Poems

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft, The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate, And all the blinding glories it hath known Shed but their mystic influence over life. Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retain Of that which passeth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams, Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.-- Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile In Heaven's own sunshine;--yet forget not me!

[_Makes passes over her, which shortly sink her into a state of trance._

'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frame Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems Now sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven. This earth seems very lone and cold to me Now she is absent, though a little space! My heart goes restless wandering around, Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks, Like one who, waking from some troubled dream, Findeth his love soft stolen from his side, And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[_A pause._

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky? Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze? Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun, That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast? Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven, With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a star Struggling up through the tremulous sea of light, That sucks its life down from the eye of day? About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove, Fann'd by the breath of melodies divine; Opes there no casement soft to take her in, And lay her in the bosom of delight? O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven! Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide, On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[_A pause_.

O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless, Unswept by memory, untrod by thought, Where all lies tranced in motionless repose; No whisper stirring round the silent place, No foot of guest across the startled halls, No rustling robes about the corridors, No voices floating on the waveless air, No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams On silver wings among the archèd domes,-- No swans upon the mere--no golden prow, Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,-- No flapping sail before the idle wind,-- No music pulsing out its great wild heart In sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,-- No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades, In dreams that open wide the Eden gate, And waft them past the guardian Seraphim. Sleep over all the Present and the Past-- The Future standing idle at the gate, Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste Bearing great tidings to some palace porch, Findeth the place deserted.

[_A noise without; enter in haste Father, Maurice and Roger._

How now?--Friends, you are welcome!

FATHER.

Where's my child, That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?

ORAN.

Sir, you are over hasty in your words-- Your child is here.--

[_Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced._

FATHER.

Mabel! wake, Mabel--O my God! she's dead!

MAURICE.

How!--Dead!

ROGER.

Ay, murder'd!

FATHER.

O! my child! my child!

ORAN.

Peace! she is well--Sleep folds her in his arms, And each upheaving of his drowsy breast Is like a billow upon pleasure's sea, Wafting her on to far Hesperides.

FATHER.

This is no healthy sleep that wraps her now, Else would she waken at my anxious cry; 'Tis death-sleep, wretched man.

MAURICE.

Let's bear her hence.

ROGER.

Nay! let him now unwind his magic spells, Or fall our vengeance on his guilty head.

ORAN.

Dismiss your fears, and cease your threats. Old man, Soon shall I prove how much you wrong my love; Thus do I call the spirit home again, And wave the slumber backward from her eyes.

[_Makes passes to awaken her, but without effect after long persistence_.

FATHER.

Impostor! would you mock e'en Death itself, Calling it sleep!--You see, Death mocks you back.

MAURICE.

In vain! no further seek to blind our fears.

ORAN.

'Tis strange!... stand back, Sirs ... 'tis your influence Hath neutralized my power--stand off, I say!

[_Continuing the passes in great agitation_.

ROGER.

By Heaven!--It is too much--Let fall the mask! O villain! you have done your worst at last, And ta'en the sweetest life in all the land; But vengeance swift shall follow on your track.

ORAN.

Hold! hold! young man, talk not of vengeance here; This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words-- If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.

[_A silence--continuing the passes_.

O Mabel! Mabel! hear me where thou art! Come to the lonely heart that yearns for thee,-- Come to the eyes that seek thee through salt tears! Patience, Sirs, now methinks the sense returns; A smile steals o'er her lips, and roseate hues Make morning on her downy cheek again: Back ... back--my anguish shall unwind the charm!

[_A silence_.

FATHER.

Sir, I acquit you--pity you--perceive You loved her, and have err'd against yourself; But cease these struggles that but mock us now, They nought avail--my child is dead!...

ORAN.

Mabel! Mabel!

HEBE.

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What?--Pour in Strength! Strength for the struggle through good and ill; Through good--that the soul may be upright still, Unspoil'd by riches, unswerving in will, To walk by the light of unvarnish'd truth, Up the flower-border'd path of youth;-- Through ill--that the soul may stoutly hold Its faith, its freedom through hunger and cold, Steadfast and pure as the true men of old. Strength for the sunshine, strength for the gloom, Strength for the conflict, strength for the tomb; Let not the heart feel a craven fear-- Draw from the fountain deep and clear; Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in! Pour in Strength!

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What--Pour in Truth! Drink! till the mists that enshroud the soul, Like sleep's drowsy shadows backward roll, And show the spirit its radiant goal, That nought may blind it all its days, Or tempt it down earth's crooked ways; Drink! till the soul in the eastern skies Behold the glorious star arise, That guides its steps to the promised prize; Drink! till the strong elixir fire Each aim of the being with pure desire, Nerve the courage to dare the world, Though a thousand scoffers their arrows hurl'd; Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in! Pour in Truth!

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What?--Pour in Love! To quench the thirst of the longing heart, Heal all its sorrows with wondrous art, And freshness and joy to its hopes impart; To make the blossoms of life expand, And shed their sweetness on every hand; To melt the frost of each sullen mood, Cement the bond of true brotherhood, Subdue the evil of Time with good, And join the links which death hath riven Betwixt this fallen sphere and Heaven, Raising the soul above the sky On wings of Immortality. Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in! Pour in Love!

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What?--Pour in Hope! The soul looks out through the coming years, Blinded by doubts, and blinded by tears, Sear'd with the iron of tyrant fears:-- Is there a break in Life's gloomy sky? Can the heart reach it before it die? The path is weary, the desert wide, And Sorrow stalks by the pilgrim's side-- Oh for a draught of Hope's crystal tide To cheer the parch'd and fainting one, Until his toilsome race be run, And the bright mirage fall from the sky, Displaced by a sweet reality. Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in! Pour in Hope!

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What?--Pour in Faith! What is Life's fabric, so nobly plann'd, Its stately dome, and its ramparts grand, If their foundation rest on the sand, Ready to shift with Time's ebbing stream, And melt away like a gorgeous dream? God! let us trust Thee in very sooth, Feel that the visions, the dreams of youth, Its glorious hopes are all based on Truth;-- Thus shall the purpose of Life grow clear; Love shall be freed from the bondage of fear; And the soul calmly await the morrow Untroubled by visions of coming sorrow. Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in! Pour in Faith!

SPRING.

On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind, Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark, Rifting Creation's soul, for rage is blind,-- No pity hath he for the Earth all stark, Shivering beneath the loose and drifting snow, A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.

Dead? There is life within the mother's breast-- So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;-- "The time will come--the time will come--rest! rest! Let the mad greybeard to his North depart; Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave-- Patience a little, let the dotard rave!"

The palsied boughs grew still--there came a pause, And Nature's heart scarce beat for listening, Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws, With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring; And when she heard Spring coming up the sky, Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.

Then she who once had wept like Niobe, Beheld her children springing round her feet, Raising young voices in the early day, That never to her ear had seem'd so sweet; And the soft murmur of a thousand rills Proclaim'd how Spring had loosed them on the hills.

The bright Evangel came, girt round with mirth, And garlanded with youth, and crown'd with flowers "Awake! arise! ye sons of the new birth, And move to the quick measure of the hours! Summer is coming--go ye forth to meet her, With sweetest hymeneal songs to greet her."

So there arose straightway a joyous train, Gather'd by every nook and hedgerow shade, That in its passage o'er the verdant plain, 'Still in the heart a thrilling music made-- Sweet pilgrims they of Love in youth's gay time, Leading the year on to its golden prime.

The birds sang homage to her evermore; And myriad wingèd things, whose radiant dyes Made sunshine beautiful, still hover'd o'er, And bore her witness in the sunlit skies; And rising from the tomb in glad amaze, Came many a sainted flower to hymn her praise.

Thus from the streams, and rivers, from the sea, From the stirr'd bosom of the mighty hills, From every glade there rose continually A blessing for her, till with joyous thrills Earth's bosom heaved, and in man's heart a voice Echoed the anthem--"Spring is come! Rejoice!"

THE BITTERN.

The reeds are idly waving o'er the marshy ground, The rank and ragged herbage rots on many a mound, And desolate pools and marshes deadly lie around.

There is no life nor motion, save the winds that fly With the close-muffled clouds in silence through the sky, There is no sound to stir it, save the Bittern's cry;

The Bittern, sitting sadly on the fluted edges Of pillars once the prop and pride of palace ledges, Now smear'd with damp decay and sunk in slimy sedges;

Shatter'd and sunken, with the sculptured architrave Peering above the surface of the sluggish wave, Like a gaunt limb thrust fleshless from a shallow grave.

The Bittern sitteth sadly on the time-worn stone, Upon life's mouldering relics, fearfully alone, Searing the silence ofttimes with his solemn tone.

The Bittern--monarch of the sad and dreary place, Mocking the pride and pageant of a ruin'd race, Whose very name's forgotten, and whose deeds have left no trace.

The pleasant songs of peace, the lute, the lover's sigh, The statesman's eloquence, the warrior's battle-cry Have pass'd,--and like their echo from the heedless sky, The lonely Bittern's note comes sadly floating by.

Oh, melancholy sound! Shall thus for ever end The glory and the greatness whither all hopes tend, And as the Past comes booming shall the Present wend?

No ear to listen to the old and hard-earn'd glory, That wore the heart out, made the locks grow scant and hoary, No ear to listen, and no tongue to tell the story!

The Bittern sitteth 'midst the marshes of the Past, Sitteth amidst the ruins, whilst the hours fleet fast, And at his own hoarse cry he looketh round aghast.

The hours fleet fast unnoted, and the time is nigh, When even he on noiseless wings shall soar on high, Till his deep note is lost amid the azure sky.

GONE.

The night is dark, and evermore The thick drops patter on the pane The wind is weary of the rain, And round the thatches moaneth sore; Dark is the night, and cold the air; And all the trees stand stark and bare, With leaves spread dank and sere below, Slow rotting on the plashy clay, In the God's-acre far away, Where she, O God! lies cold below-- Cold, cold below!

And many a bitter day and night Have pour'd their storms upon her breast, And chill'd her in her long, long rest, With foul corruption's icy blight; Earth's dews are freezing round the heart, Where love alone so late had part; And evermore the frost and snow Are burrowing downward through the clay, In the God's-acre far away, Where she, O God! lies cold below,-- Cold, cold below!

Those eyes so full of light are dim; And the clear chalice of her youth, All sparkling up with love and truth, Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;-- No more can mortal ear rejoice In the soft music of her voice; No wistful eye, through tears of woe, Can pierce down through the heavy clay, In the God's-acre far away, Where she, O God! lies cold below,-- Cold, cold below.

A star shines, sudden, from the sky-- God's angel cometh, pure and bright, Making a radiance through the night, Unto the place where, mute, I lie, Gazing up in rapt devotion, Shaken by a deep emotion; And my thoughts no longer go Wandering o'er the plashy clay, In the God's-acre far away, Where she, O God! _lay_ cold below-- Cold, cold below!

God's angel! ah I divinely bright! But still the olden grace is there-- The soft brown eyes--the raven hair-- The gentle smile of calm delight, That could such peace and joy impart-- The veil is rent from off my heart, And gazing upward, well I know The rain may beat upon the clay In the God's-acre far away; But she no longer lies below, Enshrouded by the frost and snow-- Cold, cold below!

BEATRICE DI TENDA.

1.

It was too sweet--such dreams do ever fade When Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest-- Life still to me hath been a masquerade, Woe in Mirth's wildest, gayest mantle drest, With the heart hidden--but the face display'd.

But now the vizard droppeth, crush'd and torn, And there is nought left but some tinsell'd rags, To mock the wearer in the face of morn, As through the gaping world she feebly drags Her day-born measure of reproach and scorn.

But that _his_ hand should pluck the dream away-- And thus--and thus--O Heaven! it strikes too deep! The knife that wounds me, if not meant to slay, Stumbles upon my heart the while I weep: So be it; no hand of mine its course shall stay.

False? false to him? Release me--let me go Before Heaven's judgment-seat to make appeal; Unfold the records of this life, and show All that the secret pages can reveal, That Heaven and Earth the inmost truth may know!

He cannot think it in his heart of hearts; He cannot wear this falsehood in his soul, Or deem me perjur'd; no delusive arts Can make him blot my name from honour's scroll: The sun will shine forth when the cloud departs.

Patience, my heart! Error is quick, but Truth Moves slowly, but moves surely up the earth, Wiping from age the heresies of youth, And kindling warmth on the once blasted hearth: Patience, my heart! and rage will turn to ruth.

There is no blush upon my brow, though tears Are in mine eyes, and sorrow in my heart; This sobbing breast heaves not with traitor fears: No sighs for sin are these that sadly start, And bear their bitter burden to thine ears.

And though my woman's strength bend like a reed Before the flowing of Affliction's river, Not, not for shame, nor for one strumpet deed Doth this weak frame bow down, or faintly quiver, As I stand forth alone in deadly need.

No! before thee, Filippo, and the world, Cased in its petty panoply of scorn, With myriad slavish lips in mocking curl'd, Spotless and innocent, though most forlorn, Here stand I, 'gainst the shafts Falsehood hath hurl'd.

2.

Confess'd! Confess'd the guilty act! What act? What act, my Lord, that cometh home to me Closer than each hot word, by torment rack'd, Flies at the bidding of false tyranny, That makes at will the pain-wrung falsehood fact?

There are full many sins confess'd, my Lord, In pain of body and in pain of soul; Some from the heart unearth'd by fire and sword, And stealing forth amid the spirit's dole, With fiery pain-sweat seething every word;

But none, my Lord, that riseth to the sky, Bears guilt of mine upon its blister'd tongue; Though torture's fire is quick to forge a lie, None from these woman's lips could ere be wrung; No! none, though on the rack-bed bound to die.

Poor youth! This poison from his writhing throat, Those hellish instruments have haply drawn, And pain hath conn'd the aspish lies by rote; But to my heart no poison'd tooth hath gnawn, For in its pulses lies Truth's antidote.

These limbs, my Lord, can do their task no more; The rack hath crush'd them in its wild embrace, So that Truth's firm-set attitude is o'er, Else had I met my judges face to face, And challenged justice, as in days of yore.

Yet is the spirit strong within me still, And bears me up though manhood's strength succumb, Unbent by any blighting blast of ill, Through fiery trials, to all false witness dumb; They cannot stain me, though perchance they kill!

I am a woman--weak to combat wrong, But innocent, my Lord, I live or die; And silent, though my God doth tarry long, He sees me throughly with His holy eye, And in my sore, sore need, doth make me strong.

This hapless youth! I do forgive him all; E'en now remorse must rankle in his breast, And no cool comfort cometh at his call, To set the tumult of his soul at rest: God's pity on his human weakness fall!

3.

Nay, falter not, good friend; thy news is sweet; Thanks, thanks! Ay, sweet as is the welcome wind That wafts the calm-lock'd seaman, smooth and fleet, O'er tropic seas unto his sigh'd-for Ind; Ay! Death will bring rest to my weary feet!

'Tis strange--but now the word falls on mine ear Soft as the singing of a little child, Heaven's music on light pinions floateth near, Through all the strife of Earth, so harsh and wild; Time's stream is rippling on its marges clear.

The end is nigh--the end of grief and pain, And Life's broad gates are opening to my soul; O'er my weak heart no more shall sorrow reign, Enfranchised soon 'twill spurn the harsh control, And never feel its empiry again.

No more, Filippo, shall my hapless life Stand betwixt thee and pleasure,--Duty's knot Shall soon be sever'd by the headsman's knife; And upon memory one crimson blot Shall be the record of a spotless wife.

'Tis well! I would not wander through a haunted mind, Ghost-like and fearful in the evening hours; Would God that I could leave my peace behind, To bless thee when the night of sorrow lours, And thou art rifted by Affliction's wind!