THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS AND TRANSCIilPTS POEMS AND TRANSCRIPTS BY EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXXVIII All Rights reserved TO JOHN RUFFINI THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTION ATELT DEDICATED 8S5208 CONTENTS. I. —POEMS IN BLANK VEESE. PAGE A DWARF, . 3 THE LADDER, 10 THE WARNING, 12 THE STORY OF A TRUNK, 14 THE STARER, 17 SUNSET SKETCHES, . • 19 THE MOON-FIEND, . 21 A SUMMER STORM, . 23 THE TWINS, 25 POMPEII, . ' 2G 11 — E LEGI ES. A CHRISTMAS ELEGY, OXFORD, . ELIZABETH, THE FLUTE-PLAYER, .31 34 3!) 45 Vlll CONTENTS. A BLIND BEGGAR, . . 47 AN APRIL ELEGY, . . 49 VENICE, • • ■ • 51 LAURA, . 54 ROME, ■ • ■ 55 ABOUT OVID, . 59 PASQUA, . 61 OUR FALLEN LEAVES, . 66 AN EMPTY SHELL, . . 67 AT THE DOOR OF THE JUSTICE MILITAIRE, . 69 THE FIELD GRAVE, . • • • 71 A SUFFERER, . 73 A WOODLAND ELEGY, . 75 AN OLD COAT, . 78 ADVICE, • 79 SOLVILLE, . . 81 THE DESERTED VILLA, • 83 III— POEMS IN LYEICAL METRES. THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST, THE EVER-YOUNG, . A PALIMPSEST, VENUS UNBURIED, . THE SECRET OF THE BUSENTO, THE VAULT OF THE E8CURIAL, PIETRO MICCA, 87 99 101 103 107 110 112 CONTENTS, IX T V. — T R A ^^ S C R I P T S. FROM THE AMBRA OF . ALEXIS AND DORA, AMYNTAS, EPIGRAM, LINES IN WILHELM MEISTER, THE LIMITS OF HUMANITY, TO ITALY, LOVE AND DEATH, CONSALVO, TO HIMSELF, . TO THE MOON, THE EVENING OP THE HOLIDAY, THREE FRAGMENTS FROM FROM THE CARNEVALE DF A FIRST OF NOVEMBER EVENIXC Lorenzo dc'' Medici 117 From Goethe, 124 J) 130 >j 132 » 133 » 134 From Leopardi, 136 n 141 }> 146 n 151 » lo2 >' 153 Aleardi, 155 Carducci, 158 From ArnaholdL . 161 I. POEMS IN BLANK VERSE A DWAEF. In the strong dayliglit of reality, I came upon a being wlio belonged Xot to the present, but the distant past ; A thing mis-issued from the womb of Time, AMiich called the mind away from present sights, And seemed to give the measure of an age. I saw him at Yerona in the street ; And with that empty street, in which the sun Poured floods of light upon the heated stones, He seemed as out of keeping as a bat. He was a cripple and a dwarf, of face Close-shaven, warped, and pleasureless, who stood Upon his crutches, in the dreary garb Of a medieval almshouse, eyeing us. He might have been an imp-like ornament. Detached from some cathedral buttress black, And vivified by now forgotten spells; The incarnate spirit of the Ages Dark, Thrown on our path to make us love these days. I let my thoughts revert to those black times, AVhen prowled the monk, the leper, and the witch POEMS IN BLANK \T:RSE. A mid the rulibisli of a nobler world ; \Mien blunted was the mind by ignorance And dull despair, and much the body, too, Was stunted, and misshapen, and debased By centuries of famine, when mankind Were but a herd of mean and trembling slaves, Beneath the lash of heaven, and their voice A litany unceasing. Then the Dwarf Became the sculptor's model ; and the more Distorted and malignant was his face. The more he served his purpose. Everywhere He leered from out the stonework, in the gloom Of cloister and of church, where he sustained The short and thick-set pillarets with pain On his ignoble shoulders ; or he peeped With apish goblins as a water-spout. Over the belfry's brink, or crouched high up, And seemed to jeer beneath the Gothic eaves ; And in the twilight, struck a sickening fear In women's hearts, and made them oft, perhaps. Give birth unto his like. Had the pale sun Not strength enough, in those ill-omened times, To warm men's hearts to gladness, and a sense Of human beauty 1 Did not Xature speak % And came no voices from the distant past % ]^o voices came, or, if they came, were faint. In premature decrepitude, the world Had little memory of its golden youth. When held in honour was the human form, And when, in Greece, the sculptor loved to mould The youth still sprinkled with Olympic dust ; When Phidias and Praxiteles had clothed Immortal Gods in Man's most beauteous shape, A DWAKF. t And shown to all the Zeus of mighty brow, The armed and placid Pallas, or the young Triumphant Phoebus, in his radiant strength ; And her who rose from ocean's tossing foam, Supremely fair ; or happy leaf -eared Pauns, O'er-filled with life, and fresh from woodland glades. Those days were dead : the Gods of Hellas slept Within the bosom of the patient earth ; What was not dust was hidden in the dust, And half a thousand years had still to pass Before their waking day. And even then. When once again they stood in Heaven's light, In their own grand serenity, how few Were those whose hearts could recognise their rule, Or give the disinlierited their due ! Alas, alas ! for beauty's noblest world ! The Middle Ages, like a sea of lead. Extend immense and desolate ; a sea On which the sun appears for ever set. And tlirough the lasting twilight we perceive Some few wrecks of Antiquity, Look back With me upon those times of woe, when first The bell's dull tolling marked the close of day. And rendered sadder nightfall's saddening hour. The thousand woodland gods of Greece were gone ; The sunlit glades were empty, which had once AVith joyous beings teemed. But in the gloom, In damp and chilly dells of evil name, "VVliere clumps of henbane and of monkshood grew, A thousand other beings dwelt instead. Spiteful and ugly, who on toadstools sat And waited for the passer-by to cross POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. His path and bode him ilL The dreaded Xix Dwelt m the depths of sunless forest pools, And lured the fisher, while the dAvarfish Gnomes Betrayed the miner in the caves of earth. The world was peopled with fantastic shapes Of ugliness and fear, which man, alas, Had formed in his own image. Fear and Hate And Hunger reigned. The lean and stunted serf, Xailed to his clod of unproductive earth, Looked at the frowning castle near at hand, "VMience came all desolations, and worked on In silent hatred. Near him, tall and black, The gibbet stood against the leaden sky. A sound of brutal revelry at times Fell on his ear, or else a chaunt of monks. Monotonous and soulless, from afar. Unless the plague swept by and took him off With his lean children, and with monk and lord, He struggled on, and asked no human help. But often, by the moon's precarious light. Upon some wild, ill-omened heath, as bare As the dead level of his misery, He offered up a midnight mass to him Who first rebelled. The witch, his priestess, stood, Not old and shrivelled, as some now might think, But with an impious beauty in her face, And black and snake-like locks, and braved aloud All heaven's bolts. The great satanic reel Went ever faster, and the pale, chaste moon Drew o'er her face a fleecy veil of cloud. I love those ages not ; but even they. Barren and mean and cruel as they were A DWARF. 7 Have left us things of beauty. Then arose The great cathedrals, which uplift the cross Into the clouds, high o'er the hum of life. See how the patient generations worked For far posterity. They sought not fame, But deemed that he would not have lived in vain Whose hand had added to the glorious pile An oriel window or a sculptured porch, Though lost should be his name. The work was slow. Full well they knew that ere the latest stone Of dazzling white was laid, high in the sky, The first would long have blackened been by age, And unborn kings be sleeping in the crypt. But year by year the marble forest grew ; The Gothic columns, like gigantic sheaves Of mighty rushes, higher, higher rose. And spread, and bent, and met above the aisles In loftiest arch, and took the tints of time. While wondrous vistas formed, where, far away, The softened light streamed through the staiuM glass. Yes, even those cold ages, when men looked So little on the beauty of the world. Bequeathed us things of beauty which endure. But that was when the long-retarded dawn Already struggled with the night. For, lo, A change was coming o'er tlie face of earth. A change, indeed ; all nature's face was changed, And rendered youthful in the eyes of men. The trees, which for a thousand years had seemed Like gibbets in a mist, took beauteous forms ; The scentless flowers filled the air with scent. And claimed their tints of yore. The dew-drops shone, 8 POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. The ripened corn resumed its golden hue, And through the world there passed a breeze of life. See how ^neas Sylvius^ takes delight In the blue waving fields of flow'ring flax ; And thou, Lorenzo,- who didst note the charm Of early winter in thy princely home Of Anibra, where the dry and rustling leaves Made, in the thinned woods, the steps of one Sound like the steps of many ; where the cranes, In homeward flight, were printed on the sky ; Where still the cypress some few birds concealed. What hand in painting nature equals tliine 1 For thee the Xereids sported as of old Among the sparkling waters, and the Fauns Lui'ked 'mid the forest green. For thee the streams Were weed-crowned Gods, with voices sweet and low. All Fancy's numberless creations fair Eepeopled nature ; for at last, at last, The long-lost world of Hellas had been found ; The Sea of Ages, in whose silent depths Antiquity lay bxxried, then cast up Its richest treasures. Every passing day Brought some new waif : a priceless manuscript, A noble statue, or an antique gem. Italian painters did what once the Greeks Had done in marble, and created forms Of lasting beauty. N'ay, the very Gods Of Greece revived, and on the canvas stood Disguised as saints. On capital and frieze The curly Greek Acanthus bloomed again ^ Pius II., Enea Silvio del Piccolomini, 1405-1464. - Part of Lorenzo de Medici's poem of "Ambra"will be found among the translations at the end of this volume. A DWARF. Beneath the chisel ; Tritons spouted high From Tuscan founts ; and Greek divinities Peeped from the oaken carvings of a chair. Those days are far ; though still the Sea of Time Casts on the shore, at intervals, a waif — An armless Venus or a shattered Faun — From the great "WTeck of Greek antiquity. And who can tell what treasures of the past Still in the bosom of the future lie 1 All sleepmg beauty must at last awake, ^or in its sleep grows old. But I perceive That, in my flight through ages, I have left The Dwarf behind me, somewhere in the tenth Or the eleventh century, his own Black times. He suits these better days but ill ; So let him in his own black times remain. 10 THE LADDER Life is a ladder which we all must climb ; Some climb alone and some in company ; Some clad in purple, some in tattered rags ; Some climb it followed by their fellow-men In livery, and some by hungry duns ; Some followed by policemen half the way ; Some climb the ladder boldly, sword in hand, And others slowly, yawning at each step ; And each man bears a load upon his back : With one it is a heavy bag of gold ; Another upwards with a load of aches. Or, worse, a load of evU conscience goes. All with a weight of care. And all along The ladder's length are overhanging boughs. With fruits and flowers for the strong to pluck ; But many, snatching, overreach and fall. And there are boughs, beneath whose grateful shade We fain woidd stop, but we are hurried on, As in a treadmill, to the journey's end ; And woe to him who looks too far ahead, ^or feels each step that comes beneath his foot. Much angry hustling on the way occurs ; THE LADDER. 11 The steps are narrow, and the crowd is great : Some men, in mounting, cling to others' skirts. But some to others lend a helping hand, And care bu.t little how they fare themselves. Some on the ladder write their names for those Behind to read, but most can leave no trace. Most climbers drop before they get half-way ; Some, jostled off by treacherous neighbours, fall ; And some jump off, of their own sad accord. But iew are those who reach the topmost bars, With hair fast whitening as they upward go. And gathering honours as they take each step ; And when once there, they heave a gentle sigh. And, scarcely conscious, softly smile — and die. 12 THE WARNING. I STOOD ■with others in a Paris street, And watched the soldiers marching to the war. Their silken colours fluttered in the breeze, Their polished bayonets glittered in the sun, Their martial music played a merry tune, And each man bore a flower or sprig of green Stuck in his cap, or fastened to his gun ; And as they went, they loudly laughed and sang, And aimed a jest at many a looker-on. But all around a gloomy silence reigned. And not a word in answer did they get, But every face a look of pity wore. 'Tis strange, I thought, that those who die should laugh, And those should mourn whose fate it is to live. An old old woman standing by my side. All shrunk and bent, with hair as white as snow, Put out her hands and cried aloud, " God ! The wretched boys are singing ! Don't they know That they are marching to the butcher's shop 1 " But aU unheeding passed the human stream ; Her warning words fell on no ear but mine. She still stood there long after they had passed. THE WARNING. 13 And still I saw her shake her aged head, As the gay sounds in distance died away. And weU she might ; ere three short weeks had passed, Most of those men were killed at Mars-la-Tour. 'Tis thus perhaps the white-winged angels stand By the roadside of this our daily life, And wring their hands, and call in vain to stop, As we pass by, Avith jest and laugh and song, And hurry on to many a bitter end. IMan laughs the loudest on the road to ruin — A hoUoAv laugh, no doubt, but loud enough To drown the voice that warns him of his fate. u THE STOEY OF A TKUXK. A SIMPLE tale aLout a common thing — Or rather say, it is no tale at all, But a mere sketch. But oft prosaic things Possess a deeper pathos for the heart, Wlien on them falls a tear of pity shed At hope deferred or petty tyranny, Than all the lyrics born of laurelled brows. A poor French governess had, in ten years Of patient work in Eussia, earned enough To found a schoolroom in her native land. As evil fate would have it, she returned Just at the moment when the war broke out BetAveen the French and Germans. Who forgets Those July days of fatal 'Seventy, All dark and sultry with the coming storm ; When, like an omen, all the Paris leaves Came prematurely whirling to the ground ; When on both sides was hurried mustering Of horse and foot ; when Avild confusion seized All those Avho by their honest commerce lived, And traffic ceased between the hostile States ? She made her way to Paris, but, alas ! THE STORY OF A TRUNK. 15 Her trunk remained in German hands at Koln. Xow this unhicky trunk contained wellnigh Her little all, and, Avhat she valued most, Her Russian testimonials, without which She could do nothing ; and, who knows, perhaps Some tender tokens or some letters dear. For who can pass the earliest bloom of youth And not have such 1 The poor woman wrote And wrote again, and almost gave up hope ; But yet at last the long-wished answer came From the officials of the rail at Kfiln. All full of hope, without a moment lost, She brought the letter for me to translate, As she could not read German, and I could. She might be thirty-two or thirty-three; She was not handsome, yet I oft have seen A handsome woman that has pleased me less. For there was something in her eyes that said She was not of the vulgar or the vain. The note began with mock civility : The writer was a soldier, and would bring Her trunk himself to Paris very soon, For he was going thither Avith his king And full five hundred thousand German hearts. And then. ... I crushed the letter in my hand. And begged that she would let me tear it up, Because, I said, I could not read the rest, As it contained an insult foul and base. She nodded slowly in assent, and heaved A sigh that seemed to say, " Can such men be 1 " But spoke no word of anger nor of scorn : For like an arrow aimed against a rock, A jest aimed at the breast of Purity, 16 POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. With blunted point falls harmless to the ground ; And if a tear was trickling down her cheek, I think it was not at the cruel joke, But for her luckless trunk. She thanked me then, And went her way ; nor have I seen her since. She sank in that great whirlpool of a siege. The Prussian soldier doubtless kept his word, And came to Paris with his regiment. I wish that I could add that there he met The fate that should such cowards overtake. But 'tis more like the ways of life to think That he returned to Prussia, with his share Of laurels and a medal on his breast. While the poor victim of his insolence Stood hours daUy in the melting snow. To get her share of black and mouldy bread ; As many a thousand other women did, With no reward, except a smile from heaven. 17 \> ..^■ THE STAREE. I CALL to mind a little silent scene I one day witnessed in a quiet street. The war had barely hurried to its close ; The dead were buried, and the wounded men Were slowly now emerging from their beds, And feebly crawling in the April sun — Palo, broken shadows of their former selves. An open carriage stood before a door, And on a chair had just been lifted in A young lieutenant of the French Hussars, Crippled for life by fragments of a shell. As his attendant left him for a while. To seek for something left within the house, A woman of the lower classes, plain. Shabbily dressed and elderly, took up Her stand close to the carriage door, and stai'cd. She stared in so intent and strange a Avay, No human creature could have stood it long. The wounded youth in turn looked hard at her, And on his brow a gathering frown appeared, That plainly said, " Xow, woman, pass tliy Avay. For thou hast stared enough at me." "When lo 1 B 18 POEMS IX BLANK VERSE. A sudden change came o'er his pallid face, And like a cloud the frown from oif it passed ; A something in the woman's eye had gleamed, A murmured word had dropped upon his ear, That showed she stared in pity at his woe. And not in mere offensive idleness. The wounded youth stretched out a feeble arm. And gently pressed the woman's hand in his ; And then the carriage bore him swift away. A stare is ever an imseemly thing ; Eut still I think that such a stare as this, If humbly pleaded at the gate of heaven, By some excluded Peri of to-day, Would gain admittance for that erring soul. 19 SUNSET SKETCHES. IX THE PLAIN OF LOMBAEDY. 'Tis sweet in early summer, at the close Of a long dreamy afternoon, to stand Upon the lower slope of Apennine, Above ^•Emilia's capital, and look On to the plain of northern Italy. Below is stretched the many-towered town, A world of brown tile roofs, from which, confused, A hum of life uprises and a sound Of many bells ; the boundless plain, which is At first a maze of gardens, villas, walls, Of fields of corn and hemp crossed and rccrossed By lanes of green acacia and of ehn. Becomes a bluish Lombardy immense, With here and there a whitish patch which may Be Modena or Eeggio, or aught else. And so it keeps until the set of sun, When, letting fancy play, Ave might suppose That the great Painter of the Universe Displays his palette to the eyes of all ; A skyey palette, on whose western edge Are spread, at random, all the brilliant hues 20 POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. Eequired for tlie morrow's work ; required To paint the fruits and flowers of the Avorld, The fields, the meads, the woods, the lakes, the hills, And the broad ocean. There are long bright streaks Of crimson on a golden ground, and green And crocus, saffron, orange, pearl, and tints Purpureal, fitted for some brighter world Than this of ours ; and through the whole there shines A wondrous light, transcendent, which divides In fan-like rays. But it is well to turn Away before the earth and sky relapse Into the tintless twilight, and the hour Brings something like a sadness to the heart. II. ON THE ALPS, Say, have ye stood at eve in Chamonix, And watched the boundless slopes of snow and ice That midway hang between the earth and heaven, Lit up and bathed with crimson by the sun. When to itself the mountain seems to take All that there is of colour in the world 1 Then, when the transient flusli has reached its height, And for a moment in its glory stood. It quickly fades into a paler pink, "V^Tiich next becomes a dove colour that Avanes Into a grey. And then the chill of death Appears to pass upon the giant mass That cold and didl and unsubstantial stands. And mingles in the twilight with the sky. 21 I. ^'^ THE MOOX- FIEND. It is the forest in the dead of night, ISIoonHt and beautifid. The silence weighs Oppressive on the mind ; and fancies come Unbidden, for the old and moss-grown trees Take shapes most human, and they seem to watch The lonely traveller, lest he should chance To overhear the secrets \vhich they pass Unto each other. See, their leafy heads Incline and touch, and then the whis^Der runs From tree to tree. A single rider goes Across the forest through the night ; and now The road lies by interminable pools Of sleeping water left by recent floods. Far as the eye can see on either hand Is moonlit water and the trunks of trees Mossy and ancient ; overhead the boughs. The forest in its sleeping beauty seems Implanted in a pure and moonlit lake. Through which the horse and rider thread their way. The trembling column which the moon projects Upon the Avater, dances by their side. 22 rOEMS IN BLANK VERSE. Playing at hide-and-seek behind the trees. "Why starts the horse thus with a sudden fear, And trembluig, with distended nostrUs, stands, Rooted to earth 1 AVhy does the rider feel A sudden thrill strike strangely through his frame ] Upon the water, there among the trees, jS'ow seen, now hidden, moves a female form, Bathed in the moonlight, in a silvery dress, Which mingles with the water as she glides, And dies away in a long rippling wake. Xo words she utters as she moves along : But when she seems about to disappear Behind the trees, she slowly turns and shows Her deadly beauty to the traveller. And beckons twice. And on the following morn They find him lying in the road, beside The stagnant pool ; and near him stands his horse, And wistful looks, and neighs as if for help. 23 A SUMMEE STOEM. A SIGH seems by awakening N'atnre heaved — A sigli that passes on from tree to tree, And misses not a single blade of grass In yonder fields. Tlie greyish olive-trees Turn white as if by magic, and appear Endowed with life. The aspens by the stream Become a silver ripple, and the stream Itself is backward brushed by hand unseen And rapid ; Avhile the few dead leaves upon 1'he road are suddenly caught up And whirl. And then a sound which is this time Not Nature's sigh, but Nature's hiss, runs through The valley, and the tallest trees are bent Like wands. Then, Earth, thy chastisement begins, And angry Heaven's cruel lash of rain Falls on thy hilly shoulders. To the storm All quickly yields : the light-green rising corn Is beaten down and lies in clotted sheaves ; The vines which lately were in garlands hung Between the poplars, are torn off, and stream High in the wind. But a few moments more, 24 POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. And all is over. The rain is falling still, But there is calm ; and men can look abroad, And through the rain see sunlight on the hills. No sound is heard around, save the dull roar Of the augmented stream, until the note Of some impatient bird strikes on the ear. From dripping boughs. 25 THE TWIXS. Know ye the fate of that unhappy Twin Wlio, to his brother bound by fleshy tie "[Inseverable, woke one day to find That brother dead, and felt himself alive 1 And how, in frightfid company with Death, He died, of an unutterable fear 1 There be two other twins of ancient race. Body and Mind, bound by like fatal tie ; Ordained to walk through life with equal step. And under pain most horrible condemned To leave the world together, even as They entered it. Woe to the longer-lived ! Woe to the Body when tlie mind has fled. Poor helpless clod, that knows not where to turn ! But worse the fate of the iiuperious Mind, Born to create, to soar, and to command. That wakes one day and finds its brother dead. And calls u])()n him vainly to arise ; Bound to a corpse, it feels the thrill of life. 26 POMPEII. 1^0 trace remained upon the face of earth Of those forgotten cities -which lay deep Entombed, in all their beanty, at the foot Of treacherous Vesuvius, but whose fate Had once appalled mankind. The world was old : !N'ear twice a thousand springs had passed since then, ^ear twice a thousand autumns. Year by year The unsuspecting peasant drove his plough Above the sleeping streets, and year by year The rustling ripple of the golden corn Passed and repassed with every shifting breeze ; While underneath, untO. the day shoiild come, The fresco and mosaic still endured In all the freshness of their pristine tints, And aU the records of a daily life. So like our o^vn, brought to a sudden stop, As by a day of judgment premature And partial, lay intact. And now we stroll In these unburied streets, or sit and watch The bright green panting hzards as they dart And pause, and peep, and dart again among The antique walls and pavements ; while the mind POMPEII. 27 Gets ever nearer to Antiquity, Until the great catastrophe appears In all its vi^'id horror. Once again The city lives, nor fears. We see its throng, Its sunny beauty and its carelessness. The many coloured a^vnings of its streets. Its verdiu'e, and its flowers, and its fruits, Its houses, and their shady inner courts ; AVe even hear the splash of fountains still. When dreamy noontide's heat had lulled the mind, And Mature btisked in sunshine ; when the capes And distant hills were shadowy and famt ; "WTien aU was listless, and no sound was heard Save lapping wavelets of the tideless sea ; When every flower drooped its languid head. And air was heavy with the August scents, Day turned to night ; the face of earth was changed, And Hell let loose on Heaven ; — for what shores Could claim the name of Heaven, if not these 1 In that unnatural gloom none knew or cared When came the real night, which brought no peace ; But ever and anon, with lurid glare, The torches of the fugitives, who sought Each other in the quickly altering streets. Lit up the falling ashes, and exposed Some face of horror. High above the shouts — Above the iinknoAvn sounds that came from earth — Above the crash of columns and of Avails, — Eose the shrill cry of wounded animals, Or shriek of women trodden under foot. Death came from every side. The A\Tetches found N'o safety in the courage of despair, No pity in the elements. Tlie air 28 POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. Was heavy with the ever-falling ash, Like lurid snowdrifts in the plains of HeU ; The waving earth refused to bear their steps, Or suddenly en wrapt them in their flight With vapours deadly and invisible, which made The mother drop the babe she held, the bride Her bridegroom's hand, the miser drop his gold And bite the dust ; and then the ashes hid Their bodies ; while, in cellars too secure. Where many sought for life, Death took his time. And dealt in nameless horrors, as with him Who, taking refuge with his dog, died first. And then was eaten. Eut all this was deep Beneath the livid ashes which enclosed Pompeii now, and hid her from the world. 11. ELEGIES A CHEISTMAS ELEGY. Gentle, witli ours compared, is the rudest of Italy's winters : Ever at hand is the sun, ready all ills to repair ; Green are the garments of earth, and almost as fresh as in sunniRT ; Warm are the tints of the hills, free are the rivers from ice. There amid holm-oaks and bays, and laurels and trellises verdant, Winter, while Spring is asleep, stealeth his flowery garb ; Ay, and his heavenly smile ; so that those with Winter familiar, INIeeting him thus in disguise, hail him, delighted, as Spring. Yet, notwithstanding this beauty, that Italy wears in the Avinter, Almost a prison it seems, when I remember the Xorth. Where, in his mantle of snow, with icicles bearded and hoar-frost. Winter holds Nature for months, clasped in his shaggy embrace. For, in the lands that are cold, there resideth a poetry homely. Cosiness-loving and sweet, ne'er understood in the South. Born of the long winter evenings, it lurks by the hearth that is cheery, "WTien, in the darkness outside, moaneth the pitiless wind : Living in customs ancestral, witli rough hospitality mingled, Unto the homes of the T^Torth great is the charm that it lends. There was my boyhood spent, and memories dear of Christmas Often come home to my mind out of the years that are dead : Fir-trees all coveretl with toys, and blazing with numberless tapers. Filling the room with a scent, mingled of fir and of wax — 32 ELEGIES. Pyramids radiant and ricli : and the faces of children around them, Happy and Avistfiil and sweet, waiting with wonder their share ; Pu(klings encircled with flame, and pies for the Gods too delicious ; Customs derived from the past, cheering both body and soul ; Branches of holly all prickly, with beautiful berries of scarlet ; Branches of mistletoe strange, laden with berries of white. Outdoor memories too : the feel of the snow in its crispness. Taking the print of the foot, softly, with faintest of creaks ; Or, where the snow has been swept, the ring of the earth that is frozen Under the foot as you stamp, warming the limbs that are numb ; Snow from the branches dislodged, by the breeze that is gentle and fitful, Falling in spray to the ground, bright in the sun without heat ; Snowballing furious and fast, and the thud of the well-patted snow- ball. Stopped by a wall or a tree, leaving its record behind ; Dead leaves white with the frost, and bushes with crystals incrusted, Sparkling and delicate fur, turning to silver the twigs. Still insecure is the ice ; and the boys are hovering round it, Cautiously trying its strength, keeping one foot on the brink, Throwing a stone now and then, that sings as it bounds o'er its surface ; Only the boldest advance, braving the ominous cracks. Skaters begin to appear, the sky with anxiety watching ; Strong enough soon is the ice ; soon is the fun at its height. Slides by the margin are formed ; the sliders press close on each other, Shouting with glee as they go, falling at last in a heap, liooths on the banks are erected, by vendors of comforting liquors, Or by the letters of skates : idlers by dozens arrive. Watching the crowd of the skaters revolving in circles incessant, Flitting like shadows unheard, swiftly in maze without end ; I'oised on the breadth of a hair, and moving in beautiful balance, Backwards or forwards at will, over the surface new born. Mighty enchanter was he, who, taking advantage of Nature's Temper most transient, the frost, furnished this art unto men ; A CHRISTMAS ELEGY. 33 Teaching them motions unknown, and which seemed out of reach of their species ; Choosing, as field of his skill, that which is gone ill a day ! Beautiful art that I loved, by a cruel denial of movement Eendered still dearer now, ne'er shall I know thee again. Lost are these pastimes for me, with the ^North I shall never return to- Lost with the health that is gone — lost with the years that have fled. Only their memories last ; the reality long has departed. Even as vanished the ice, touched by the breath of the thaw. 34 oxroED. Fast is the pace that we go, in the first of the stages successive, After the journey of life once has heen fairly begun. Seldom we stop to look back, and to measure the distance accomplished ; If we should happen to turn, 'tis for a moment, not more. Only when time has elapsed, and the climbing gi-ows ever more rugged, Faii'ly we stop and look back, searching the plain underneath. Cities and houses we see, through which we have passed on the journey, Leaving in each as we went that which we cannot reclaim. Ten are the years that are past ; and now, on the arduous pathway. Sadly I turn and look round, searching in memory's plain. Many the cities I see, but one above all in its beauty, Slowly, as rises the mist, taketh a tangible shape. Colleges many and old, that nestle 'mid foliage ancestral, Near to a river I see, covered with lightest of craft ; Pleasant and pensive retreats, whose beautiful inner quadrangles Look upon carpets of turf, fit for the feet of a queen. Blackened and battered by time is the stone that for ever is crumbling, Yet has for centuries stood, yet may for centuries stand. Beautiful precincts medieval, connected with aU that is greatest, Softened and hallowed by age, peopled for ever by youth ! Many are we who look back, with mingled affection and sadness, Unto the days that we spent, happy and young, in your shade. OXFORD. 35 Fairer and dearer ye grow, as the number of summers and winters Slowly aizgments unperceived, since we have bidden adieu. Fairer and dearer ye grow, as we feel how since tlien we have altered ; If we retiu'ned for a day, scarce would ye know us again. He whom ye knew as so gay, has become an habitual grumbler, Not having met in the world that which he thought was his due. He who was open of heart, has grown to be cold and suspicious ; He who the wittiest was, dull has become from routme. Even the man that succeeds, and is working his way to the woolsack, Or to a surplice of lawn, or to the Ministers' bench, Thinks with a sigh of regret of the time of his youth by the Isis, Caring the less for the prize as it approaches his grasp. All of us something have lost, that we know we can never recover, Graver we go our ways, bearing our burden of care. Oxford I fondly remember : the hall in its noble proportions. Panelled Avith blackest of oak, old as the college itself ; Where are arrayed all around the portraits of dead benefactors, "Wearing their garb of the past — faces severe and sedate. Which by the tremulous flare of the giant fireplace lighted, Eestless appear in their frames, taking the queerest of shapes. Under them tables are ranged, where the clatter of tongues and of tankards. Mixed with the noisy jest, tells of tlie presence of youth. All, save the table supreme, where the Dons in their glory are sitting, High out of reach of the crowd, raised on a platform of state. Yes, and the chapel I see, to which in the mornings we hurried ; Eound it, in cap and in gown, gathers a numerous group. Kear to the door, in a niche, a iigure in stone of the Virgin, Headless and mouldering, stands, telling of Catholic days. Likewise of oak is the chapel, with windows whose tinted reflections, Orange and purple and green, fall on the pavement of stone. StiU I the chapel-bell hear, and a sound, as of choristers, cometh Fainter but beautiful still, back thi-ough the distance of yeai-s. 36 ELEGIES, Pretty and snug were my rooms ; they looked on tlie Common Eoom Building ; Under the windows, the lawn stretched in its ample extent. Could I revisit the place, I think I should hesitate somewhat Ere I set foot in them now, different from what they were then. Unto the room he is fond of, the occupant quickly imparteth Sometliing we cannot define, — part, as it were, of himself — Maybe it lies in the way that the inmate his furniture places ; Maybe it lies in the things carelessly scattered about. 'Tis the most transient of gifts, which, different in mind, his successor. Scarce has he entered the room, ruthlessly brushes away. Who in my rooms is installed'? the thought has its charm and its sadness ; N'othing but this can I tell — different he is from myself. Is it a rowing-man strong, whose existence is all in his muscles, Sitting there tu'ed, inert, after the Avork of the day 1 Wliat if a reading man 'tis, whose " oak " is unceasingly " sported," Sitting alone with his lamp, working till daylight shall dawn 1 What if a dreamer it is, or religious enthusiast ardent, Left to himself by the rest, brooding o'er life and its aims 1 Or is the occupant fast, and never alone for a moment ; Lavish of breakfasts and " wines," constantly playing at cards 1 Strong is the scent of cigars, the scout on the staircase is ever Cider-cup fetching in haste, or sherry-cobbler and straws. Oh, how the life of those days recurs as I write, and is vivid ! Faces of old college friends, details forgotten return. Oxford, not perfect art thou ; l)ut let not thy faults be remembered ; Here, where in sadness I write, asking for nought but a sigh ! Only the things that are good, and memories dear to many, Let me attempt to recall, leaving forgotten all else. A\niolesome are Latin and Greek, but the best of the lessons that Oxford Unto her children imparts, not in the schools must be sought ; OXFOKD, I • 37 Many indeed are their forms, derived from the spirit that dwelleth Lastingly over the place, born of tradition and time. Good is the residence here, m these colleges ancient, poetic ; Here, if it ever was true, sermons are "VATitten in stones. Good is the intercourse free with minds that are active and varied, Favouring all that is best, courtesy, manhness, thought. Good are the long-dra^vn debates, where eloquence, destined to conquer, Measures its pinions, and youth borrows the wisdom of age. Good are the walks in the country, through hamlets with ivy-clad churches ; "\'\^iiling, in talk with one's chum, gently the hours away. Yes, and the long afternoons that with him one spends on the river, Lazily mooring the skiff under the boughs that o'erhang. \Vhat has become of thee, Grahame, since letters, growm rarer and rarer. Ceased altogether, and Fate led i;s so widely apart 1 iMany a morsel, since then, of the bitterest bread have I eaten ; Wiser thou wast than myself, happier I hope thou hast been ! Good are the pastimes athletic, and good is the heart-stirrmg boat-race, Nobly contested and won, fairest of sights in the world. Say, have you stood on the bank, when the Eights, after leaving the barges. Swiftly yet leisurely pass, seeking thek place for the start 1 Say, have you noted the oars all splendidly striking in cadence, Then the long feathering sweep, kissing the face of the stream ? ^latch me, ye lands, if ye can, the men in their light silken jerseys, Flower of youth and of strength, shirking nor toil mn- pain ! Heard ye the giuil They are off! and the hum and the flutter increases, Showing how keenly the crowd watches the fate of the race. See, in the distance they come, and their partisans, heated and breathless. Following close on the bank, shouting for ever, Well rowed ! 38 ELEGIES. Look, our boat is astern ; and the distance, by Jove, is decreasing ! Louder the shouting becomes ; now it has turned to a roar. See, we are gaining upon them ! the oars, as they pass through the water. Bend like a wand. It is grand ! Wilder their rowing has grown. Now for the final spurt ! Well rowed ! Drive it out of the water ! Now our bow to their stern ! well steered ! and, by heavens, they're bumped ! Ah ! it is long, long ago, since I shouted like this with the others ; Many a boat has been bumped, there on that river since then. New generations of rowers, and new generations of shouters, Closely each other succeed ; who has a thought for the old ? 39 ELIZABETH. DuRiXG the weary months, when Paris, all closely surrounded, Fought with starvation within, fought with the Germans without ; "VAHien, though the master of millions, no man could leave or re-enter. Were the need ever so great, either for others or self ; When many knew that a word, if into the city transmitted, Ruin Avoidd surely avert, fatal delusion remove : Greater perhaps was the suffering, deeper perhaps was the heart-ache, Caused by the stoppage of news, than by the stoppage of bread. Those who were pining for bread were only the hapless Parisians, Those who were pining for news numbered both them and the worl< History, when wilt thou tell, how many the mothers too tender, Wlio in that endless suspense died for the want of a word 1 Nothing, however, so tragical lies at the root of this story : 'Tis but a straw I picked up, drifting about in the storm. During the period of agony, when the political centre Wandered from Paris to Tours, wandering thence to Bordeaux, 1 was attached to an Embassy, which, A\ath other legations. Shared in the fortune of war, moving as Government moved. There at Bordeaux was the capital ; there in a heap were collected AU the official remains saved from the general Avreck : Over-worked public departments, embassies, bodies judicial, Newspaper offices, banks, great Paris houses of trade ; Also a nondescript crowd of such as in time of invasion Hang on the footsteps of power, feeding on public disgrace : 40 ELEGIES. Place-hunters, demagogues, spies, contractors, soldiers of fortune ; All who had nothing to lose, or who had something to gain. Somehow 'twas rumoured abroad, the embassy could, as a favour, Letters to Paris transmit, over the enemy's lines. Having been granted the privilege, by the high Prussian command- ers. Messengers thither to send bearing what letters it chose. This was a cruel mistake, for we could no more an admittance Into the city obtain, than could the rest of the world. Letters, however, and messages, all of them destined for Paris, At our office poured in, in a continuous stream ; JSTearly all being accompanied by a most pressing entreaty, Giving a view of the case, showing how great was the need. Piteous, indeed, were the narratives, proving what suffering tortured During that weary siege thousands within and without ; Wlien all the notes to be forwarded treated of matters so urgent, Friends and relations to save, heartrending fears to appease, Difficult is it to justify what my attention could rivet On a particular note, urgent far less than the rest. Who can dissect all the principles which our feelings determine. Fancy who can control, sympathy who can direct 1 I know no reason to give, except individual humour, "What brings a smQe to the one brmgs to the other a tear. She who the letter had sent, by name was Elizabeth Burton, Writing from England, I think, much in the following terms : " Humbly I beg of your lordship not to reject my petition, ]\Ierely to forward this note, which I have made very small ; 'Tis to my landlord I write, but one little line of entreaty. Just to take care of my room, saying that I shall retiu-n. Ah ! how little I dreamt, when but for three days I left Paris, So many months would elapse ere I should see it again ! Not until now have I realised what a home Paris was for me ; Nor, till I saw it no more, how I that little room loved. ELIZABETH. 41 Carefully locking the door, I carried the key into exile ; There on the table it lies, useless but dear old friend. Summer was hot when I left ; the window remained all Avide open ; Now it is bitterly cold ; snowstorm and rain must drive in. Ah ! how the scene must be desolate, where all was lately so happy ! Dead are the flowers I loved ; starved are the birds in the cage. Would I were back in the capital ; fain would I share its privations, — Sew for the soldiers all day — sit by the wounded all night, ]\Iaybe of aU that I left the landlord has taken possession For the arrears of rent, thinking I shall not return." As I this letter perused, and noted the writer's entreaties, Sorrow indeed did I feel that she had Avritten in vain. Much would I gladly have sacrificed but for the means to assist her. Twice I the letter re-read, then put it by with the rest. Who was Elizabeth Burton, who thus to high persons official Wrote in a tone of romance, and to their feehngs appealed 1 Clearly the letter showed character, and a poetical nature : Doubtless the writer was young — new to the ways of the world. Why did she live by herself, in one little room, unattended 1 All in the letter proclaimed, free from aU sin was her life. y Was she an artist perhaps, and studying painting or music 1 Or a strange runaway girl, living alone and concealed 1 Poor the maiden was probably — poor in Avorldly possessions — But all the richer in mind, if my own instinct told true. Thus did I lot my thoughts carry me, till an ideal Eliz'beth Grew and took shape in my mind, fair as the dawning of day. Beautiful power of Fancy ! Such are the slender materials Wliich for the poet suffice, forming the base of his dream, StiU dost thou live in my memory, fair little airy enchantress, — Such as I wished thee to look — such as I thought thee to be. Sickened and fagged with my work — surrounded by minds uncon- genial — Loathing convention and forms — yearning for leisure and friends — 42 ELEGIES. Oh ! in thy jilain little room, how often in thought I took refuge, Taking my place by thy side, tending thy flowers and birds ! Say, wast thou not a reality, when from afar I beheld thee 1 Comfort and friend of those days, say, wast thou only a dream 1 II. ^Nearly a year had gone by, and Paris had fought and surrendered ; Those that were in had streamed out, those that were out had streamed in. France was again with her capital, after their long separation, Proud of its useless defence, eager to soften its wounds. 'Twas but a respite from suff"ering for the unfortunate city ; Yet had the worst to be felt, still had the Commune to come. Light-headed Daughter of Misery, born in the gutter and sewer, Perfect indeed was thy work, sure thy incendiary torch ! When will the stateliest palaces, lately the models of beauty, Now shells empty and black, rise from their ashes agam 1 Shattered the trees in the Tuileries, headless the statues of marble. Marked by the bullets each house, close as the holes in a sieve. Split was the frame of society down to its lowest foundation. Sullen and cowed were the poor ; not reassured were the rich : Lost was the sense of stability, gone men's belief in the future. Everj^thing still seemed to lurch, after the earthquake had passed. Yet to this dreary wilderness life was not long in returning. Quick was the mind that creates, busy the hand that -repairs. Scarcely the ever re-echoing deep-voiced cannon was silent. Industry took to her looms. Commerce reopened her shops. Luxury, treading uneasily in the late home of starvation, Slily returned in disguise, where she had openly reigned. Pleasure, quite modest at first, and shy 'mid the general mourning, Now, by unnoticed degrees, sought her habitual haunts. Scattered about by the hurricane, men were still seekmg each other. Friend was still looking for friend, nay, often father for son. ELIZABETH. 43 D(Dctors were seeking their patients, lawyers were seeking their clients, Anxious to know who was ruined, anxious to know who was dead. Tradesmen were seeking their customers, teachers were seeking their pupils : Who could retie, in a day, all that the war had cut through 1 Since my return to the capital, where all was still so exciting. Seeing new faces each day, meeting again with old friends, Seldom indeed did my memory turn to the fair Correspondent Whom I had seen in my dreams durmg my stay at Bordeaux. Still, in her youth and simplicity, fair as an opening flower. Did she return now and then such as she there had appeared ; And I would catch myself wondermg whether I ever should meet her, 'Now that she doubtless was back in her beloved little room. As I was sitting one day, engaged on official despatches. One of the servants came in holding a card in his hand, Saying a lady was there who asked to see me on business : Erief would she be, had she said ; only a minute — no more. Carelessly taking the card, I read. Miss Elizabeth Burton. Written in ink were the words, in the same hand as of yore. As she those simple words wrote, but little indeed she suspected \^^lat an effect they would have, how many thoughts they would wake. Little she guessed I should hesitate ere I the waiting-room entered, Hearing the beat of my heart as I the door-handle turned. She was alone in the room, nor heard she my step as I entered ; But at the window she stood, watching intently the street, Where all the opposite houses, by fire and bullets disligiu-ed, Still, with a terrible truth, told of the great city fight. There as she stood unsuspecting, graceful enough was her figure ; Yet, ere I looked on her face, instinct had told me tlu; truth : Poor ideal Elizabeth ! Youthful and beautiful being ! Thou that my heart had conceived, thou wast a thing of the past. 44 ELEGIES. This was the end of the mystery ! This was the end of the idyl ! Angry I felt with myself, angry — God help me ! — with her. How did she dare to be otherwise than as my fancy had painted 1 Or, at least, Avhy had she come 1 AVhy had she broken the charm 1 But as I looked on the dress, all shabby and worn, she was clad in, And on that pale and thin face, worthier feelings returned. jMiglit she not once have been fair, as fair as my day-dream had seen her. Ere she was faded by time, ere she was faded by want 1 And my ideal Elizabeth, were she now standing before me. Would she not wither one day, would she not look even thus 1 Softened I hope was my voice, and gentle I hope was my manner, As I the window approached where the poor visitor stood. Simple and short was her narrative : she was a teacher of English, And had been teaching for years when the great war-storm burst forth. Little she earned by her work — her pupils were all of the humblest ; Stni she had managed to live, till aU was wrecked by the siege. During the long months of idleness, all her small savings had perished; All she had left in her room, landlord had sold for the rent ; Sold was her small stock of books, all presents from dear old pupils ; Sold was her small store of dress, cruelly needed, alas ! All her old pupils were gone and scattered in different directions ; - Some in the war had been killed, some in the siege had been ruined. Vainly for new ones she sought ; who cared to take lessons in English 1 No one had leisure to learn, no one had money to spare. Therefore she offered her services, if I required a copyist. Or to do any small work, so as a trifle to earn. Poor, pale, real Elizabeth ! frail withered leaf in the tempest ! As I looked into her face, almost my dream I forgot. Something I gave her to do ; and secretly vowed to befriend her, Half for reality's sake, half for the sake of a myth. 45 THE FLUTE-PLAYEPJ That whicli on eartli is the frailest, Time with his scythe often misses ; Sweeping a city away, leaving unbroken a vase. Who does not often exclaim, as he treads in the steps of the Mower, " Strength, indeed thou art weak ; weakness, indeed thou art strong ! " Come, I will show you a tomb — 'tis that of an ancient Etruscan ; In it a woman's remains, crumbling away into dust. See still intact is a Flute, in what was the hand of the player ; Centuries twenty, nay more, mute has it lain by her side. • Dead is the race she belonged to, and dead is the language she uttered, Dead are the laAvs she obeyed, dead is tlie creed that she held ; Yet her ephemeral presence hath left us a tangible vestige ; Empires leave but a name ; that which endures is a Flute. Doubtless her music was primitive, yet for the Gods all-sufficient, If it was good for her time, if in men's ears it was sweet. Flute, be a potent enchanter, and come to the aid of my fancy ; Clothe her again in tlie flesh, such as she stood in her day ; Youth to her figure restore. Beauty bestow on her features ; Some of the breath that she gave, give to the player again. Shape hath she taken already. How strangely distinct is the phantom ! Fairer, perhaps, than in life ; iiction is fairer than truth. ^ Written after a visit to the Etrascan iluseum at Bologna. 46 ELEGIES. Even the music I hear ; 'tis faint, and as if from a distance ; Simple and plaintive the air, young is the musical art. Why does she stop in her playing, and listless, the instrument holding. Wistfully gaze into space, lost in the mazes of thought 1 Tell me thy story, maiden ! all language is clear to the poet, When it in purity comes straight from the depths of the heart. See, on the lips of the player a word of emotion is trembling. . . . Ah ! I awake from my dream — all, save the flute, melts to air. 47 A BLIND BEGGAE. Hard is the fate of the blind, the blind that are rich and are read to : What of the fate of the poor, plunged in a night without end ? Woe to the blind without friends, or whose friends are illiterate rustics ! Blindness for them is a grave, worse than the grave that Avill come. In it the mind is enclosed, and decays, in its dark isolation. Slowly, as years pass away, bringing nor help nor relief. Now I will draw you a picture, and almost still life I may caU it : Merely a beggar who sits near to the door of a church ; There in the morning they place him, and thence in the evening they take him. Nought does he hear but the steps, hastening by in the streets ; Early 'tis yet in the morning ; he leans on the base of a pillar ; Turned to the sky is his face ; open his eyes that are dead. Scarce has he reached middle age; and he bears that expression of patience, "Which to the features of man blindness alone can impart. Yes, it is early as yet, the children to school are proceeding ; Some, as the beggar they pass, t"\\dtch at his hair or his beard. Slowly the hours pass by ; and only at intervals lengthy Slightly his body he shifts, easing his stiffening limbs. What doth the mind in its prison, as slowly the sun in the heavens Eises and reaches the noon, shedding no light for this man 1 48 ELEGIES. Does he the past reconstruct, and dwell on the days that were happy, When of the banquet of life still he could humbly partake 1 Or on the days of suspense, when fast he was losing his eyesight, Ere he had sunk into calm, ere resignation had come 1 Hard did he struggle and fight, to see tlirough the film that was thick'ning Cruelly, day by day, closing him in by degrees ; Straining with sickening heart to give to the vapoury outlines, Shapes more precise and exact ; vaguer and vaguer they grew. All things to shadows had turned, and the shadows grew fainter and fainter, Till in the gloom they were lost, — twilight had passed into night. Poor ill-fated mechanic ! Think'st thou that thou art the first one \\Tio against ISTatiU'e has fought, when she retakes what she gave 1 Low is the sun in its course, and long are already the shadows. Still he is there and unchanged, turned is his face to the sky ; Less a man does he seem, than a plant of a form that is human, Asking no friendship or care, needing no converse on earth ; Almost he seems to be dead ; but once or twice, when a copper Into his hand has been dropt, low has he murmured his thanks. Cold is the breeze of the evening ; his face and his fingers are whiter ; ISo other change does he show, since he was placed there at morn. 'Now it is twihght at last ; the children from school are returning ; Some, as the beggar they pass, pull him again by the hair ; Many the steps that he hears, and quick do they fall on the pavement: All are in haste to get home, after the work of the day. Few cast a glance as they hasten; but some as they pass by this beggar. Seeing liim motionless still, wish they could think that he sleeps. 49 '' : a^'- AN APRIL ELEGY. Seek for no omens in spring : the face of the spring is deceptive ; Ask not the leaves that are new ever a hope to confirm ; Xo, nor put faith in the birds renewing their chorus of jtromise ; Old is the song that they sing, old as the world and deceit. Ye who seek omens in spring, have ye ne'er, in the course of existence, Noted the fate that on earth follows the things that are fairl Sadness there lurks in the air, in the air that is balmy, of April, Even as under a smile, often a boding is hid. Yague is the feeling and dreamy ; a sense of the ill that the future Bringeth to what is too fair, bringeth to what is too good. Ah, I remember a day, when the blossoms, as now, in the orchards. Lay in a heap as in flakes, close round the stem of each tree ; Wlien, in the air of the morning, a shower had left, as at present, Odours earthy and rare, when it Avas sweet to be out ; "When, as in love witli herself, and oblivious of all that is fleeting, Nature, restored ;iuto youth, smiled in her beauty divine ; All that is freshest and sweetest, she laid on her board in profusion. Freely their share of her feast bidding all beings to take. All that had, torpid for months, reposed on the bosom of winter, liursting the numbing embrace, stepped into life at her call ; All that was injured and ill, obeying the quickening summons, Crawled in the warmth of the sun, feeling a moment of strength. Thus, among others, a youth, at last on this morning of mornings, After long weary months spent ui seclusion and pain. Feeble and dizzy, emerged, and looked on the earth in her beauty, Just at the moment Avlien spring wholly her garb liiul renewed. D 50 ELEGIES, All was so new and so strange ; the trees and the houses familiar, Different from what they had been, larger or smaller, appeared. Yet, when a moment had passed, and things had resumed their proportions, ^Nought in the landscape was changed ; only the season was new. Taking the hand of the friend who had watched by his bed in his illness. Sadly and famtly the youth murmured this final appeal : " Look how the leaves are unfurled ! how the blossoms are strewn on the pathway ! List to the song of the birds, there in the boughs overhead ! Ah, what a beautiful world ! no, never so fair have I seen it ; Why is it shown to me thus, if I so soon must depart 1 Is there, ye leaves, of the life that is poured at this time without measure Into the lap of the world, no tiny portion for me 1 I^ot when all IS'ature revives, and the sunshine of April aU-healing, Raises the flower that droops, nipped by the frost of the night 1 Not when all creatures that be, on earth and in air and in water. Quiver with strength new-infused 1 Am I alone left behind 1 Am I forgotten by spring 1 " Eut IN'ature smiled on in her beauty. Listening not to his prayer, breathed at her opening feast. All on his footpath was transient ; the things he invoked were all fleeting ; Scarce had they come into life, all disappeared from the scene. Where was the green overhead, and the birds with their singing that filled it 1 Where was the green under foot, six little months from that day 1 This was the last of his springs ; and the first of the vapours autumnal, Ended his poor reprieve, ended his hope and his fear. None should too rashly fomid hopes on the sunshine of April; for autumn, Silent and pallid and bare, treads in the footsteps of sprmg. 51 VENICE. Time is the greatest of painters ; he adds to the fabrics of genius That which no genius on earth ever has learned to impart. Tints on liis palette are spread, which the artist Avill never discover ; All that is harsh he subdues, making harmonious the whole. Slowly he works, and unseen ; and, alas ! as he painteth he weakens ; Beauty he gives with his right, strength he removes Avith his left. This is the price of his work; but art, though it be of the highest. If at perfection it aims, needeth his finishing touch. ,_^_^ Where has he worked as at Venice, this hoary old painter primeval 1 "Where, with more generous hand, lavished liis beautiful tints 1 Look at the stately canal, a witness of pageants forgotten. Which, like a serpent immense, winds through the city of isles. There do the palaces stand, whose names are familiar from story — Names that might long be deceased, had not the poet been there. Proud in their cruel desertion, they ask not the stranger's compassion, Yet, as he glides through their midst, who would refuse them a sighl There are they ranged on the shore, in theii' beautiful drapery time- stained, Sadly, to aU who will list, telling a tale of their youth ; Poor decrepit remains, that mournfully gaze on the waters, \\liich, like a mirror of truth, shows them how old they have groAvn. There in the silent canal, the splash of the oar hath its sadness ; He that hath heard it and sighed, knows what an elegy means. 52 ELEGIES. Venice, how clearly I see thee : the palace massive and splendid, AVhere, in the days of the past, thou didst thy Doges enthrone ; Where, in the great inner court, the sinister tablets of marble Tell us the name of the wretch, there to the waters condemned ; AVhere, in the eloquent gloom, the air is Avith mystery laden, All that is dead rising up ; ay, and the square of St Mark, Where the basilica stands, with its many round cupolas zinc-clad, Calling the thoughts to the East, back to the Byzantine days ; \\niere, to a measureless height, the massive quadrangular belfry Eises, alone and sublime, into the blue of the sky ; Where, from the ledges around, the cloud of slate-coloured pigeons, Daily, obedient to man, rustling, alight to be fed. Ay, and the alleys from isle unto isle, and the numberless bridges, Where, as you pass on your way, gondolas shoot underneath. Wlio can those bridges forget, or the miniature square in each islet, Where a well, fashioned of bronze, quaintly the centre adorns 1 Hard would it be to decide, in this noiseless city of islets, ^^laich has more charm for the mind, whether the land or the deep. Blue is the sea in the open, green in the narrower waters, Green and with streakings of brown under the high palace walls. Here in the narrow canals, in the shadow of bridge and of buttress. All that Romance has conceived presses confused on the mind. Time has returned on his steps, and we stand in a century by-gone ; All that surrounds us is great ; Venice is Venice again. Swiftly the gondola glides in the shade and the favouring twilight. Hearing its rostrum of steel, curved like the neck of a swan. Masked by its colour funereal, silent it speeds and mysterious, Saving the sound of the oar striking in cadence the wave. Holding concealed in its bosom a soul that unnoted is noting. Is it an errand of crime 1 Is it an errand of love 1 Venice, the star of the sea, has satellites many and radiant Set in the placid lagoon, blue as the vaidt of the sky, VENICE. 53 Motionless satellites they: the girdle of islands around her, Rearing their towers aloft, proud of belonging to her. Grand are these towers by day, but grander by night we belield them. Once when o'er city and isles huiiied the Spirit of Storm. Dost thou remember it still ? How we stood at the wide-open window, Into the dark looking out, hearing a drop or two fall 1 Then how at intervals rapid the isle of St George, by the lightning Stricken from out of the night, quivering came into view. Tinged by a roseate light, and its convent and belfry stupendous Printed one instant the sky, vivid, more vivid than day ? Dost thou remember it still, and the ships in the harbour at anchor ? Few in number, alas ! silent are now the lagoons — Emptiness here, but not ruin. Venice stUl stands in her glory, Such as she stood in her day when she was Queen of the seas, Seeming, as years pass away, to utter a piteous entreaty : Greatness, Prosperity, come ! all as ye left it remains ; Empty but splendid is all : the shell of a greatness departed ; Sad is the splendour intact, sadder than many a ruin. Gone is the soul of the place ; but the body in beauty endureth. Fair as the eye can behold, more so perhaps than in life. Death has a beauty at times, that entrances the poet and painter : Pale though she be and inert, Venice in death hath a smile ; Lying in state as it were, with her cro^vn of towers eternal. Stretched on a mantle of blue, draped in her marbles of yore. No, she was never more fair, since the day that she rose from the waters. Formed, like the Goddess of Love, out of the foam of the sea. 54 LAUEA. Death, with the noiseless step, whose form has appeared on my thresh- old. Turns and proceeds on his way, knocking at other men's doors ; Ay, at the doors of the strong, at the doors of the young and the happy. Even of those who, of late, seemed out of reach and secure. Death, thou Thing inconsistent, that snatchest, in passing, the blos- som. Leaving the fruit that is ripe, ready to drop at thy touch. Were there not others to take on the path thou wast silently treading 1 Why hast thou taken this girl, surely the fairest that was 1 What ! when so many there be, whose mission on earth is accom- plished. Waiting thy call undismayed, laden with honoiu'S and years — WT^iat ! when so many there be, who arc lying in pain and implore thee, Wretches to whom, from disease, life has a burden become — What ! when so many there be, who are pluckmg the hem of thy gar- ment. Courting thy chilly embrace, sated with ills undeserved, — This is the one thou selectest ? a creature of youth and of beauty Still all in love with her life 1 Death, thou art wanton indeed ! 55 E M E. EoME, are they changing thy face, and is it not such as I loved it, Dreamy, impressive, and grand 1 Kome, are they making thee young 1 Often I think of that winter : the rule of the Pontiffs still lasted ; Eome was the place of the past ; nought of the present she knew ; Freedom she knew not, nor science, nor many a thing that ennobles ; Silent she lived, and inert, courting prosperity not. But she possessed for the poet a magic, a drowsy enchantment : Something elegiac and rare, due to the power of Time. Time is the staple of elegy ; Time and the multiform action, Slow and poetic and sad, which it exerts on the Avorld. Rome was the city of ages, and such as the ages had made her. Working by gentle degrees ; who could be dead to the charm 1 Yet it was clear unto all, that the dyke which repelled innovation, Sapped from Avithin and without, soon would give way to the wave. Mature abhorreth stagnation, and raises the whirlwind to end it ; xVll upon earth must advance, even the Rome of the Popes. ir. Who, that has known and loved Rome, looks not back to the fii-st of the winters Which in her limits he spent, thinking how happy it was 1 56 ELEGIES. Whether we stood on the hill that looks down on the City Eternal, Letting the eye, far and wide, roam o'er its numberless roofs, High o'er whose level the ruins uprise like vessels gigantic, Stranded, half buried, forlorn, wrecked on the ocean of Time ; Or in the galleries strolled, 'mid the silent people of marble. Gifted with beauty divine — ay, and perpetual youth, Who so placid look on, while the world grows old, and we mortals Pass before them and die, after a life of a day ; Whether we lingered at dusk in the churches heavy with incense, ^^^lile, o'er the organ's deep peal, rose the high voices clear ; Or in the villas in May, among masses of bay and of ilex, Gathering, down in the dells, bunches of cyclamens pink ; Equally great was the charm, and beauty was ever around us ; Give me, ye Powers of Good, give me those days that are gone ! Give me again the delight, which a mind that was youthful and ardent Felt, as the realms of the Past suddenly then were disclosed, Dull and unreal no more, as they seemed in the school-books, but real, Crowded with tangible forms — column, arch, statue, and bust ! Fondly I loved to repeople those silent parts of the city Whence long ago life had ebbed, leaving its Avrecks on the shore. Tracts where the Goth and the Vandal seem still to be present in spirit ; Where every stone that you pass tells the Decline and the Fall ; Where the ephemeral green and the rubbish of empire mingle ; Where, in each desolate field, rises some landmark of Time. All, they are fast disappearing, those spaces endeared to the poet : Workmen already are here ; see, they are laying down streets. ^^^ork, ye masons, in peace ! ye lay the first stone of a ruin : That which man buildeth to-day, ivy to-morrow invades. III. Sweet are the gardens of Eome ; but one is for Englishmen sacred ; Who, that has ever been there, knows not the beautiful sjiot ROME. 57 AVliere our poets are laid, in the shade of the pyramid lofty, Dark grey, tipped as with snow, close to the turreted walls 1 Tall are the cypresses many, from wlaich in the evenings of summer, JSTightingale nightingale calls, soon as the twilight descends, l^ature around is profuse ; the rose and the ivy are mingled ; Fit for the poet the place, either in life or in death. All is eternal around, nor belongeth to nation now living ; Unto the world it belongs, unto the genius of man. Yet, with the things that are great, with the things that for ages have lasted. Mingle the things that are small, mingle the things of a day. Where do more daisies abound, and where do more violets nestle 1 "VYliere are the odours of spring fresher and sweeter exhaled 1 Well might the poet, who now liimself in this garden is buried. Say that it made one in love even Avith Death to be here. IV. Even as men have made use of her ruins gigantic as quarries, Forming, from out of their store, structures imposing and new, So, as to things of the mind, is Eome th' inexliaustible quarry Whence, as the ages have passed, nations their needs have supplied. Languages, States and their laws, institutions enduring and splendid. Sciences, letters and arts, out of the wreck have been formed. Often tlie fanciful poet Propertius, when liome in her glory ! Stood, and the thuigs that are dust shone in their splendour intact, Loved to look back to the past, and paint to himself the great city As, ere iEneas arrived, nothing but hillock and grass ; Many a spot could I show you to-day, where all has reverted : Tliat wliich a city became, grass has become once again. Orchards deserted surround us, and patches of grass unfrequented. Filled with the flowers of spring, scenting the air all around. This is the Esquiline hill ; and the shout of the workman whose shovel Strikes on some treasure of art, startles at moments the air. 58 ELEGIES. Sometliing the men have discovered, and eagerly gather about it ; Something which, lit by the sun, sparkles with many a tint. Lo, on uplifting the turf, a pavement of marble mosaic, Eich in its varied design, near to the surface appears ; Tricked by a little frail verdure, we saw in this spot but the present. Yet, in a world which is old, that which we trod was the past. V. Endless, Eome, is thy teaching ! thy sight, of itself, is a lesson : Who can regard thee unmoved, though for an hour, not more 1 "Who ever tarried in vain in the shadow of temple and circus, Where, on the ground at your feet, moulder the fragments of frieze Where, in the earth that is hallowed, it may be that statues are hidden, "Which, at the zenith of art, Phidias or Polyclete wrought 1 There, as you sit in the twilight, with Time as your only companion, "Under your eyes are displayed History's views that dissolve. Grand is the saddening series. Faint, in the distance of ages, Empires come into view, taking consistence and shape : P)righter and brighter they grow, until, with a splendid effulgence. Filling the whole of the scene, still for a moment they stand ; Then they unnoticed decline, and fainter becoming and fainter. Melt into others away, leaving behind but a name. 59 ABOUT OVID. He is a sorry philosopher, who to the days that are recent, Limits his sympathies all, hearing no cries from the past. Time has but little to do with what is eternally human ; That which went forth from the heart, ne'er for the heart is unfit. Think'st thou thy woe of to-day will be deeper or truer to-morrow Than in a thousand years hence 1 Time does not lessen a fact, 'Nov can it deaden a cry of grief unaffected and simple ; Let but the words be preserved, in them the pathos remains. Only a day or two back, I lighted by chance on the passage (Eead and re-read in the schools, hackneyed enough, in good sooth), Where, in the Tristia, 0\ad recurs to the night of his exile. When his last moments in Eome swiftly were gliding away. Fresh was my miad, and long free from the deadening work of the schoolroom ; Straight went the words to tlie heart, straight through the centuries dead. Vivid, indeed, is the scene, Avith touching simplicity painted : Almost the moonlight we see, bathing the city that sleeps. " WTien, of that saddest of nights, the picture uprises before me, Which was the last, very last, spent in the city by me ; When I remember that night, on which I left all that Avas dear, Down from my eyes, on my cheek, trickles a tear even now. 60 ELEGIES. Then had relapsed into silence the voice of men and of watch-dogs ; High was the ISIoon in the sky, guiding her coursers of night. As I looked up to her face, and she showed me the Capitol's structures, Closely adjacent to which stood all in vain our home : Deities all, I exclaimed, who dwell in the neighbouring places. Temples which I, with these eyes, never again shall behold ; Ay, and ye gods that I leave, who belong to Quirinus's city, Let me, before I depart, bid you for ever farewell." 61 P A S Q U A. Weird old town medieval, say, why wert tliou placed by thy founders Thus out of reach of mankind, high on the Apennines' crest 1 Say, were the chestnut-clad slopes, the well-watered valleys, less tempting, When, in a far-distant time, rose thy high circular walls 1 Never since then hast thou changed; thy houses are ever the self -same. All in thy ramparts is old ; man has alone been renewed. Once a strong mountain republic, and now a town peopled by peasants. Who, with a simple respect, chng to their homes of the past. Nought but an arduous bridle-path leads to the bleak moimtain plateau, Yet do thy houses of stone tell of a pride that is gone. Poor old vestige of time, the birthplace of glories forgotten, 111 does thy high airy seat suit our wealth-seeking days ; Those who inhabit La Eocca nnist live in the ways of their fathers ; Humbly, by primitive means, mainly by manual work. He who aspires to more must stifle the treacherous instinct, Or from his birthplace depart, never again to return. Famed is the place for its women ; their beauty for miles is a proverb ; Though, in that Apennine tract, many a village might boast. Race of the Apuan Alps, the fairest that speaks the pure Tuscan, Who can thy vigour surpass 1 who to thy beauty attain 1 Curly, light-brown is the hair, and yet the complexion is southern. Warm as the tints of the hills, lit by the fast-sinking sun. 62 ELEGIES. Watch we the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noon-tide, Out in the quaint little square, or on the steps of the church, Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle, Singing in cadence a chant, nasal, metallic, and strange. Bare are their arms and their feet ; at most on the latter is poised, Just on the tip of the toe, lightly the white wooden clog. Look at the maidens that stand, out there by the murmuring fountain, Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get. See on their heads how they balance the urn-shaped pitcher of copper. As, with the step of a queen, slowly they turn from the sprinf. Beauty they have and to spare ; but one who is fairer than they are — One who is left to herself — fain avouM I show to you now. Long might you search at La Eocca, and never discover her equal ; Pasqua, come show us thy face ; Pasqua, come show us thy smile ! There all alone is she sitting, within the dark shade of the house-door ; Well does the time-blackened stone circle her form like a frame. Busy her hands and her eyes in the making of lace on a cushion ; Neatly the threads she directs, nimbly the pins she removes. Snowy, though coarse, is her shift, and low from her shoulders it falleth ; Prudery, turn up thy eyes ; God did not make her for thee. Dark blue the skirt that she wears, bedraping her limbs in their roundness ; Naked her arms and her feet, nut-brown and braided her haii-. Not with her lace are her thoughts, for see how she frequently, pausing. Lifts up her eyes from the work, dreamily looks into space ; Wliere is the prince that shall come to marry this rare village beauty 1 Fairy tale, follow thy course ! Poesy, fashion her fate ! Poor the chance of the girl if quickly the prince do not fetch her ; Worldliness under the thatch, as in the palace, resides ; Show me the farmer of prudence would marry a portionless maiden ; Beggars may marry for love ; peasants must marry for fields. Pasqua is poor, alas ! and earneth a scanty subsistence. Making her beautiful lace, selling it down in the plain. PASQUA. 63 Manj a summer has passed since her father ahandoned La Eocca, Seeking America's shores, leaving his wife and his child. Lapo, for that was his name, was owner of one of the houses Wliich, in the quaint little place, lean on the turreted wall. Little of wealth he possessed, but yet, for his wants, all sufficient ; Chestnuts and vines on the slope, which with his hand he could till ; "Wliile in a manner monotonous, far from unhappy, the seasons Passed one by one o'er his head, gently increasing his store. Lapo would sometimes descend, but only to spend a few hours, Into the towns of the plain, where there were markets or fairs. One day, big with his fate, that he thus had come down from La Eocca, Tools for his vineyard to buy, and at the inn had put up, "Wliere, in the heat of the day, the peasants were wont to assemble. Playing at morra or cards, ere they their pui-chases made ; ^t^' All who were there were engaged discussing about California, (/ /^ Wliere you had only to stoop, gold to pick up in the street ; Great was just then the sensation produced by the newly-found gold- fields. Listen wherever you would, men talked of nothing but gold. Gold lay in heaps at the surface, in nuggets as large as potatoes ; Nay, there were lumps in the ground larger than pumpkins !)}■ far. Open to all was the country : the cousin of one of the speakers Left for the diggings next week ; great were his faith and his hope : Silent and gaping sat Lapo, imbibing the wondrous description, Holding uneaten his cheese, leaving untasted his wine ; Where was that country 1 he asked ; but no one could give him tiie answer; Far, very far, that was all — somewhere right over the sea. ' Deeply absorbed in his thoughts was Lapo the ignorant peasant, When, on his way to his home, through the rich valleys he passed Picturing unto himself those strange, inexliaustible gold-fields. Little he looked to the right, little he looked to the left ; 64 ELEGIES. Yet all around him was gold ; the gold of his ovm. native country. Labour, the mother of wealth, strewed it Avith liberal hand ; Golden the waves of the corn, just ripe for the rich second harvest ; Golden the fruit on the trees, golden the load of the vine ; Strung round each cottage in garlands, the maize hung in ponderous ingots, Fashioned in Nature's own mint, out of her finest red gold ; Out in the gardens the maidens the yellow fioss silk were preparing Leading the soft wavy gold lightly with dexterous hand. 'V^^lat was not golden, the sun, departing in splendour, was gililing. Peasant, where was thy soul 1 Traveller, where were thy eyes 1 During the following weeks, the peasant strangely was altered. Little he cared for his work, which he had hitherto loved. Oftener far than before, now into the plain he descended. Staying away many days, leaving his fields all un tilled ; Oft was he strangely depressed, oft was he strangely elated, Never serene and content, as he had formerly been. Vainly he fought with himself, and strove to forget California ; To it his thoughts would revert, as to the candle the moth. Little by little the truth, and all that woiild come in the future, Dawned on the mind of his wife, filling with anguish her soul. Soon it was known in the village that Lapo had sold half the vineyard. Only leaving unsold that which belonged to his wife. Who does not seek to ennoble the motive of wrong or of folly 1 Lapo was kindly of heart, all for his loved ones should be ; Pasqua, the cliild of his heart, should have a magnificent dower. All at La Eocca should sit, sharing her rich marriage feast. Quickly passed by the last days, spent in remonstrance, entreaty ; "Who can deter the resolved, or the persuaded dissuade 1 Year after year passed away, nor brought any knews of the wand'rer ; Hope was their friend for a time : slowly it turned to despair. As, with the lapse of the summers, Pasqua grew fairer and fairer. So did her mother decline, drooping and drooping away. PASQUA. 65 Broken the stem of her life when bearing its choicest flowers, After the blow had been struck, never it blossomed again ; N'ot all the sunshine of Pasqua could waken up hope or exertion ; Far were her heart and her mind, over an ocean unknown. Small were the fields that were left ; but they needed a constant exertion. Broken in heart and in health, ill could she manage the work. Debt upon debt was contracted, and pitiless relatives sued her : Seized was the humble estate, hunger stared in at the door. Then were they solely supported by Pasqua the beautiful maiden ; Quickly she learnt to make lace, working from morning to night ; Pasqua, the beautiful child, turned into a beautiful woman ; Xone that La Eocca could show stood by her side unimpaired. There, by a strange village irony, all named her Pasqua the Dowered ; Even the children would cry, " Wilt thou not give us a share 1 " Sadly, nor conscious of malice, the maiden accepted the nickname ; Just as the swan in the tale, living awhile with the ducks. Never the weary fingers deserted the lace-making cushion, Cheerfully earning for two, till the necessity ceased. Azrael, angel of death, when flying one night o'er La Eocca, Carried the mother away, leaving the daughter alone. This is the story of Pasqua — of Pasqua as first I beheld her Guiding the threads of her lace, nimbly removing the pins. Many a summer has passed, nor has altered the face of La Eocca ; Should you the mountain ascend, all you will find as it was. There are the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noontide Out in the quaint little square, or on the stops of the church Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle, Singing in cadence their chant, nasal, metallic, and strange. There are the girls at the spring, with their urn-shaped pitchers of copper Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get. Pasqua alone is not there ; she long has deserted her village, Seeking for work in the plain — making no longer her lace. There, in a noisy city, she earneth her bread as a servant. Now nor so young nor so fair. Even a Pasqua must fade. E 66 OUE FALLEN LEAVES. Life has its Springs and its Autumns ; and oft, as new fancies are bud- ding, Softly the dead ones we hear, rustling beneath our feet. See, all around us they lie, these leaves of the Past that are fallen ; Can it be they that appeared lately so green and so fresh 1 Faces we see with indifference, which once with emotion we followed ; Voices fall on the ear, reaching no longer the heart ; Names that a magic possessed, are endowed with that magic no longer ; Ties that we cherished are cut, dreams that we cherished are gone ! I^laces that Fancy had hallowed, we find, after years, to be common ; If as we pass them we sigh, 'tis for our youth that has fled. These are the leaves of the past, which, marching through life ever onwards. Shaded by leaves that are green, bravely we tread under foot. Yet it may happen at times, if we stoop, and a leaf that is withered Gently take up in the hand, those that are green are forgot. 67 AN EMPTY SHELL. As there are creatTires of Ocean that dwell in the shells of the perished, So do the children of men dwell in their homes of the past. What are their houses but shells, which belong not to one generation ; Shells into which they were born, shells that at death they vacate 1 Yes, in a shell of the past, man liveth his life of the present ; Poor ephemeral guest, e'en in the house that is his. Fondly he clings to the home that his fathers have left liiin to dwell in, Leaving it then to his sons, as it was left unto him. This is the nature of man ; but man is in all inconsistent ; Halls that are strong and are fair often he strangely deserts — Nay, these are often the fairest, too fair and too splendid, it may lie. For an impoverished State, or an impoverished Pruice ; Or, with the progress of time, the State or the Family endeth. Leaving a palace behind, empty, to tell what it was. (Jld as the building may be, it seems to belong to the present, When there are heard in its walls murmurs of everyday life, When it is needed by men. But when it is closed and deserted. Left to the worm and the moth, then to the Past it belongs : Then on the place so abandoned there settles a spirit of sadness ; He who enters it then seems to re-enter the Past ; Then there attaches to all a faint indescribable perfume. Something like that which belongs unto a flower preserved, ^lany a palace I know, of Elector or stately Prince-Bishop Which is inhabited miw only by ghosts of the Past; 68 ELEGIES. Vestiges left of the day when the smallest of Germany's Princes, In a Versailles of his own, mimicked the grandeur of Louis. 'Ihese are the Elegist's haunts, the places ho loves to repeople, Calling again into life all that is dust and is dead. Xymphenthal, thou, above all, art the type of these shells that are empty; Thou, above all, art the place dear to the Elegist's heart. Here, Avhere the vases and statues are green from the drippings of elm- trees, Or by the hedges of yew, clipped but unfrequently now. Or by the triton-shaped fountains that bubble and murmur in sadness, Oft is he met with alone — no, very far from alone ; For, all aroimd him are moving, unseen hj the eyes of the vulgar. Figures old-fashioned and quaint, well fitting in with the spot ; Beauties who grew to be grey, and gay cavaliers whose descendants Seldom set foot in the place, now so deserted and dull. Yes, for the Elegist still, the Electress, in powder and patches, Walks with her ladies at times, here in these gardens iU kept. Still, on the broad gravelled paths, when in autumn there rustics for others N^ought but the leaf that is dead, rustle her garments for Jiim. Poor forgotten Electress : her picture is there in the palace. Looking so young and so fresh ; ay, and so happy and bright. Yet was her fate most unhappy, and common enough to princesses Loving below them in rank, loved in return, but in vain ; Wedded by fate to a man, whose delight was the drilling of soldiers, Lonely she wasted her youth, lonely 'mid pomp and display — Seeking her life to ennoble, and shedding a sunshine around her, Striving to warm into love hearts that were colder than hers — Nothing remains of her now but her name and the beautiful portrait, A\niich on the empty old rooms wastes unad mired its smile. — Seldom the doors are unlocked, for seldom the visitor asks it ; Those who are lords of the place seem to avoid its sight. 69 AT THE DOOE OF THE JUSTICE MILITAIEE, VEESAILLES, JUNE 1871. Slowly the hours pass by for the weary wives of the prisoners, Who since the earhest morn sit on the staircase of stone, Patiently waiting their turn, at the door of the dreaded court-martial, Which at Versailles is engaged sorting the captives new made. Vast is the number of prisoners, thii'ty thousand and upwards. Slowly the sorting proceeds, great though the diligence be. Slowly the hours pass by, for the women who sit on the staircase. Longer and longer the shades grow on the opposite wall. Many from Paris have walked, in the dust, Avith a load of provisions ; Some witli a child at the breast — all Avitli a load at their hearts. Great is the love of these women, and given in noble repayment Often for years of neglect, often perhaps for a blow. Ugly are most of the prisoners, and uglier still since their capture. Covered with dust and unshaved, stinted of food and of sleep ; Yet there are women who love them, and who in the moment of danger Bravely come to their help, thinking but little of self ; Dringing them linen and bread, and collecting in haste testimonials. Which their guilt to disprove, or to extenuate, tend. Fast is the sun disappearing behind the tall roof of the palace ; Soft through the Avindow it shines on to the Avomcu who wait. 70 ELEGIES. Lightly the twiUght is spreading its mantle of grey o'er the landscape ; Yet are the women still there, bent on their mission of good. Little by little their number has dwindled to scarcely a dozen ; Less than an hour remains, then will no more be received ; See, they are growing uneasy and frequently asking the sentry ; Little he knows or will tell, save that it closes at eight. Those who have not had a hearing must take up their places to-morrow, Waiting again on the steps, as they have waited to-day. Gently the sentry explains that the doors are about to be fastened ; Slowly the women move off, bearing their burden of woe. 71 THE FIELD GEAVE. Scarcely have died on the ear the cannons' last lingering echoes, Boom upon boom in the plain ; Fancy still hears them recur. O'er, but just o'er is the war, and Germany's children, victorious, Homeward are wending their way, leaving their dead to their fate. Smouldering still are the fires that War and Rebellion have lighted ; France from her numberless wounds bleeds unassisted and weeps. Ruin and wreck all around ; and I, a stranger unnoticed, Sit by these nameless mounds, earliest of mourners, and muse ; " Here are three Frenchmen interred, and here two Prussians are lying;" This is their epitaph brief, telling the simplest of tales ; See, on a small wooden cross the words are inserted in pencil. Almost effaced by the rain, soon they will quite disappear. IJitterest epitaph this, that asks for no tribute, and tells not Unto their mothers the place where they are now to be sought. Fate, thou art ever ironical ! Wherefore this mockery cruel 1 Couldst thou not bury apart those who in life had been foes 1 Barely a month has elapsed since these men felt the bitterest hatred; Now they approach and they touch ; almost each other they kiss. Lone are the fields at this hour, and only a white-headed peasant Stops to look on this grave, common to friend and to foe. Something the ear camaot catch, he mutters as onwards he passes ; Is it a prayer for the one, or for the other a curse 1 72 ELEGIES. Eather the latter I fear. Ei;t I, who am foeman of neither, Ere I depart from the ground, fain woidd do honour to both. Both did their duty and fell, and both are now equally nameless ; Chancing to dwell on the path crossed by the Chariot of War. Mourners at home they may have, and hearts that are sinking with anguish ; Here by the place where they lie, only a stranger can sit, None that in life they had known. And so, if the stranger shoidd happen Somewhat a poet to be, let him their Elegy write. id :UcU ' • ^^'^ A SUFFEEER War I have seen and its victims : the wounded slowly emerging, One by one, from their beds, seeking the quickening sun ; Girded no more with the sword, but learning to manage their crutches, Stopping at intervals short, wistfully looking around ; Spectres, haggard and pale, and armless and legless, whom nature, Using the breeze of the spring, gently was trying to cure. Yet these victims of war, thus crawling about in the sunshine, Are not the sole who drag on, maimed in the morning of life. Other cripples there are, whose story is sadly inglorious, Not stricken down at a blow, living for years in suspense : Wearing no medal or cross, and knowing nor brevet nor pension : Maimed by the Powers above, not by the engines of men. X Few cast a glance on the wretches sustaining a combat unequal. Yielding by inches the ground, doomed to a certain defeat ; Cheered by no bugle or drum, led on by no fluttering standard. Hearing not Victory's shout, as in the battle they sink ; Bed is their battle-field dull, then- witness the nurse and the doctor ; Patient and brave though they be, men have no laurels for them. Yes, there are many like this ; and especially one at this moment Maybe I have in my thoughts ; often I see him, alas ! Lifted by men on a chair, and with gentleness placed in a carriage. Just like a victim of war ; only no glory is his. 74 ELEGIES. 'Kovr he but seldom complains ; but who of the struggles has knowledge Which by this youth were sustained, ere he accepted his lot 1 Short is the story indeed. The youth was of temper too ardent ; Talents he knew he possessed such as led men to success ; Yet not unworthy his aims ; and pure was his youthful ambition ; Nought but the great and the good found in his wishes a place. Home and its sweets he abandoned, and mixed in the world's compe- tition ; Others he passed in the race ; destined he seemed for a prize. Work he desired and loved, and occasions he sought for distinction ; Only too many there came — all was too dearly bought — Then by degrees imperceptible, fell o'er his pathway a shadow, Seen and suspected by none, darkening daily his life. Then came the weeks of despair : the walk that grew shorter and shorter Steadily, day by day, tiU he could take it no more. Yet he the secret preserved. And then came that wildest of struggles, Fought with a foe all unseen, only to keep on his feet. Bound half divine to the earth, man clings to his physical powers Hard as the sailor that droAvns clings to the %vreck of his ship. Fiercely he strives to retain, when one of these powers essential. Given by Nature herself, bids him eternal adieu ; Only when all is too late, does the wretch for the commonest blessing, Just when it slips from his grasp, feel this ineffable love. Then for an hour's delay, a year of his life would he barter, Measuring only too well all that awaits him of woe. Yet when the loss is complete, he subsides into patience and sadness. Bearing his burden in peace, writliing in spirit no more ; Helpless and guiltless he lives, and the worthiest parts of liis being Grow and develop with time, bearing a fruit that is sweet. Higher he looks for the good which the world can no longer afford him; Less of a man than before, nearer the angels he stands. 75 A WOODLAND ELEGY. Nature I love to depict : the woods and their shade evanescent, Filled with ephemeral life, filled with ephemeral song ; Village and homestead secluded ; their occupants dull, unambitious, Living a life of routine old as the earth that they till ; Ay, and the murmuring stream, and the peasant girl sitting beside it, Waiting a step she well knows, dreaming her dream of a day ; All that is simple and good, and filled with a poetry homely ; All that is fair and must die ; all that was fair and is dead. Nature is constantly dying, but ageth not, and her beauty Suffers from time no impair : such as she was she is now. Yet, in my fancy, at times her beauty appears in the present Less than it was in the past : duller the tints have become. Strange that boyhood's coasts, from wliicli I am rapidly drifting, Clearer and fairer become even as farther I get ! Strange that these landscapes Italian, of which I was once so enam- oured. Serve but to call to my mind those of the duskier nortli ! Often my thoughts will revert to the woods which I knew in my boy- hood ; Little likely, alas ! ever to see them again. Beech-woods of foliage translucent, bestrewn Avith the .shells of the beech-nuts, Where you the squirrel may see, darting like light o'er the path. 7G ELEGIES. Where, as you walk and look up to tlie new-born green in the sunshine, Crackle the twigs that are dead, tinder-like, under your feet. More than one land have I seen, and carried away of their beauties Much that unbidden, at times, knocks at the door of the heart. Yet hath he not to go far who seeketh for beauty ; it lieth liound the corner for all, if they have eyes and can see. England, country of elms — of elms that are spreading and leafy : England, country of lanes ; soft undulatory land. Dotted Avith square-towered churches, that Time has adorned and has hallowed ; Traversed by streams which, unheard, glide in the shade of tlie boughs ; Open to all are thy beauties, to all who can walk, and can clamber Over a stile, and, as yet, walk unescorted by Care. Sweet, above all, are the walks in England's beautiful park-land, Under the trees that are tall, over the turf that is soft ; "Where, in the dells on the grass, are the dark-green rings which tlie fairies Leave for the wonder of men, after their gambols at night ; Where, as you stoji on youi- way and peep through the wooden enclosures. Deer, dark-eyed and tame, come to the bars for a pat ; Or 'tis the long-legged foals, who start and scamper a circle Round their dahis as you pass ; then of a sudden they stop. And in the distance is seen, 'mid the trees, a mansion ancestral. Brightly its windows the while flash in the fast-setting sun. Scenery quiet like this, more than that which is grand and romantic, Speaks to the Elegist's soul, waking the best of his thoughts ; Scenery soft as his mood. For he knows nor invective nor rapture ; Sober and pensive, his strain stirs not the passions of men. Nature for me has most charm in what is her moment elegiac ; When she brings home to the mind all that is fleeting and fair. Know ye the dreamy and soft, and scarcely definable feeling, Tinged with a quiet regret, yet not unhappy Avithal, A WOODLAND ELEGY. 77 Which our autumn imparts, in a walk through the well -wooded country ; AVTien, without omen of ill, rustles the leaf under foot ; ^\^len the mind that is calm is possessed by the beauty of jSTature, Yet is aware of a voice telling of mutable things 1 This is Elegy latent ; and he who in iS^ature can feel it, Knoweth a poetry sweet — sweeter than any in books. 78 AN OLD COAT. Each has his own superstitions, and I have my fancies like others : One is about my old coats ; scarcely I know how it came. Nor do I know, dear Eeader, which you are likely to give it, Wliether a smile or a sigh : aU on your humour depends. When I give up an old coat, it seems as if then I were losing All of a sudden the years which with that coat I have passed ; Older I suddenly feel ; for the life which is daily expended (This is my fancy as well) clings to the folds of the coat. Wliat has become of the youth of which pitiless Powers deprive us, Hour by hour, alas ? May it not lurk in the coat 1 Knew not the coat the emotions, the hope and the fear and the pleasure 1 Was it not close to the heart, feeling the least of its throbs ■? Only this morning, by chance, I fell on a coat long discarded ; One I had worn at a time when I was happier than noAV. ^Vs I looked on it, those days, and myself, as I now am no longer. Clearly, too clearly ! rose up ; just for a minute, no more. Almost I then could have cried to this spectre thus suddenly met with : Give me the life thou hast drained ; mine it was then and 'tis now ! "V\Taere are the years that I gave thee 1 the years that I left in thy lining 1 Where are the youth and the health 1 Where are the hopes unful- filled ? 'Twas but a shabby old coat ; but I thought as I looked on the edges. Thready and white, of the sleeves : this which is worn was my life. 79 ADVICE. Boy, thy nature is good, though somewhat too ardent thy temper ; Why do I see thee so oft, lonely, discouraged, and sad 1 More and more every day thou keepest aloof from thy fellows. Thinking of nought on this earth save thy ambitious designs. More and more every day I see thee neglecting thy pastimes. Even those that were once dearest unto thy heart ; Working from morning till night, nor stoppmg to look on creation. Jaded in body and mind, knowing of neither the sweets. Life is a garden immense, one half of whose fruits are a semblance : Art thou not plucking the false, leaving untasted the true ? He who would live to succeed must live as if life were eternal. Knowing both pleasure and work, giving its measure to each. Fame is not taken by storm, but surrenders Avith time imto merit ; He who can wait for his day, holdeth the game in his hands. Abler thou art than the crowd ; but dangers unknown to the vulgar Dangers for body and mind — lie in Ability's way. Happy and safe Mediocrity, knowing no path but the beaten, Seeking no heights that allure — skirting no hidden abyss — Playing a little with Vice, while holding the fingers of Virtue — Guided by instinct, not thouglit : almost I envy thy lot ! Fain would I spare thee, Boy, the bitter and sickening lesson, Which, Avith a temper like thine, Fate but too readily gives ; r 80 ELEGIES. Only I fear 'tis decreed, that eacli for himself in Fate's schoolroom, Learning life's lesson must sit, earning the prize or the rod. Fain would I warn thee in time ; for maybe a similar error, Cost me, while youth slipt away, much of the joy of life. Yes, the future too much, the present too little, I cared for, Thinking too much of success, missing life's real delights ; Deeming the work of the mind alone to be noble and worthy ; Searching all wisdom in books ; knowing nor leisure nor rest. Yet there were times even then, when a better philosophy entered Transiently into my heart, yielding the healthiest fruit. Outwards then, and not inwards, the eyes of the mind were directed ; Filled was the present with good, — nought in the future I sought ; Looking on IS^ature with love, on N'ature the good and the fleeting. While there was youth in the heart giving the power to feel. Yes, there are moments in life, when Destiny's coursers that bear us Wlrither we know not, away, slacken their terrible pace ; When on the road of existence, we look not ahead, but around us, Holding the reins with loose hand, feeling secure for a while, When, as we look on the world through which we too fast have been hurried, Nothing but beauty we see — beauty serene and divine. Few are the moments of respite, when thus on the weary journey, Man can enjoy the scene ; soon do they come to an end : Scarce have the coursers relaxed, when, lashed by invisible spirits. Wildly their race they resume, bearing us helpless away. 81 SOLVILLE. Spring, light-footed and young, has stolen a march on old Winter ; See here he comes on his way, scattering blossoms and buds. Soft is the kiss of the sun ; and the breeze which is laden with per- fumes. Stolen from meadows and woods, daintily kisses the cheek. Such were the mornings of Solville, where spring was for ever tlie master ; Often I think of them now, under a different sky. Often I think of them now, when old Winter bends over his embers. Bloodless and shrunken and sad, warming his tremulous liands. There, when in lands of the North, the dull leaden clouds lower heavy Over the desolate plains, leafless and hard with the frost. Softly the sun, all unclouded, looks down on an Eden of flowers, Softly the calm tepid sea breaks on the sweet-scented sliore. There be the homo of the greyish-green olive ; the orange and citron. Heavily weighted with gold, fill all the gardens around. Aloes gigantic and fleshy, or hedges untrimmed of geranium. Border the mountainous paths, where in the shade of a pine, Reddish and scaly of trunk, or in that of a feathery date-palm. Taking your seat on a stone, you can look down on the town And on the placid blue sea, as it lies in its sunniness lake-like ; Over it swiftly, at times, hurries a ripple immense. F 82 ELEGIES. Yes, I think often of Solville, reviewing its numberless beauties, Musing on years that are gone, calling old faces to mind. Who has not got, at a distance, a world he no longer belongs to, Doing without him, alas ! only too easily now ; Some little world often thought of, but which now has forgotten him wholly, Where, once for ever interred, lie the best years of his life 1 If the occasion should happen to come, perhaps it is wiser iNot to revisit the place : let it belong to the past. Sadness sufficient the echoes possess, which at intervals reach us, Wlien we expect it the least, waking up memories dead. If from that world long forsaken, somebody suddenly dropping, With the same face as of old, says to us, " "WHiat, is it you 1 " Then there comes over us straightway a strange undefinable feeling. Something which jars and is wrong, breaking the current of time. Which every one of us feels, when, close by the side of the Present, Sits uninvited the Past, old and familiar of face. If he should mention some change, that new houses, for instance, are building, Or that the trees have been felled, and that the aspect is changed, Something like anger we feel, that strangers should venture to alter That which is memory's own, taking its beauty away. If he shovdd tell lis, by chance, that the children are children no longer, Or that the elders are dead, or that new faces are there, Quickly a sadness comes over the heart, and a sense that the river, "N^Hiich we caU Time, has flowed on ; none on its bosom can moor. 83 THE DESEETED VILLA. Well does the dying old place fit in with a framework of Autunin ; When the Avild vine on the wall turneth from green into red ; When the far hills of ^Emilia have turned to a shadowy russet ; When, in the plain that surrounds, sober and sad are the tints ; When, in the fields that are bare, the smoke of the weeds that are burning Bluish and curling ascends, filling the air with a haze ; \Mien the tough leaves of the poplar lie flat on the path that they cover, Yellow and brilliant and smooth, glued to each other by dew ; When the heat that is banished, but lingering still in the noontide. Draws from all N'ature around odours autumnal and sweet ; Wlien every flower still left emits a faint perfume of sadness ; When on the world that she leaves, Beauty expiring smiles. Beautiful -vdlla deserted ! The hollyhocks tall and ungainly Lord it unchecked o'er the place ; marigolds cover the beds. \M)ere, in the days that are gone, the choicest flowers abounded, These are all that remain, these are the things that adorn. Hens from a neighbouring farm are pecking about hi the gravel Where, in his plumage superb, ventured the peacock alone. Shedding its pointed leaves, an old knotted willow is weeping Over the wrought-iron gate, seldom or never unlocked. 84 ELEGIES. Posted near to this gate, a painted earthenware soldier, Life-size, stands in the dress worn by Great Frederick's troops. Poor useless old sentinel ! WhUe thou art guarding the entrance, Dost thou not know that the foe taketh the house in the rear 1 Cruel Neglect is the enemy ; stealthily creeping in silence. Sapping and mining he comes ; soon will he reach even thee. Mark how the wily besieger approaches the house through the garden, Eaising weedy stockades, parallels forming of moss. Xow he reaches the walls, removing the plaster by patches, Leaving a stain on the stone where he but places his hand. Deep on the light iron balconies, see how the rust he is spreading. Leaving no trace of the gold decking the gateway of yore ; E'en on the realm of Time the treacherous foe is encroacliing. Look at the siin-dial there, traced on the wall of the house : Almost effaced are its numerals ; while, with a truth that is mournful, Stands written o'er it this verse, faint, but legible stdl : Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis ; All on the dial is pale, all save the time-marking shade. Year after year passes by, the willow renewing its pale-green Pointed leaves in the spring, near to the wrought-iron gate ; Shedding them yellow in autumn, near to the earthenware sentry, Filling the brim of his hat, lying in heaps at his feet. Nobody cares for the beautiful place ; but the stranger who passes Looks through the radings awhile, turning in sadness away. III. POEMS IN LYKICAL METRES THE SONG OF THE PLASTEE CAST. In the following poem I have attempted to tell the story of a Greek statue ; not of this or of that individual copy of it, — for of nearly every great antique, antiquity alone has given us four or five copies, which in modern times have been reproduced indefi- nitely in marble or plaster, — but of that which constitutes the identity of the statue— which makes us say, in the presence of a j)laster cast, or merely of a drawing, " This is the Discobulus of Myron," "This is the Faun of Praxiteles," — in short, of the form, of the conception which arose in the mind of the sculptor, and which he, first, embodied, but which may be indefinitely repeated — the form which corresponds in the statue to that purely intellectual identity that makes the Iliad the Iliad, Paradise Lost Paradise Lost, in whichever of a hundred dif- ferent editions it may be seen ; as much in the half-crown copy which we buy to-day, as in the earliest manuscript existuig. This abstract form, and not its individual embodiment in stone or metal, is the statue ; and my object has been to trace the many changes of substance through which the form of a renowned Greek Venus has been handed down to us in all its identity. I AM but au antique Form, By Time's ever-raging Storm Ever spared. Even in this Plaster Cast, Lives my beauty of the Past TTniminiired. 88 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. For of old I was created In an image all divine : Aphrodite, newly risen From the Ocean's bitter brine. I have passed from clay to marble, And from marble into bronze. And to marble then reverted ; For my antique beauty dons 'Now one substance, now the other ; And in each I have asserted My identity to men. Clay and bronze and marble perished, But the statue did not die, For its very form am I. What the Sculptor's genius cherished, What the Sculptor's genius gives, That was saved, and in me lives. Twice a thousand years have rolled Slowly, sadly o'er my head, And the world has long grown old. And the tongues I heard are dead, Since the finger of the Greek Made the dimple in my cheek, l^ations, creeds, and arts and glories Came, and lived, and passed away ; But the dimple still endureth, As upon my earliest day. Dost thou ask me for the secret Of my endless youth and fame ? I will tell thee how, unaltered. Through the centuries I came. THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST. 89 Greece alone could make me, Greece In an age of strength and peace, After Salamis was won ; When beneath his tempered sun, Man, secure from every storm. In the beauty of the form Found his best and highest pleasure ; And the secret of aU measure He possessed ; When in marble he expressed All his fancy's fair creations ; Gods of beauty, Gods of gladness, "Who, in human semblance dressed, Euled a world too young for sadness ; Or the motley brood of Pan, Who, through wood and field and meadow, In perennial riot ran. Eound the temple fair and stately. On whose pediment I stood, Moved a life With beauty rife, And rife with good. Slowly wound, the long procession Through the temple-bordered street, With its taU Corinthian columns Which extended at my feet ; And a look the sun-burnt maidens Often upwards to me cast, As they passed. With theu" load of fruits and flowers ; And the stalwart youths who followed. In an endless cavalcade. 90 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. On their small and prancing horses, AU in colours bright arrayed ; And the many-voiced echoes Of the games feU on my ear, And the shouting of the crowd, In its exultation loud, To this day I seem to hear. For the marble Gods looked on. While the Olympic race was won ; Wliile the noblest youths contended, Strong of heart and lithe of limb ; And the loud triumphal hymn. Hailed the victor, as he wended. In his strength and beauty splendid. With the palm to place his name On the sacred roll of Fame, Which all time should fail to dim. But that life within my sight, Grew less strong and grew less bright, And the art which at my birth Eeached its zenith upon earth, Slowly, slowly, slowly waned ; Shining with a fading splendour, Growing softer and more tender, Till at length, Thought of greatness or of strength There remained. For it is decreed in Heaven, That on Earth, Seed of Death to all be given At its birtk THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST. 9*1 All that groweth, all that greeneth, Must decay. Every star must at its zenith Wane away. Every fountain's rising column Forms a curve ; All things this commandment solemn Must observe. Nought may at its zenith linger, But must move ; Fate with its resistless Finger Gives the shove. Every art and every greatness Spends its force, And in earliness or lateness Takes this course. Kot alone the chisel then "Was blunted in the hands of men, As the sense of art decayed ; But the keen and shining blade. Wrought by Freedom for the Greek, Grew too quickly blunt and dim ; And the spirit and the limb Both were weak. Then the fair Hellenic islands First the heavy thraldom knew Of the iron-sided masters Of a world that ever grew ; And the accents unfamiliar Of the terser Eoman tongue Sounded on the shores, where Pindar, The immortal, once had sung. 92 POEMS IN LYRICiVL METRES. On the noblest works of beauty, In the unresisting land, On the statues that were fairest. Fell the robbing Roman hand. And the hard rapacious Praetors Of the ever greedy Rome, Dragged a marble people captive From its beauteous island home. Thus I left the olive hills, And the myrtle and the bay, And the clear and rapid rills. Whose unceasing murmur fills Every valley on the way, From the centre to the strand, Of the little Attic land Of my birtL And the temple-crownM headlands, Stretching in a silvery sea, "Warm and calm ; And the rock-begirded islands. Whence in noon's long dreamy hours. Comes the scent of many flowers, Hidden in the woods of palni. Through the crowded Roman streets I was dragged ; And the soldier people bragged Of their distant martial feats, And the trophies they had got ; But they felt my beauty not. THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST. 93 And I passed from hand to hand, As the tardy years went by, In the houses of the great ; And my masters made me stand. And look down upon their state From my pedestal on high ; Till at last, placed and displaced, Xero's golden house I graced ; "WHiere I saw, amid the din Of the orgie, all the sin Of the worlds that slowly rot ; But my soul was sullied not. ^ Then I left the home of Caesar For the round gigantic Mole, Tomb of Hadrian eternal, And watched the yellow Tiber roll, E'en as rolled the flood of Ages, Towards a distant sea unknown ; Bearing creeds and arts and nations. Leaving me behind alone. From the shore of Time I watched them Pass unconscious on their way. While my brow remained unfurrowed. Fair as on my native day. For the beauty of the statue, And the beauty of the bust, Shall endure in youth untarnished. Till they crumble into dust. There I stood until the day When the giant Mole, transformed To a fortress stern and grey. 94 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. By the northern, hosts was stormed. Underneath, and far and wide, Surged the fierce barbarian tide. With a loud and angry roar, Wave on wave against us bore, And upward dashed, While the ram resistless crashed, And a thousand arrows rained On to statues, on to men, And the stainless marble then Deep was stained. In their ugly pools of red Lay the dying and the dead, At my feet. From their high, time-honoured seat, Statues, wonders of the world, Headlong from the walls were hurled. Through the missile-blackened air. In the madness of despair. And the flames of war rose high, And a lurid radiance now, Like a deeper sunset's glow, Filled the sky. So the statue which, the earliest, Bore my form in human sight, Wliich had lived a thousand summers. Perished in a single night. But I, its essence, did not perish ; 'Twas the stone alone that died ; For, though men may seem to conquer, 'Tis the Gods alone decide. THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST. 95 And a copy of my beauty Stood beneath, a golden dome, In a long-deserted villa, Of the dj'ing, dj-ing Rome. Old was the building, by patches the plaster Fell with the frescoes each year from the walls ; Age and desertion worked faster and faster, ISTow in the silent, still beautiful halls. Only we statues, 'mid rank vegetation. Peopled the portico, garden, and court ; Man seldom troubled the dull desolation, Never he gave us a look or a thought. Down from the ceilings, on floors of mosaic, Crumbled the cornices, hiding them fast ; Till on what lingered of beauty Archaic, Inward the roofs fell like thunder at last. All was now shapeless ; the statues, once splendid, Lay in the heap, from their pedestals hurled ; Gently the mould, the encroacher, all ended : That which was beauty had passed from the world. For a thousand years I lay, '\ Deep imbedded in the clay ; And the ground above the sleeper Grew unnoticed ever deeper, Day by day. fi- Men and women Overhead Lived their little life Of an hour, Like the flower 96 POEMS IN LYEICAL METRES. And the herb. Beauties courted and superb Felt decay And passed away, Like a breath ; Knowing nothing of the beauty, Ever radiant, Underneath. And the change was great and solemn Which had come upon the earth ; And the world's fair face had wrinkled. Since the days which gave me birth. Still the Sun's unwearied chariot Crossed the ether as before ; But the young and radiant Phoebus Held its golden reins no more. Still the forest depths were shady, Still were green the woodland lawns ; But they now no more were peopled By the shy and happy fauns. Still the streams and still the fountains Murmured as they passed along ; But the I^aiads now no longer Turned their murmur into song. In the fields there were no pipings, For an unknown voice had said. On the silent shores of Hellas, Long ago, that Pan was dead. In men's hearts there was no gladness ; Hushed was every sound of mirth. But a litany incessant Kose to Heaven from the Earth. THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST. 97 < From the steeples, in the twilight, Sounded now the evening bell ; And the world, no longer youthful. Learned the meaning of a knell. In the cloister's gloom, unloving, Paced the morbid monk or nun, WTio a mortal sin esteemed it, To feel young or love the Sun. On the dark cathedral buttress, Imps of stone with face of ape, Carved by an ignoble chisel. Mocked the godlike human shape, Wlaile I, the human shape's perfection. In the earth lay hidden deep, Till a nobler generation Should awake me from my sleep. But the day arrived at last When the secret of the past Was disclosed ; And when men the Venus found Wlio for ages in the ground Had reposed. And again, as at my birth, To all corners of the earth, Hurried Fame ; But it was decreed by Fate, That she should not teU the great Sculptor's name ; And though I the secret ken, I reveal it not to men, Nov may speak : This alone I can impart, G 98 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. That he rccached the height of art, And was Greek. And a thousand reproductions Of my beauty were sent forth, And were scattered 'mong the nations, East and West, and South and North. While I stand in marble costly In the palaces at Eome, I am seen in humble plaster, In the poorest artist's home. I am not the bronze, the marble, Nor the ivory and gold. But the form impressed upon them. By a mighty hand of old ; Little matters what the substance ; And my beauty of the Past, Liveth unimpau-ed and splendid, Even in a Plaster Cast. 99 THE EVEE-YOUNG. Beauty's forms are ever young, Sculptured, painted, writ, or sung ; For the ages o'er them pass, Light as breezes o'er the grass. While grows old the human clay, Never can they feel decay ; But the while the world grows older Grow no duller, grow no colder. And from their eternal truth. Live in a perpetual youth. Say, has Time impressed a furrow On the marble Venus' brow 1 Was she younger on the morrow Of her bu'th than she is now ] Yet above that marble head Twenty centuries have fled ! Mars a single thread of silver Saint Cecilia's chestnut hair 1 Is she older, is she colder Than when Eaf ael was there ? 100 POEMS IN LYEICAL METRES. Yet how many beauties, say, Have since then grown old and grey Is our Shakespeare's Juliet older Than the day she saw the light 1 Would not Eomeo still enfold her In his arms, as on that night ? Wlien a thousand years are cast On the heap we call the Past, Will the music of Mozart Be less youthful for the heart ? 101 A PALIMPSEST. I AM an eternal verse, Framed in language strong and terse ; Ye repeat and re-repeat me, In your dull pedantic schools, Till I lose all sense and beauty, In the mouths of learned fools ; And they know not whence they got me. Nor the reason of my fame ; And they ask not how, unaltered. Through the centuries I came ; My perfection is undying. As the love of ]\Ian for Art ; If by chance a Poet meets me, Straight I reach unto his heart. For a thousand years I lay In a monastery grey. Hidden under other ink. By the men who loved to pray, And who knew not how to think. r)ut a day arrived at last, When my beauty of the past, 102 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. Young as ever and as bright, Saw again the heavens' light ; For a cunning hand effaced Every word above me traced On the parchment old and shrunk, By the Monk. Faint the writing I was clothed in. As I thus appeared again ; But it yet was all-sufficient Immortality to gain. Beauty, hid 'neath dusty layers, Oft no sign for ages gives ; But it lives ; And the moment you release it, Will ojje,e more enchant and conquer ; For, like Truth, ^ — beauty lives in endless youth. 103 VEXrS UXBUEIED. Deep in the bosom of the patient earth, A statue slept ; And Time, the silent "wdtness of her birth, The secret kept. A female form, of Parian marble pure, A face of love, Of radiant beauty, such as would allure The Gods above. She once had stood within a lofty fane, In the world's youth ; A temple raised to her who holds profane All forms uncouth. A stately city round the fane displayed Its proud array ; The city grew and flourished, then decayed, And passed away. • The ploughshare passed o'er the once busy hold Of lord and slave. And on the spot the ripened corn then rolled Its golden wave. 104 POEMS IN LYKICAJ. METRES. A battle big with the world's fate was fought Above her head ; And many bodies by her side were brought ; She touched the dead. The name of victor and of vanquished passed, And left no trace ; Their very nations' names were wiped at last From the earth's face. New creeds, new tongues, new states, new arts arose ; 'Twas but to fall. And still the statue, in her deep repose, Outlived them all. A forest grew where once the rustling breeze The corn had stirred ; And o'er the sleeper browsed beneath the trees An antlered herd. In endless line acorn from oak, and oak From acorn sprung; But stiU no sound the sleeping goddess woke, For ever young. At last the forest dwindled do"\vn to earth, And passed away ; All save a single oak of mighty girth. All gnS,rled and grey. The children wild, who, round the giant played With merry dance. Turned into lovers meeting in its shade. With furtive glance. VENUS UNBURIED. 105 Then into old folk, white with years and care, All bent and shrunk ; Who sat and watched their children's children there, Play round its trunk. The world Avas old, and had no memory now Of its own youth ; And still the statue slept with radiant brow, As pure as Truth. One day men came with rope and axe, to fell The giant oak ; It died, as giants die, resisting well Stroke upon stroke. And as it reeled and fell with thundering sound, The earth was cleft ; And where the roots had fastened in the ground, A chasm left. One of the men peeped o'er the brink, but fled In wild alarm, And swore a form had beckoned from the dead, With ghostly arm. The others laughed, and then the chasm scanned, And there beheld A lovely form, that with its marble hand The rootlets held. And so the statue saw the light again Of heaven above ; And smiled on man, as in the distant Past, The smile of love. 106 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. So smiled soft Cypris, daughter of the Wave, When, at her birth. She wrung her hair, and by her presence gave New life to earth. All men from IS'orth and South, and West and East, The statue saw : Prince, artist, poet, philosopher and priest, And man of law. And each man owned, as on that form he gazed, The force of love ; And felt his soul by heavenly power raised To spheres above. They placed her in a stately hall, aAvay From sounds uncouth ; To tell her story of a distant day. In the world's youth. When Gods as men in every myrtle grove Of Hellas trod ; And man, though proud of being man, yet strove To be a God. When man, though fair, imagined fairer still The human form ; And gave to marble life's celestial thrill, And impulse warm ; When life and art were one harmonious whole To every Greek ; And man in aU things found a liidden soul, And made it speak. 107 THE SECEET OF THE BUSENTO. Deep beneath the flowing river Sleeps the great Barbarian King, While his requiem for ever Overhead the waters sing. There from man by nature guarded, Was he laid in days of old, In a triple bier enshrouded, Wrought of silver, bronze, and gold. Say, Busento, thou its keeper, Where lies Alaric the Goth 1 Thou hast sworn to hide the sleeper 1 Time absolves thee of thy oath. In the dead of night they brought him To the startled river-bank ; Wliilc the world still living thought him, They the coffined monarch sank. By the torches' light they laid him Deep within its rocky bed. 108 POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. And a last farewell they bade him, Him the greatest of their dead. Ere the pearly light of morning On tlie little party broke, The Arian Chiefs a word of warning To the listening Eiver spoke : " Our nation's richest treasure To thy bosom we confide ; Let thy depths no stranger measure, But the King for ever hide. " As thy water onward dashes, Let it keep his tomb from shame ; In thy charge we leave his ashes, In the world's his endless fame." Thus in manner strange and hurried. Under night's protecting wing. Those stern Gothic warriors buried Alaric their mighty King. As the stream's retarded current Eolled o'er his eternal home. So the great barbaric torrent Eolled on o'er the grave of Eome. Goth and Vandal, Sueve and Lombard, Hun and Alan, wave on wave. None of all their kings uimumbered Had as grand or safe a grave. THE SECKET OF THE BUSENTO. 109 Guardian of a lonely glory, "Well hast thou the secret kept, Fourteen centuries of story. Undisturbed the Goth has slept. Noble river, none could firmer Keep his plighted word than thou ; Alone the poet in thy murmur Hears the name of Alaric now. 110 THE VAULT OF THE ESCUEIAL. Within a dark sepulchral vault, In death Spain's monarchs lay, Around a lofty crucifix In grand and dread array. For twice ten years no step had waked The hollow echoes there ; Upon its hinge no door had turned To let in other air. But lo ! down yonder steps descends A Kingi with stifled breath : That rapid flight of steps that kings Descend not save in death. The moving torches flickering high His haggard face expose : He comes to view the vault where soon He shall himself repose. ^ Charles II. of Spain, THE VAULT OF THE ESCUKIAL. Ill Amid the tranquil dwellers there He seeks for one beloved ; The wife whom death had, youthful still, In beauty's pride removed. Unchanged by death's all-changing hand, In seeming sleep she lies ; While, oh ! how changed the face of him That stares with straining eyes ! A single moment thus he gazed Upon her upturned face. Then, raving and blaspheming, fled In madness from the place. 112 PIETEO Mice A. AUGUST 30, 1706. " There is no time to lay the train ! The French are pouring in ! Away, away ! 'tis all in vain, And nought can save Turin ! " Like bloodhounds suddenly at fault, The sappers stood in doubt : They heard from that dark bastion-vault The foe's exulting shout ; They heard, upon the upper floor, A sound of many feet ; The French were thundering at the door, To cut off their retreat. 'Twas then the sapper Micca said Unto the other two : — " Ye see the train could ne'er be laid ; Without a train we'U do. PIETRO MICCA. 113 " The naked match will do as well, And I will be the man ; The French are on us ! quick ! farewell ! Escape while still ye can." His fellow-soldiers wondering heard His speech with bated breath. Small time there was to speak a word ; They left him to his death. Yet, one upon his steps returned, To shake his purpose wild ; And bade him, ere the match he bui'ned, Give thought to wife and child. But Micca dragged him from the spot. And cried, " 'Twill be too late ! Eun, while the minutes thou hast got. Or thou shalt share my fate ! " The man obeyed ; and one by one The fatal minutes fled, And Micca, witli his match alone. Could hear the French o'erhead. He heard them working at the wall ; Two companies were there. Himself, the bastion, and them all, He hurled into the air ! All, all into ibe sky were hurled. And as a liery rain. Upon the rent and quivering world, Descended back again. n lU POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES. And then a silence filled the air, A silence strange and long ; Afraid the bu-ds that morning were, To sing their morning song. Above the town there hung, up high, A single cloud of smoke, \Miich slowly sailed across the sky, As soft Aurora woke. It passed away. All looked the same The sun in splendour rose. No vestige of that deed of flame, Its author or his foes ! But time was gained by Micca's deed ; The French were beaten down ; And Prince Eugene arrived and freed The long-beleaguered town. lY. TEANSCKIPTS FROM THE AMBRA OF LORENZO DE' MEDICI. The season has now vanished which had made Into ripe fruit the blossoms it had found ; Few are the leaves that on the bough have stayed ; But in the thinnM woods strewn on the ground, They make a rustling, when across the glade The huntsman goes : few steps like many sound. The beast to hide its wandering track may try, But goes ill hidden through the branches dry. 'Mid leafless trees the cheerful bay is seen, ' As well as Cypris' shrub of pleasant smell ; The fir-tree on the whitish hills is green, And bends beneath the snow that lately fell ; The cypress-tree doth still a few birds screen ; With adverse Avinds the strong pine struggles well ; The lowly juniper sharp-leafed stands, And pricketh not, when pluckt with dexterous hands. The olive-tree on yon soft sunny steep, As blows the wind, appears now green, now white : Nature in it does still recruit and keep Tlie verdure, lacked by other trees in sight. 118 TRANSCRIPTS. The birds of passage have, across the deep, Already taken, by no easy flight. Their weary broods, and shown them on the way Nereids and Tritons and such beasts as they. The Night has fought for empire and has won, And captive leads away the shorter Day. In the pure sky where fires eternal run, Her starry chariot gaily goes its way ; Nor did it rise untU. the golden sun, That other car, in Ocean's bosom lay. The cold Orion shows his dagger then, If Phoebus show his radiant face to men. AVith this bright car of Night there goes along A train of vigils, wakes, and anxious cares ; And Sleep, which (though he may be very strong) When matched with these importunates, iU fares ; And pleasant dreams, wliich make the mind see wrong When it a weight of evil fortune bears. Of health and wealth that man doth take his fill. Who when he wakes is oft both poor and ill. Oh wretched he who in so long a night Can find no sleep and for the dawn doth pray, If in his breast be strong desire alight For what is promised by the coming day ! And though he tries, with both his brows knit tight, To drive away sad thoughts and keep the gay, To while away the time ; the night appears. Awake or sleeping, full a hundred years. FROM THE AMBRA OF LOEENZO DE' MEDICI. 119 Oh wretched he whom on the waters now, So long a night o'ertakes, far from the shore ! The wind that blows against the sightless prow Obstructs its way, and loud the billows roar ; Aurora called with many a prayer and vow. Doth with her ancient spouse but stay the more. He sadly counts and keeps in anxious sight The sluggish footsteps of the tardy night. How different, nay, how quite opposed, a fate Is that of lovers in the winter's chill, AVTio find that night goes at too fast a rate, Wliile day is dark, and dull, and hard to fill ! Now when rough winter presses with full weight, The birds whose feathers are quite recent still, Have ceased to sing — I scarce know which to say, Whether a cheerful or a doleful lay. The screeching cranes, stiU distant, come in sight, And print the sky -with varied forms and fair ; The last, with outstretched neck dnects its flight, Where left the first a track in empty air ; And when in sunny places they alight, One batch doth sleep, and one stands sentry there : A thousand birds, of every hue and sort, Now fill the meads and on the waters sport. Often the eagle, slowly circling- round. Doth threaten all, and flies above the mere : All rise at once, and with the wind-like sound Of wings they scare it. But if, in the rear. One of the feathered tlirong alone be found, 'Tis pounced on by the bird of Jove still near. 120 TRANSCRIPTS. The wretclied thing "will much mistaken prove, That thinks to go like Ganymede to Jove. Zephyr has fled to Cyprus, where he plays With flowers idly on the merry lawn ; The air, serene no more with golden haze, lij Aquilo and Boreas is torn ; The running, babbling rivulet now stays. Confined by ice, and silent rests and worn ; The fish within the crystal hard and clear, Like gnats in golden amber locked appear. The hill ^ which makes fierce Caurus pass aside. Lest he should hurt the beauteous flower, reared AVithin its lap in honour, wealth, and pride, Does now with mists its hoary head begird. The snow already doth its shoulders liide, Which from the proud head slope ; the horrid beard Now stifi" with ice on the rough breast one sees ; The nose and eyes pour streams wlaich heaven doth freeze. The cloudy garland which encircles now His lofty brow, is placed by Notus ^ there ; But Boreas coming from the Alps, doth blow It ofi", and leaves the old head white and bare. Again to clothe it Notus is not slow, With mists which damp, malignant pinions bear. Thus, bare or laden, for the plain below, Angry Morello bodes now rain, now snow. ^ Monte Morello, in whose lap Florence (the beatdeous flower) may be said to lie. Caurus is the north-west wind. 2 Xotus is the south-west wind ; Boreas is the north wind. FROM THE AMBRA OF LOEENZO DE' MEDICI. 121 Of j3^]thiopia Auster^ leave has ta'en, All hot and dark, and thirsty sponges wets, In the salt wave of the Tyrrhenian main. Scarce to the destined coasts all tired he gets, Begirt with clouds and heavy with the rain : To squeezing both his fists at once he sets. The happy streams, to meet the streams they know, Then from the depths of ancient caverns flow. They praise their father Ocean : wreathed around Their brows are lilies now and river green ; Their shells and twisted horns they loudly sound, \^^lile, filled with pride, their flanks are swelling seen. Their wrath conceived since many days has found An object in the banks of timid mien. Each foaming stream has its embankments burst, Nor keeps the margin that it knew at first. No more by crooked ways or paths oblique They go like snakes ; but in great volumes bear Onwards, and their primeval father seek. United flow the streams that distant were. And with each other, like old friends, they speak About their countries and men's habits there ; And talking thus in strange and altered strain. Seek the lost outlet, but they seek in vain. AA^icn, wide and swelled, the stream is stopped before A narrow valley's lofty moimtain-steeps, The turbid waves, pent up, malignant roar ; The flood is yellow Avith the earth it sweei)s ^ The south or south-west wind. 122 TRANSCRIPTS. Stone upon stone against th' opposing shore, On either hand, the angry river heaps. It whirls and foams and shudders as it nears ; High out of reach, the shepherd sees and fears. Thus, in its Avrath the mighty flood doth spend Its strength and fierce the adverse banks doth gnaw ; But in the plain, where it can wide extend, As if appeased, 'tis almost heard no more. As if in doubt to turn or to descend. The distant hills have now become its shore. The placid lake it proudly enters now, With mountain spoils of many a trunk and bough. The frightened goodwife scarce has time to throw Open the sheds and set the cattle free. She bears the cradle with her infant now. Her grown-up daughter follows her, and see 'Neath clothes and sheets and wool her shoulders bow. While aU the cottage chattels floating be. The pigs, the oxen, swim in fear and pain ; The shee^D, I trow, will ne'er be shorn again. Some of the household having safety sought Up in the house-top, on the roof appear, But see their httle riches, dearly bought, Their toil, their hope, submerged. But in their fear For self, make no lament, nor utter ought. The heart fears death within each bosom drear, Not seems to value what it dearest held ; The greater care has lesser care expelled. FROM THE AMBRA OF LOEENZO DE MEDICI. 123 The green familiar banks no more restrain The happy fish who now have ampler space ; Their old and natural wish they now obtain, And see new shores : they go from place to place, Led by this novel pleasure, nor refrain From peeping at the wrecked and ruined face Of walls and buildings which the waters fill ; They like to see them, though uneasy still. 124 ALEXIS AND DOEA. {From Goethe, in the metre of the original.) Ah ! how unceasingly toils the ship, as she gets, every moment, Over the white-crested waves, further and further to sea ! Far away stretches the wake of the keel, and in it the dolphins Leap as they follow us close, seeming a prey to pursue. All seems to augur a prosperous voyage ; the mariner, tranquil. Gently is shifting the sail, doing its work for us all. Forward the voyagers' mind, like the flags and the pennants, is tending; One alone, there by the mast, stands and looks sadly astern. Blue are the mountains already ; he sees them departing and sinking Into the sea ; and with them, sinking all joy he sees. Now too, Dora ! for thee has the ship which bears off thy Alexis, Even thy friend, thy betrothed, vanished in distance away. Thou, too, art looking towards me in vaia. Our hearts are still beating One for the other, but ah ! next to each other no more. Single moment in which I have lived ! By thyself thou outweighest AU the days which, before, coldly passed by without trace. Ah ! in that moment, the last one, in thee descended upon me, All unsuspected, a life sent by the Gods from above. Vainly at present thy light, Phoebus ! illumines the ether ; Hateful thy all-radiant day now has become unto me. ALEXIS AND DORA. 125 Let me turn inwards my thoughts, and look back ; and in silence the period, When I beheld her each day, let me go over again. Who could such beauty have seen, and not have experienced its power? Blunted indeed was thy soul if it was dead to such charms. Blame not thyself, poor youth ! — 'Twas as when the Poet a riddle, Carefully guarded by words, unto his hearers propounds. All with the pictures are pleased, and their graceful and rare com- bination ; Only the word is not there, giving the purport and sense. When 'tis discovered at last, the cloud from aU minds it dispelleth. Making the poem complete, doubling the charm of the whole. "Wherefore, love ! with such tardiness, didst thou unfasten the bandage Wliich thou hadst bound o'er my eyes 1 Wliy didst thou lift it too late? Long had the ship, ready freighted, been waiting for favouring breezes, When from the shore to the sea tended those breezes at last. Empty times of my youth, and empty dreams of the future ! Ye disappear from the scene ; nought but that hour remains. Yes, it remains ; the joy remains ; I hold thee, Dora ! Hope in his mirror displays, Dora, thy image alone. Often I saw thee repair to the temple, adorned and yet modest ; Also thy mother I saw ; gravely she went by thy side. Eager thou wast and alert, in bearing the produce to market ; Ay, and how bravely thy head balanced the urn from the foimt ! Visible then was thy tlu-oat and exposed was thy neck imto all men ; All could the measure admire, which to thy movements belongs. Often in fear I looked on, and thought that the pitcher was sUpping : Firmly it stood on the cloth, twisted in circular shape. Beautiful ncighlnnir mine ! I thus was accustomed to sec thee, As we look up to the stars, or as we gaze at the moon : 126 TRANSCRIPTS. Pleasure "we feel at their sight, but never the faintest desire That they should be our own findeth a place in the heart. Years, it was thus that ye passed : not twenty paces the houses Stood from each other ; and yet never her threshold I touched. Now by the sea we are parted. wave ! thou but apest the heaven Even thy glorious blue seems but the colour of night. All were already astir, when a boy came suddenly running Up to my father's abode, calling me down to the beach. Eising the sail is already, he cried ; in the wind it is flapping ; Ay, and the anchor, upheaved, mightily cleaveth the sand. Come Alexis, oh come ! — and my excellent father then laying Gravely his hand on my head, gave me the blessing I asked. Full of kind forethought, my mother then brought an additional bundle. When thou returnest, they cried, mayst thou be happy and rich ! And so I hurried away with the bundle under my shoulder, Down by the wall ; and behold, there thou wast, close to the gate Of thy garden. Thou smiledst upon me, and saidest, Alexis, Is't with that noisy crew thou art about to embark ? Foreign shores thou art going to visit, to buy for the wealthy Matrons here of the town, fabrics and ornaments rare ; Wilt thou not also buy me a neck-chain, a small one ? most gladly Will I repay thee the price ; oft such a trinket I've wished ! Stopping, by thee thus addressed, I asked thee as asketh a merchant, Details exact of the chain, as to its shape and its weight. Modest indeed was the price Avhich thou bargain'dst, and I, as thou spokest. Fastened my eyes on thy neck, worthy the gems of a queen. Louder the shouting became from the ship; but thou saidest, all friendly, Now, from this garden of mine, with thee some fruit thou must take ; Take of the oranges, only the ripest ; of figs, but the white ones ; Fruit is unknown to the sea ; nor in all lands is there such. ALEXIS AND DORA. 127 So I went in ; and thou busily pluckedst the fruit, and the golden Load in thy skirt was received, stretching the folds thou hadst raised. Oft I entreated and cried 'twas enough ; but ever some richer Fruit from the branches above, fell, scarcely touched, in thy hand. Up to a bower thou earnest at last, and a basket we found there ; Tliick was the myrtle that hung, flowery, o'er our heads. Silently then, and with skill, the fruit to arrange thou begannest : First was the orange put in, ponderous like a gold ball ; Next came the delicate fig, wliich the slightest of pressures disfigures ; Myrtle was placed on the top, beauty to add to the gift. Ay, but I took it not up ; I stood still ; and we looked at each other. Full in the eyes for a while ; dim then my vision became. Bosom on boson reposed ; and now with my hand I encii'cled. Softly the beautiful neck, cov'ring with kisses the tliroat ; Thy head sank on my shoulder ; now also thy arms, in their sweet- ness. Gently around me were thrown ; I was the happiest of men. Love's strong hands I felt ; he forcibly pressed us together. Thrice, in the sky Avithout cloud, thunder I heard. And the tears Flowed more than once from my eyes ; thou weptest ; I wept ; and that moment, Full both of grief and of bliss, seemed like the end of the world. Louder and louder the shouts on the beach, my feet Avould not bear me. Though I endeavoured ; I cried : Dora, and art thou not mine 1 Yes, and for ever ! thou murmur'dst, and lo, the tears we were shedding. Seemed of a sudden dispelled, as by the breath of a god. Nearer a cry of " Alexis ! " was heard ; and the boy who sought me Showed us his face at the gate. Gladly the basket he took. Oh, how ho urged me to haste ! I pressed thy hand ; but I knoAV not How I got into the ship, for I inebriate seemed ; 128 TRANSCRIPTS. Ay, and my comrades thought so, or thought I was ill, and they spared me. Then in dim distance and mist, soon did the town disappear. " Ever," thou murmur'dst, Dora ! the word in my ears is still ring- ing, Mixed with the thunder of Zeus, near to whose heavenly throne Stood his daughter the Goddess of Love, and beside her the Graces ; Is not the union I ask, ratified thus by the Gods 1 Oh, then hasten, thou ship, with all the favouring breezes ! Toil, ye powerful bows, cleaving the wliite-crested waves ! Bear me across to the foreign seaport, so that the goldsmith May in the workshop at once fashion the heavenly pledge. Verily, into a chain thy chainlet shall turn, my Dora ! Nine times loosely entwined shall it encircle thy neck. Other ornaments, too : I will get the most various ; and golden Bracelets as well thou shalt have, richly thy hand to adorn. There shall the ruby the emerald rival ; the sapphire sweetly Kext to the jacinth be jilaced, while by the setting of gold, Fast shall the jewels be held, in rich combination, together. Ne'er shall the bride be adorned, save by the bridegroom alone ! If I should look upon pearls, of thee I shall think, and thy lovely Tapering hand I shall see, if I should look on a ring. Yes, I will barter and buy ; thou shalt choose of the best and the finest ; All that the cargo makes up, would thou couldst take to thyself ! Yet not ornaments only and gems will thy lover procure thee : All that a housewife delights, that will I get for thee too : Delicate blankets of wool, adorned with edges of purple. Such as will make us a bed, warm and cosy and soft ; Pieces of beautiful linen. Thou sittest and sewest and clothest Me and thyself, and, I hope, even a third one besides. Pictures of hope, oh delude me ! Ye Deities, lessen the fire Which in my bosom is lit, raging each moment more fierce. ALEXIS AND DORA. 129 All ! but how oft I regret it, tliat pain that \nth pleasure was mingled, \\Tien I perceive the approach, frigid, familiar, of Care ! No, not the torch of the Furies, or yell of the hell-hounds, can startle, In the abodes of Despair, him who is conscious of guilt, More than the spectre appalled me, — the spectre Avhich coolly the fair one Let me behold from afar. Open the garden gate stands ; Ay, but another goes in ; for Mm, too, the fruit is collected ; Also the fig unto 1dm yieldeth its nourishing juice; Up to the bower enticed, does he enter 1 Ye Deities blind me ! Ay, and that picture of joy quick from my memory wipe ! Yes ! a maiden she is ; and she who so hurriedly giveth Herself up to the one, quick to the other will turn. Laugh not this time, Zeus, at the oaths with such insolence broken ! Thunder more terribly ! Strike ! . . . iSTo, thy dread lightning- retain ; After me send the uncertain clouds ; in the darkness nocturnal, Let thy most dazzling of bolts strike this unfortunate mast ! Scatter the planks and the spars ; give these goods to be tossed by the waters ; And to the dolphins, Zeus, let me be given for food ! Now, ye Muses, enough : in vain ye endeavour to picture How, in the bosom that loves, fluctuate joy and pain ; Heal ye cannot, indeed, the wounds that by Love are inflicted ; — No ; but the balm that shall soothe, ye in your kindness can pour. 130 A M Y N T A S. {From Goethe.) NiC'iAS, kindest of men, of body and soul the physician, Ailing I am, in good sooth ; ah, but thy remedy's hard ! Fortitude melted away when I wanted to follow thy counsel ; Yes, and the truest of friends, seems in my eyes like a foe. Think not I seek to refute ; to myself I say aU that thou urgest ; Even the bitterer word, which thou withholdest, as well. Ah ! but the water comes pouring down from the clefts of the moun- tains Fast ; and the waves of the stream, who can detain them with songs ? Rages the storm not unceasingly 1 Doth not the sun in the evening Eoll from the zenith of Day into the depths of the sea 1 Yes, and all Nature proclaims it, and says to me : " Thou too, Amyntas, To irresistible laws, framed by stern powers, must yield." Frown not stiU deeper, my Friend; but hear, I entreat thee, with patience. What I was taught by a tree, yesterday near to the brook. Few are the apples it gives me, this tree once so heavily laden ; See, 'tis the ivy in fault, clinging around it with force. And I seized my knife, my sickle-shaped knife, which is sharpest ; Severed and cut with it deep, tearing down wreath upon wreath. AMYNTAS. 131 Ay, but I started Avith fecor ; for a voice deep-sigliing and plaintive, Seeming to come from the boughs, murmured close by me these words : Oh, do not injure me thus, thy faithful garden companion, "Who when thou wast but a lad, gave thee enjoyment oft ! Oh, do not injure me thus ! thou art tearing away with this network, Which thou so roughly destroy'st, that which is part of my life. Have I not fed it myself, and tenderly nurtiu-ed and reared it 1 Is not its foliage, oh say, part of myself, like my own 1 Shall I not love it, this plant, which has need of myself and no other, Which with a covetous force, round me has silently wound 1 Thousands of tendrils have rooted; and thousands on thousands of fibres Fastened their hold and sank in, searching the depths of my life. Food it derivoth from me, enjoying that which I needed, Sucking the marrow away, draining the essence of life. Vainly I nourishment take ; the powerful root can send upwards. Striving to quicken the tree, only one half of the sap. Now that the dangerous guest, albeit adored, intercepteth. E'en as it mounteth, the force needed in autumn for fruit, Nothing can reach to the summit ; the shoots and extremities Avither ; Even the branch o'er the stream now has to wither begun. Yes, 'tis the traitress's fault ; she cheats me of life and of riches, Cheats me of courage and strength; cheats me of prospects and hope. Feeling I have but for her who encircles me ; loving my fetters, Loving the ornament dire, formed of extraneous green. Use not therefore thy knife, O Nicias ! but spare the unhappy Wretch who his bondage enjoys, slowly consumed by his love. Every expenditure's sweet : oh let me the fairest enjoy ! Wlio that to love has recourse settoth a value on life 1 '^"^ 132 EPIGRAM FEOM GOETHE. Often were urn and sarcophagus circled with life by the Pagan : Fauns are seen dancing around, with the bacchantes in troop, Forming a motley array; while gaily the goat-footed Satyr Forces the hoarsest of tones out of the echoing horn, Cymbals and timbrels resound ; we look at the marble and hear it ; Then there are fluttering birds ; sweet are the berries they peck. Little the din do they mind ; and still less does it frighten the Cui^id, Wlio, in the midst of the throng, carries triumphant his torch. Death is thus crushed by luxuriance; the ashes which here are reposing Seem, in then- silent abode, still to get pleasure from life. 133 FEOM GOETHE'S WILHELM MEISTER. He who with tears ne'er ate his bread, Who tlirough night's miserable hours Ne'er weeping sat upon his bed, He knows you not, ye heavenly Powers. Ye first the wretch with life endowed ; That he should sin ye then permitted ; And then his torture ye allowed : For ne'er was wrong on earth remitted. 134 THE LIMITS OF HUMANITY. {From Goethe.) When the primeval Holiest Father With easy hands scatters, '^- From clouds that are rolling, Lightnings like hlessings O'er the earth broadcast : I then kiss the lowest Hem of his garment, With faith and a childlike Awe in my heart. With the Gods never Let any mortal Measure his strength : If he soars upwards TOl his head touches Even the stars, The soles of his feet, then, Uncertain rest nowhere ; The sport he becometh Of clouds and of winds. THE LIMITS OF HUMANITY. 135 If he stands solidly On Ms feet planted, On the immovable Durable earth, Then doth his stature Rival not even That of the oak-tree Or of the vine. How do Gods differ From human beings 1 Thus : in tJieir presence Many waves hasten, Stream without end ; Us the wave tosses. Us tlie wave swallows, In it we sink. A tiny ring Contains our lifetime ; And our generations, Unnumbered, are gathered Round the unlimited Chain of their life. 136 TO ITALY. {From the Italian of Leopardi, in the original metre.) NATIVE land, I see tlie Avail, the arcli, 0^ The column and the statue, and our lone Ancestral towers still there ; But glory I see not, The steel and laurel under which did march j/C^ Our sires of old. Disarmed, thou long hast shown i A naked forehead and a bosom bare. j Woe's me ! what wounds be they ! ' What pallor and what gore ! In what a state Art thou, woman most beautiful ! I call -^ On Earth and Heaven ; say, A Oh say, who did all this 1 and worse her fate ; ^ For both her arms are bound with heavy chains ; - She sits unveiled, with locks that loosened fall, •■ On the bare ground, abandoned and forlorn, \\ While hid her face remains 4' ■ Between her knees, and weeps. •(■ Weep on, for well thou mayst, my Italy, , i , That to excel was born, not less in woe than in prosperity. \ TO ITALY, 137 If thy two eyes were now two living founts, [Ne'er would their weeping be Sufficient for thy evil and tlie shame. That art a slave that wast a queen of yore. Who thy famed past recounts In speech or Avriting, and says not of thee : " She once Avas great, but noAv is great no more " 1 Oh why, oh Avhy 1 Avhere is the ancient strength, The arms, the courage, the endurance, where 1 Who took thy falchion bright 1 Wlio first betrayed 1 What arts, oh say at length, What force was brought to bear. To strip thee of thy mantle and thy crown 1 How, from so great a height. Didst thou descend to such a dejjth of shame 1 Hast thou no champion 1 Wliat, none of thy oath Defend thy cause 1 Arms ! arms ! for I alone For thee aaoII fight and fall, Avithout the rest. Grant that my blood as flame May be, HeaA^en, for each Italic breast ! Where are thy sons 1 I hear a sound of arms, Of chariots and of shouting, and a clash Of cymbals : thy sons fight In distant foreign lands. Attend, Italy ! attend ! for swarms I seem to see, of horse and foot, that dash 'Mid smoke and dust, and SAvords that flash in sight, Like lightnings through a mist. Dost thou not hope 1 and on the douljtful odds Dost thou not fear to fix thy trembling eyes 1 Wliy in yon fight insist The youths of Italy ? Gods ! Gods ! 138 TRANSCKIPTS. Italian swords fight for another land. Oh "Woe to him who in the battle dies, N"ot for his children dear, his faithful wife, Nor for his fathers' strand, But slain by others' foes, For other men, and dying, cannot say : "Dear native land, the life Which thou didst give, I give thee back this day." Oh, brave those ancient times, and dear and blest. When men were wont to rush To death in squadrons for their native land ; And ye Thessalian Straits, for ever great And honoured, which attest How a few brave and generous souls could crush The strength of Persia and the strength of Fate. Methinks the plants, the water, and the stones. And your high crags, the passing stranger tell, With accents indistinct, How the whole place was covered with the bones Of serried ranks that fell, But all unconquered, in the cause of Greece ; How Xerxes' name was linked To endless shame, and with a coward's wrath He fled across the Hellespont for peace ; \Miile from Antela's steep, where death had made A life eternal for the sacred band, Simonides looked forth Upon the sky, upon the sea and land. And with his cheeks still moistened with his tears. With heaving chest, with faltering steps undone. He seized his sounding Ijtc : TO ITALY. 139 " Oh three times blest are you Wliose breasts were offered to the hostile spears For love of her who gave you to the Sun ! Ye whom Greece honours and mankind admires ! Wliat drove you into arms ? What mighty love o'er your young hearts had power 1 Wliat love impelled you to the bitter chance 1 Oh say, ye youths, what charms Did ye discover in that parting hour, That ye should court a hard and mournful fate 1 'Twas not to death ye went, but to some dance, 'Twas some rare feast ye were in haste to reach. But Tartarus did wait You, and the stagnant pools ; Nor were your wives, your children by your side, Upon this rugged beach, AMiere aU imkissed and all unwept ye died. But not without the Persians' hard defeat, And endless woe and shame. As bounds a lion 'mid a herd of buUs, And leaps on this and that, and in his back Lets teeth resistless meet, And now a thigh, and now a llanlc doth maim ; So raged the fury of the Greek attack Amid the masses of the Persian host. See horse and rider intermingled lie ! See how the flying throng By cars are hampered and by tents o'ertossed ! See 'mid the first that fly The palHd tyrant with dishevelled hair ! See the Greek heroes strong — "WQiose limbs, red with barbaric blood, attest no TKANSCRIPTS. What boundless loss the Persians have to bear — Little by little, conquered by their wounds, Fall in a gory heap ! Oh hail, oh hail To you, the three times blest, So long as men shall tell, or write, the tale ! The loosened stars shall into ocean fall, And hissing perish in the depths below, Before your fame be past. Or love for you be less. Your graves are altars ; and the mothers all Shall bring their sons, and of your blood shall show The noble vestiges. Behold, I cast Me down, ye blessed souls ; And now these rocks, and now these clods I kiss, Wliich shall be praised and ever famous now To Earth's remotest poles. Would I could rest beside you, and that this Dear earth Avith my own heart's blood could be wet ! But if the Fates are adverse, nor allow That I for Greece my parting breath should give Upon the field, oh let At least the Gods permit That, in far times to come, your poet's name, Modest though 'tis, may live. And live as long as shall have lived your fame." 141 LOVE AND DEATH/ {From the Italian of Leopardi.) "Ov 01 0€o\ (jyiKovaiv airo9vi\t»>MS\>iS«v\vN^