Though all else alter,
Nought shall renew.

LOVE’S TRIBUTES.

O that I might inspire my song with power
To crown thy brows with more than queenly dower;
To pour on thee a more than golden shower,
And fill thy soul with sunshine every hour.

Time breaks at last the lyre’s sweetest strings,
And palls the sweetest note the minstrel sings,
And riches fly away on falcon wings:
Love only to his trust unchanging clings.

Then be my song of whatsoe’er degree,
And gifts however bright and fair to see,
Rare trophies peril won by land and sea,
Yet Love his own chief offering must be.

All that the flower of Love may yield is thine,
From blushing bud to clusters on the vine,
With colors rich as rubies from the mine,
And odors mounting to the soul like wine.

But all, I know, is paltry in thine eyes,
So far above them all thy worth doth rise.
In vain my muse with feeble pinions tries
To reach the regions where thy merit lies.

Still o’er Love’s treasures hold thy sovereign sway;
Taste them or spill them, keep or cast away;
By night or daytime, hasten or delay,
Trample them, cull them, go thine own sweet way.

THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS.

PASTORELLE.

Little lamb, I pray O come to me,
None to caress and love have I but thee.
Why art thou not some tender shepherd swain,
Then loving thee would ease my weary pain.
My sister Susan, she is fair and tall,
And she may choose among the shepherds all,
And she is called sweet names—my dear, my pet;
Ah me! I’m brown, and I’m too little yet.

Then stepping forth from a concealing shade,
A youth beyond compare approached the maid,
And, whisp’ring softly in her startled ear,
She heard the tender words, “My pet, my dear.”
She blushing stood, confused with downcast eyes,
But heart and face were filled with glad surprise;
And happier far than Susan tall and fair,
The little nut-brown maiden trembling there.

A FAREWELL.

’Tis true that once I sighed for
That tender heart of thine;
I thought I could have died for
The bliss I now decline.
Too many swains enchanted,
Since then within that heart,
Have had sweet shelter granted
For me to claim a part.

Farewell, dear one, thy sorrow,
Thy tears are all in vain;
That tender heart to-morrow
Will find some newer swain.
Thou hast no necromancy
To restore the passing sway,
Of what was but the fancy
Of an idle summer day.

TO A FICKLE FAIR ONE.

Some birds mate three times in a year,
And I have called thee oft my bird.
I knew not even shame and fear
Could bind thee long; take my last word,
Good-bye, sweet bird.

TO THE SAME.

Constancy and the Phœnix, birds that dwell
In the bright realms of song, happy his fate
Who elsewhere meets with one, for, mark it well,
Sooner or later he will find its mate.

THE PALACE OF REPOSE.

Helpless we start before the break of day,
And grope along an unknown path our way,
Or follow leaders blind, and many fall;
But on we press, heedless and joyous all,
As happy fledglings fluttering in the brake,
That nothing reck of prowling fox or snake.
When over us at last the daylight dawns,
We bear the marks of many cruel thorns;
But brightly on the far horizon gleams
(Of more than earthly grace the vision seems)
The Palace of Repose, that rears on high
Its golden domes against the western sky,
While warm and tender as a poet’s dreams,
The restful radiance from each tower that streams.

Now through the early morning air we fly,
As the young shepherd sped with beaming eye
Fast fixed upon the rose-born butterfly.
Toward flowery vales and hills our pathway leads,
But when we reach them all their beauty fades.
Hills that were fairer, ere their paths were won,
Than the long slopes of fountained Helicon,
Are marred by poisonous weeds and flinty stone;
And forms that seemed, against the distant skies,
Winging their snowy way to Paradise,
Are birds unclean, whose wings are like a breath
From some great charnel-house in lands of death.
And shifting sands beneath our feet are spread,
And pitfalls numberless beset our way,
Where noisome reptiles fill us with dismay;
On either side lie, fathomless and dim,
Wide plains where wander phantoms stark and grim.

Noon comes; the goal no nearer, on we haste,
Nor note the lengthening shadows of the past.
Luring us on we hear the far, faint moan
Of music, weird and sweet as Memnon’s tone,
Heard in the desert by the traveller lone;
Bewildering as the sounds the shepherds erst
Heard in the vales of Thessaly, when first
Apollo’s wondrous music on them burst.
Of all that started with us, hand in hand,
Only a few are left, a dwindling band.
With haggard faces fixed upon the goal,
E’en as the needle to the steadfast pole,
Swifter and swifter, till the evening air
Sings like a serpent through our back-blown hair.
But lo, the night has come,
The sun goes down,
His trailing robes with crimson glories crown
The palace we had almost deemed was ours.
Dearer than ever seem those fading towers,
Whose oriel windows gleam like soul-lit eyes
For one bright moment ere thick darkness lies
On earth and sky, then trembling, faint, and sore,
Closing our pathway, lo, we find a door,
The entrance to a narrow house that still
Blocks up the way of every human will.
Wander where’er we may, this self-same goal
Is reached at last by every weary soul.
Our burdens fall unheeded, and our gains,—
This is the end of all our toil and pains.

Over the threshold hangs a shrunken lute,
Upon a tree where grows nor flower nor fruit;
Bewildering odors fill the heavy air,
The nightshade and the wolf’s-bane mingle there;
The faint perfume of rose and lily, too,
Is swallowed up by asphodel and rue.
We enter in, behold, a lowly bed,
How sweet the poppied perfume o’er it shed,
Where the red poppy swings its censer head.

There sleep shall seize and bind us, sleep supreme,
That knows no waking morn, no troubled dream.
The years shall swiftly cover us from sight,
In silence and insuperable night.

MOODS.

My wayward youth had drained the cup of Life,
Wasting its treasures in the fitful strife,
The mad revolt of a rebellious soul,
That beats the stubborn bars of Fate’s control.
My foolish heart whispered, there is no God,
And if there is, let cravens fear his rod:
Be thy own god, slake thy imperious thirst
Where’er thou wilt, no fountain is accurst.
Many strange paths my restless feet had sought,
Not all ignoble, but to each I brought
The turbulence of will that grasps at all,
And, failing, breaks itself against the wall.
Too late I knew my impotence at last,
When the bright glow of youth was overpast.

Worn out, exhausted by the weary route
That leads from knowledge to disgust and doubt,
Defeat, deceit, and baffled purpose stole
Like a corroding canker to my soul.
I hated Life, scorned and despised my kind,
So far astray may err the unbridled mind.
I had been nigh to death; the sullen wave
Already my consenting feet did lave,
When one who thought to be my friend, and fain
Had done me kindness, plucked me back again.
They said my reason wandered, and had found
A peaceful nook remote from sight or sound
Of busy men; there by the moonlit sea
On a soft couch I lay, where over me
Through the low lattice the sea odors crept,
And from the landward side about me swept
Soft languid waves of amorous perfume,
Of pollen-dust, of bursting bud and bloom.

Wrecked by the storm of life, and cast aside
Like drift rejected by the loathing tide,
Vacant of heart and thought I lay; the air
That wooed my cheek and gently stirred my hair,
Laden with yearning voices of the spring,
Awoke in me no answering tone or string.

From the deep shadows of the sleeping wood
A baleful night-bird swept the solitude;
The shuddering moonlight like a living thing
Shrank from the touch of his defiling wing;
And fiercely following like an eager pack
Of wingèd hounds upon his lurid track,
Lewd mocking spirits filled the thickening air,
Swarming as to a charnel banquet there.
Close at my ear burst forth a piercing yell,
As if each ghoul and fiend from nether hell
Had burst its bonds, and joined that chorus fell;
My quivering veins and nerves to frenzy stung,
In discord jangled like a harp unstrung.
Suddenly at my heart a quick sharp pluck,
As ’twere some foot of small fierce bird had struck
And griped me sore; then after some short space
The keen pain seized me in another place;
I felt myself clasped in a rude embrace,
And o’er my body spread swift fleeting pangs,
Sickening and deadly as a serpent’s fangs.
Quivering in every limb then I was ’ware
Of a strange woman bending o’er me there,
With ashen hair, that in the moonlight pale
Rippled about her shoulders like a veil;
In her cold eyes that pierced me through and through,
There dimly lurked a look that once I knew.
Her face was bloodless, as of one that’s dead,
But oh! her little mouth, how rosy red,
Beset with glittering little fangs that bled,
Fresh from the cruel feast whereon they fed.
Cold was her bosom, and her clammy arms—
No ruddy current warmed those shapely charms.
The air grew stifling, and upon my ear
Fell strident whispers chilling me with fear.

“Dost thou not know my face? in my close kiss
Lingers no essence of the olden bliss?
Doth not my breath revive the ancient fire,
And fill the shrunken veins of dead desire?
I am the child of all thy joys; ere Death
Swallowed them up each left with me some breath,
Some drop of blood, some accent, or some look,
A token from each fleeting hour I took;
In me thy vanished raptures all unite
The perfect fruit of all thy past delight.
Long have I sought thee, now that thou art found,
Now that my limbs about thee have been wound,
And that my lips have fed upon thy face,
Nothing shall tear thee more from my embrace;
Dearer thou art to me than all that dwell
In the wide triple realms, Earth, Heaven and Hell.
Thou art my fruitful vineyard, and my well,
My gilded mountain top, and flowery dell
Whereon my lips shall pasture all the night,
Vanishing only with the morning light.
For in thy arms the olden joys I taste,
And round us swarm the spectres of the past;
The ruddy light still in their hollow eyes
Lingers that shone upon our revelries
In gay Lisboa’s palaces of pride,
When every mask and cheek was flung aside,
Virtue was mocked, and God and man defied.

“And youthful joys far from Lisboa’s town
Through some green byway of the years float down;
Over fair Lusitania’s hills and plains
Again we wander free from sinful stains;
Though viewed through mist of tears, the earliest scenes
Are brightest still whatever intervenes.
The leafy songs that thrill the listening wood,
And answering birds that make sweet interlude,
The sylvan lakes illuminated by
The rainbows arching all our summer sky,
And swans that drift along the shore at rest—
A string of pearls upon a swelling breast.”

Ranging amid the garden groves of youth,
The luring voice grew softer, till in sooth
Like pulsing of a moonlight lute it fell,
Lulling my senses with a rhythmic spell.
I know not if I slumbered, but anon
Those odious limbs about my own were thrown;
I started up with thick and laboring breath,
And sickening loathing almost unto death;
“O Christ!” I cried, lo, at that sacred name
The foul shape vanished, and instead one came
Clad in soft light as from an inner flame,
And held an ebon cross whereon there bled
A great white Christ, with loving arms outspread.
Singing afar a tender voice I heard,
Faintly the accents fell, “Flee as a bird.”
Then, as the spring-tides yearning to the moon,
Flood the dry hollows where we walked at noon,
E’en so the tidal-wave of feeling rose,
And memories wakened from their long repose,
And rushing back through many a dusty year
Left me again a reverent child at prayer.

Again the simple worshippers I saw
Kneeling in fervent prayer; I heard with awe
Once more the shameful tale recounted o’er:
The buffets and revilings that He bore,
The crown of thorns, the wormwood, and the gall,
And our foul sins more bitter than them all,
Filling the cup that our vile hands have pressed
To the pure lips of our expiring Christ.
Gazing upon the Saviour’s agony,
Through my dark soul a cleansing current swept,
And tears of humble penitence I wept.
Softly I wept at first, then gathering force,
Burst forth a storm of passionate remorse,
Till my frail couch shook like an autumn leaf
In the tempestuous torrent of my grief.
Stretching my trembling hands, “O Christ!” I cried,
“Would that with thee I might be crucified,
So I might share thy love. O let me find
Some sure retreat remote from all my kind,
Far from the voice of priest or minister,
Where reigns the silence of the sepulchre;
To some far rocky island let me flee,
Piercing the bosom of an unknown sea,
There let me live in sweet converse with thee.
Or in some Theban desert, too remote
E’en for the sound of Memnon’s warning note,
Or ’mid the rocks on Sinai’s shaking brow,
Where the fierce fires of God’s anger glow;
Or buried in some clammy convent cell,
No matter where, dear Lord, so I may dwell
Apart from all the universe but thee;
So that my name may perish utterly
From memory of man; so that no sound
Of human voice or footstep may resound
Through the deep portals of my solitude.
There let me purge my sins with penance rude,
The scourge, the midnight vigil, and the fast,
Until I know thee, face to face at last.”
How weak are all this life’s most tempting joys,
Love, wealth, ambition, transitory toys,
To those that flood the lonely anchorite
In the rapt moments of his soul’s delight.
The sweetest words of Jesus are not found
In Holy Writ; who in his grace abound,
Forsaking all the world to bear his cross,
Counting all human love and honor dross;
Who wears the thorny crown upon his head,
And loveth better than his daily bread
The scourge, the iron chain, the stony bed,
Worn out with vigils, spent with sighs and tears,
Jesus perchance may whisper in his ears,
Sweeter than music of the choral spheres,
The unwritten words that soothed the Magdalene.
Perchance on Jesus’ bosom he may lean,
A deeper sense than language can impart
Lies in the throbbing of that wondrous heart.

The moon went down, the night grew dark and dense,
The aspiration of my soul intense
Took real form and garb, or so it seemed,
And bore me on to all that I had dreamed.
Into the narrow dungeon where I lay
The Saviour came, and gently put away
My scourging hand; his smile ineffable
With more than earthly radiance lit my cell—
Sweeter than wanton couch had ever known,
The rapture Jesus bringeth to his own.
Naked and prone upon the dungeon stone,
His love suffused me with a rosy glow.
His words of grace and pardon, murmured low,
Thrilled me and filled my spirit’s pulsing vein,
Till like a ship impatient for the main
Her snowy wings tugged at the anchor chain.

I slept profoundly; when I woke, the sun
Already more than half his course had run.
Light willing feet were moving round my couch,
And gentle hands with ministering touch.
They brought me dainties, and their cheerful words,
The hum of honey-bees, the voice of birds,
The grand old forest’s potent influence
Subdued and mingled with my every sense,
And moved my being to accord and tune
With all the leafy harmonies of June,
As if some conscious hand beneficent
A hideous nightmare pall had from me rent.

I wandered out alone beneath the trees
And in a tempting spot reclined at ease,
My head in the cool shade, and at my feet
Streaming the amber sunlight’s genial heat.
My spirits rose, and quickening pulses beat,
Surprised to find that living still was sweet.
The tree-tops o’er me seemed to melt away—
Green islets floating on an azure bay;
And I in fancy floated with them, too,
Drifting forever down the ether blue.
Half dreaming thus, so quietly I lay
The forest denizens resumed their play;
But furtively, as though they feared to break
The spell that brooded in the air, or wake
Some discord slumbering in the solitude.
A bird sang nigh me, but with voice subdued;
The mossy oaks like kingly graybeards stood,
And stretched inviting arms; the aspens wooed
With myriad beckoning leaves, and each slant beam,
Flung from the flying sun-god’s hand, did seem
A rosy finger-tip that coyly pointed
To some deep trysting-place by wood-nymphs haunted.
Long vistas led away mysteriously,
So tempting that I almost thought to see
Arch faces from the nearer branches peeping,
And clumsy satyrs in the distance leaping.

The nymph, the satyr, and the bounding fawn
That filled the groves of Thessaly are gone.
The merry train that circled Oberon
Trip it no more upon the moonlit lawn.
But let them pass nor mourn the solitude:
Far sweeter than the whole fantastic brood
Is one weak, loving woman’s human form.
A woman’s voice, low, tremulous, and warm,
Hath a more potent spell to lull the charm
Than Orphean lute, or siren’s song, where passed
The wave-worn mariner lashed to his mast.

Two doves thrust out their small heads timidly
From the low branches of a neighboring tree,
Looking askance, and peering through the green,
Like foolish lovers fearing to be seen,
Then, reassured, resumed their blissful play.
I smiled to see them, thinking of a day,
Just such another day as this, last year,
When with a damsel I had wandered here,
Amid these very vistas, and I thought
Of a deep vine-clad arbor we had sought.
Our words, our looks, our tender dalliance, all,
Like birds of passage at the swallow’s call,
Came trooping back, on light wings fluttering,
And through me swept the quickening breath of spring.
Seen through the shimmering aspen leaves afar
A fair face twinkled on me like a star,
And rustle of bright garments drawing nigh
Fluttered my heart with strange expectancy.

* * * * *

And soon two happy lovers wandered far,
And tarried till the rising of the evening star.

TO ⸺.

Her heart is a flower that long hath slept
Where clammy night-dews o’er it wept,
But now to love and rapture wakes
As the flushing glory of morning breaks,
And the heavy tears that chilled it so
Pure diamonds all in the sunshine glow.

Her hair is a sea of golden waves
Love’s beauteous temple wall that laves,
Rippling o’er two rosy shells
Wherein the soul of music dwells,
To break in hyacinthine curl
Caressing the base of purest pearl.

Her eyes, twin mountain pools that lie
Reflecting back the summer sky,
A fringe of graceful poplars there
Sway softly in the amorous air.
Oh! he who fathoms those wondrous eyes
Will see the joys of Paradise.

A crimson little rose her mouth
Exhales the memories of the South;
And when its petals gently move,
Breathing some tender word of love,
No angel’s voice at gates of bliss
Hath promise to compare with this.
Her brow a page of vellum fair,
’Twere vain to seek for tracery there;
Pure as Mount Athos, yet I know
Beneath that alabaster brow
One tender secret, guarded well,
Stirs sweetly in its guarded cell.

* * * * *

How many hundred hearts have beat
To the faint music of her feet;
What yearning eyes devour the grass
That ripples where her footsteps pass,
Beneath her kirtle’s airy sweep,
Like moonbeams glancing o’er the deep.

A snowy miracle of grace
Her circling arms, for whose embrace
Hyperion’s self might vainly sigh.
Oh! if within those arms to lie
To happy mortal e’er were given,
How tame were all the joys of heaven.
Sheltered by those endearing charms
From my own spirit’s dark alarms,
Endymion were not half so blest
Fainting upon his Phœbe’s breast.

TO ⸺.

Revolving years another May-day bring;
Earth at this bridal season’s glad return
Blooms forth again in bridal robes of spring,
Expectant, waiting, trembling, all things yearn.
Cries then aloud the voice I thought was slain,
Calls as of yore my stormy deep to thine;
Answer is mute, I hear no voice but mine.

TO THE SAME.

Rarer and dearer seen through smiles or tears,
Each day thy well-remembered face appears,
Beaming through all the clouds and mists of years.
Enfolding thee in dreams, my yearning kisses
Cling to that face till all our perished blisses
Come back like phantoms dear that re-awaken,
And haste to greet their loved ones long forsaken.

TO THE SAME.

Right gladly would I twine a wreath of flowers,
Each morn for thee from dewy garden bowers;
But when I cull them, lo! they turn at view,
E’en in my hands, to nightshade and to rue;
Circling, beloved one, thy temples rare,
Catching the halo of thy golden hair,
Again they glow, roses and lilies there.

TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS

IF MY VERSES HAD WINGS LIKE A BIRD.

AFTER VICTOR HUGO.

If my verses had wings like a bird,
To thy garden of perfume and light
They would flutter with timid delight,
If my verses had wings like a bird.

If my verses, like fairies, had wings,
To thy fireside at eve they would fly,
To sparkle and gleam in thine eye,
If my verses, like fairies, had wings.

Pure pinions around and above,
All day would rustle and gleam,
They would whisper at night to thy dream,
If my verses were wingèd like Love.

’TWIXT SLEEP AND WAKING.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF PROSPER BLANCHEMAIN.

Lying alone last night, ’twixt sleep and waking,
My cruel mistress passed, with queenly tread,
With smile of cold disdain, and haughty head,
And scornful eyes, whereat my heart was breaking;
The vision was so true in all its seeming,
I scarcely could believe that I was dreaming.

But when she came, and o’er me lowly bending,
Upon me rained the kisses of her mouth,
Laden with all the perfume of the South,
Murmuring the while of blisses never ending,
And in her eyes I saw the love-light gleaming,—
Ah! then I knew that I was only dreaming.

WHITE SWAN SAILING.

FROM THE RUSSIAN.

White swan, sailing all the day,
Peering in the wave below
As thou sailest proud and slow,
Round and round, and to and fro,
Seekest thou another, say?
Seest thou, in vaults below,
Through the wave inscrutable,
Joy of heaven or woe of hell?

Cruel swan, why mock me so?
Scornful sailing to and fro,
Answering not my questionings,
While above thy snowy breast
Rises haughty neck and crest.
Sure, beneath thy folded wings,
Knowledge lies of many things—
Secrets that I long to know.
Voices of the hollow wave,
Whispering as from a grave,
Murmur to thy listening ear
Secrets that I fain would hear.

Lo, I see another crest
Mirrored in the wave below,
And a bosom white as snow
Sails majestical and slow,
Unto thine ’tis closely pressed;
Face to face and breast to breast,
Two white swans majestic go
Round and round and to and fro.

Peering through the hollow wave
As into an open grave,
Lo, I see another there;
Find the face and form of one,
Thought of whom I fain would shun
More than all beneath the sun;
Find a face already where
Time’s inexorable touch
Leaveth traces overmuch,
And steely fingers soon will tear,
Rending cruel furrows there.

Peering through the hollow wave,
Wistfully as in a grave,
Could I see another breast
As it was in Long Ago
(Or perhaps I dreamed it so),
Where my own might hope to rest;
Not of mine the counterpart,
But a bosom white as snow,
Proud, but tender, pressed to mine,
As thy double unto thine;
Would the rapture slay me, say?
Swelling, welling from my heart,
Soul and body rend apart?
Would the rapture slay me? nay,
Such a death were sweeter bliss
Than I find in life like this.

THE ROSES OF SAADI.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF DESBORDES-VALMORE.

As I passed through the Valley of Roses to-day
I gathered the fairest and sweetest for thee,
But my robes were so full that the knots burst away,
And all my sweet roses fell into the sea.

A wave slowly bore them away from my sight,
Flaming forth like a cloud-billow rosy and red;
But on me you may breathe all their fragrance to-night,
For my bosom is sweet with the odors they shed.

ROSE-BUDS.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF BÉRANGER.

O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom,
The frost of Time is chill upon my hair;
Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume,
Like vesper incense on the evening air.

Gladden my withered heart while yet you may,
A rock is hid beneath each glowing wave;
The ardent sun, wooing your lips to-day,
To-morrow’s noon may mock your poet’s grave.

And rose-buds, ere their time may pass away;
The worm is there, an envious wind may blight;
How many rose-buds have I seen decay,
While thistles flaunt their colors in the light.

I pluck nor buds, nor full-blown roses now,
Your tender charms from me have naught to fear;
No rosy wreath awaits this wrinkled brow,
Let regal youth the crown and sceptre bear.

Weary of strife, of cold, vain theorems,
Of counting spots upon the sun’s fair face,
Would that a bed beneath your friendly stems
Were hollowed for my final resting-place.

When the Great Reaper comes, let me be found
Among the roses, fresh and pure as truth;
Their perfume shed above me and around,
Whispering my failing heart of Love and Youth.

O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom,
The frost of Time is chill upon my hair;
Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume
Like vesper incense on the evening air.

THE BIRD I WAIT FOR.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF MOREAU.

Dead, buried suns of former years arise,
And flowers bloom I thought had died last spring;
The birds that fled last fall our wintry skies
People again the woods on joyous wing;
At dawn soft rustling pinions waken me,
And swallows darken window-pane and door;
Breathless I listen, gazing wistfully,
Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

A high ambition swept my pulses through;
Gazing one day upon the eagle’s flight,
I pierced with him the heaven’s o’erarching blue,
And beat my pinions at the gates of light.
To-day the bird of Jove alone defies
The sun-god’s burning glance, the tempest’s roar;
I watch his flight unmoved, with listless eyes,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The lark pours forth his liquid flood of song,
Seeking the secret covert where love lies,
Wherein to weave a palace for his young;
He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,
His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.
O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,
Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,
Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,
Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,
Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.
O happy friend, follow thy fantasy,
Dream on the wave, wanton along the shore,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

Arrive at last, O messenger from heaven,
Black envoy, bearing in thy beak of yore
The bread to famishing Elijah given.
Has God for me no portion I implore?
It soon will be too late, the shadows press,
And night-birds gather round my darkening door.
Dead with the prophet in the wilderness,
Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

VISIONS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

One midnight when I was a wayward child,
I read by stealth a romance weird and wild;
My veins were tingling and my cheeks aflame,
When suddenly before my vision came
Two sad dark eyes appealing wistfully,
A child in sable garb who looked like me.

A child so like to me in form and face,
It seemed a mirror standing in the place.
He cast on me one long and earnest look,
Then bent with me o’er the forbidden book.
A smile mysterious he wore, but never spoke,
And vanished from me as the daylight broke.

The years sped by; one dreamy autumn day
The eager chase had led me far astray;
Fantastic shadows thronged the solitude
Of the deep mountain forest where I stood,
And there appeared beneath a spreading tree,
A wanderer dressed in black, who looked like me.

He held a quaint old lute and a fresh spray
Of eglantine; I gently asked my way.
He answered me no word, but took with pride
A path straight up the towering mountain side.
His parting glance fell on me with a thrill
Of meaning so intense it haunts me still.

Another year sped by; one night outside
The room wherein my sainted mother died
I stood alone, and friendless with my grief—
Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,—
I oped the door, lo, there on bended knee
An orphan dressed in black who looked like me.

Kneeling before the sacred ashes there
He seemed a radiant angel in despair.
His face was bathed in tears, his head was crowned
With thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground,
And o’er his sable garments flowed a tide
Of crimson from the sword that pierced his side.

Since then in every crisis I have known,
Whether in busy town or desert lone,
Angel or demon, whichsoe’er it be,
That sable apparition comes to me.
I never hear his voice, he stands apart,
Yet like a brother twines about my heart.

Now, all my idols burned in civil strife,
Willing to love or re-create my life,
My feet, self-exiled from their natal strand,
Gather the dust of many a foreign land;
A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope,
Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope.

Still in those moments when life’s pulses go
Surging almost to fatal overflow,
When the blind, fettered spirit seems at last
Ready its fetters and its scales to cast,
Before my vision comes, on land or sea,
A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me.

THE FISHERMAN’S BRIDAL.

AFTER DELAVIGNE.

The sea is high, the night is dark,
Sweet son, O why unmoor thy bark
Before the morning?
On such a night as this last year,
I fain had kept thy brother here;
O heed the warning.
But the fisherman smiling
Bounded from shore,
His labor beguiling,
Bending the oar,
Singing, she loveth me,
No fear I know,
No wave appalleth me,
Loving her so.

With white wing cleft the inky sky,
A sea-bird with a plaintive cry,
Saddening the air:
The nest I built with so much toil,
This night became the tempest’s spoil;
Beware, beware!
Still the fisherman smiling,
Bending the oar,
The darkness beguiling,
Sang as before:
My Nanna calleth me,
No fear I know,
No wave appalleth me,
Loving her so.

Faintly arose a sad appeal,
Blent with the storm by which his keel
Was rudely driven.
O brother, ere thy knell shall toll,
Pray for thy elder brother’s soul,
Who died unshriven.
But the message unheeded
Its warning bore,
As onward he speeded,
Bending the oar,
Murmuring, she calleth me,
No fear I know,
No wave appalleth me,
Loving her so.

Weary at dawn he reached the strand,
But lo, there passed a mourning band;
For whom? he cried.
For whom, O fishermen, that bell
That strikes upon my heart its knell?
’Tis for thy bride.
Then as if on the shore,
Stricken down by a dart,
Deep darkness came o’er
Him, chilling his heart,
Whispering, she calleth me,
No fear I know,
No wave appalleth me,
Loving her so.

YOU HAD MY WHOLE HEART.

FROM THE FRENCH OF DESBORDES VALMORE.

You had my whole heart,
I thought I had thine,
No beguiling or art,
A heart for a heart.

Your heart is returned,
But alas! where is mine?
Your heart is returned,
But mine you have spurned.

The leaf and the bloom
And the fruit of the same,
Leaf, color, and bloom,
Sweet flower and perfume.

Oh, what hast thou done?
My sovereign supreme,
Oh, what hast thou done?
Beneath the fair sun.

An orphan bereft
Of mother and home,
An orphan bereft,
With my grief I am left.

Deserted, alone,
Through the cold world to roam,
Deserted, alone,
But heaven hears my moan.

One day you will muse,
Broken-hearted and old,
One day you will muse
On the love you refuse.

You will seek me one day
But you shall not behold;
You will call me one day,
I shall not obey.

You will come to my door
With penitent head,
A friend, as of yore,
You will knock at my door.

It will coldly be said,
She is gone, she is dead;
Her spirit has fled,
Will coldly be said.

ART.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

Yes, art with grievous pangs is born
From Nature’s most endearing molds;
The child is torn,
Not wooed, from fierce rebellious folds.

Slay not thy art by false constraint,
Yet know her rules are stern as Fate;
Without complaint
The muse should wear a buskin strait.

Would’st have thy verse endure, thy muse
The common facile forms must shun,
The slipshod shoes
In which so many feet have run.

Sculptor, beware the plastic clay,
Changing at every whim’s command
From day to day,
And marred by every careless hand.

Strive with the marbles pure of Greece,
Wrested from Paros’ snowy mines,
Smite, and release
The deep-imprisoned god-like lines.

The chisel of Praxiteles
Such peerless beauty had not known,
If art in Greece
Had deigned to use a meaner stone.

Let the fierce molten metal fuse
Heroic forms and high contours
Of Syracuse;
Nought but the matchless bronze endures.

Upon the agate’s flinty face
Apollo’s features high and pure
In profile trace,
With touches delicate and sure.

Beware of water and pastel,
Deep on fantastic vase and urn
Thy colors frail
In seven-fold heated furnace burn.

Fashion the writhing, maddening limb
Of nymph and goddess; bring once more
The monsters grim,
Dear to the blazonry of yore.

The virgin mother saintly mild,
Crowned with her nimbus; on her breast
The wondrous child,
The globe beneath the cross of Christ.

Crowns fall and sceptres pass, robust
And radiant art outlives them all.
Torso and bust
Survive the city’s triple wall.

The medal by the ploughman found
Reveals the countenance austere,
The temples crowned,
That filled the antique world with fear.

Even the gods wax old and pass
From high Olympus; verse alone,
Stronger than brass,
Preserves to fallen Zeus his throne.

The graver guide with care supreme,
The chisel smite, fix like a rock
Thy floating dream
Deep in the stem resisting block.

Tongues and religions die, while art,
Poised in the lofty realms of thought,
Serene, apart,
Exults in sempiternal youth.

BARCAROLLE.

FROM THE SAME.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,
Whither shall we two sail to-day?
The rose’s breath is on the gale
That softly moves our silken sail;
Our masts of gleaming ivory
Are strung like harps with yellow hair,
That make Æolian music there;
A seraph shall our pilot be.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,
Whither shall we two sail to-day?
Our pinnace lifts her snowy wing
And flutters like a living thing;
And from the shore the morning wind
Toys with our awning’s purple fold;
Our rudder is of beaten gold
And leaves a rosy track behind.