Hear the singing on the boats,As they halt beside the pier!Ah, those fresh Italian throats,How they cheer!Yet the words they sing so loudBring depression to my heart,As I watch the youthful crowdThus depart.
"We are going o'er the sea!Loyal sons of Italy,We are bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!"
See that lad of twenty years,—Who is stretching out his handToward his mother there in tearsOn the strand!Should he perish in the strifeUnder Afric's burning sky,There were nothing left in life—She must die.
Yet he's going o'er the sea!At the call of Italy,He is bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
Now the plank is pulled to land,And the last farewell is o'er,As the steamer, at command,Leaves the shore;There are shouts and ringing cheers,For the boys are brave and strong,Yet one feels that there are tearsIn their song:
"We are going o'er the sea!Loyal sons of Italy,We are bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!"
Ah, that mother who is left!She is weeping now alone,Like a Niobe bereftOf her own;And at length I dare to speakTo the woman seated there,With the tears upon her cheek,In despair.
He has gone across the sea!Who so dutiful as he?He is bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
"Nay, good mother, do not weep!Since the summons comes from Rome,Can we really wish to keepSons at home?""And why not?" she made reply;"We have no invading foe;I would send my son to die,Were it so."
But he's gone across the sea!Gone with thousands such as he!He is bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
"What is Africa to me,If it swallow up my child?What care I for Tripoli,Spot defiled!Did not Abyssinian sandDrink sufficiently our gore?Must we stain that fatal strand,As before?"
Yet he's gone across the sea,Who more valorous than he?He is bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
"Have we no great useshereFor the millions we outpour?Are our consciences quite clearIn this war?Are there no more roads to build,Schools to found, and farms to work.That we let our boys be killedBy the Turk?"
Yet we send them o'er the sea!Youthful sons of Italy,They are bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
"We are hungry, yet behold,How the price of food goes higher!And the nights will soon be coldWithout fire!Who will earn for me my bread?Who my little home will save,When he lies there cold and deadIn his grave?"
But he's gone across the sea!Who so good and kind to me?He is bound for Tripoli,Tripoli!
To the churchyard, near the bay,Went the mother in her grief,For her soul was moved to prayFor relief;And deep sobs convulsed her breast,As she knelt upon the sod,Where her husband lay at rest,Safe in God.
For the boy was o'er the sea,Whom she rocked upon her knee;He had gone to Tripoli,Tripoli!
She was buried yesterdayWith her husband, side by side;Ere two months had passed awayShe had died!For one morning she had readOf her son among the slain,And they saw her old gray headSink in pain.
Nevermore across the seaWill he come to Italy!He was killed in Tripoli,Tripoli!
There was nothing more to tellOf a lad so little known;He was reckoned "one who fell,"That alone.Was he wounded? Did he lieLong ill-treated by the foe?And not know!
Yes, he lies beyond the sea!(Can it be thatthatis he?)In the sands of Tripoli,Tripoli!
She had asked for nothing more,But in silence slowly failed,Dreaming ever of the shore,Whence he sailed.Till her face, so wan and white,Flushed at last with sweet surprise,And a strangely tender lightFilled her eyes.
Then for her was "no more sea"!She had found the soul set freeFrom the sands of Tripoli,Tripoli!
We know not what mysterious powerLies latent in our words and deeds,—Sweet as the perfume of a flower,Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds;But something certainly survivesThe passing of our fleeting lives.
A look, a pressure of the hand,A sign of hope, a song of cheer,May journey over sea and land,Outliving many a sterile year,To find at last the destined hourWhen they shall leap to bud and flower.
We write, we print, then—nevermoreTo be recalled—our thoughts take flight,Like white-winged birds that leave the shore,And scattering, lose themselves in light;For good or ill those words may beThe arbiters of destiny.
Perchance some fervid plea may findA heart to rise to its appeal;Some statement rouse a dormant mind,Or stir a spirit, quick to feel;Nay, through some note of gentler toneEven love may recognize its own.
Fain would I deem not wholly deadThe spoken words of former years,And every printed page, when read,A source of smiles, instead of tears;That friends, whom I shall never see,May, for a time, remember me.
I made a journey o'er the sea,I bade my faithful dog good-bye,I knew that he would grieve for me,But did not dream that he would die!And how could I explainThat I would come again?
At first he mourned, as dogs will mournA life-long master they adore,Till in his mind the fear was bornThat he should never see me more.
Ah! then, on every boat intent,He watched the crowd upon the pier,While every look and motion meant"Willhenot come? Ishenot here?"
At last he merely raised his head,To see the steamers passing by,Then sank again upon his bed,And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh;For how could one explainThat I would come again?
I hastened back by sea and land,Forced homeward by remorse and fear;But no glad barking swept the strand,Nor did he meet me on the pier!
I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet,And then beheld him near the wall,Though tottering, still upon his feet,And creeping toward me down the hall.
No wish had he to sulk or blame,Nor did he need to understand,But simply loved me just the same,—In silence licking face and hand.
In silence? What could this portend?Such muteness he had never shown;Was he so very near the end?Ah, Leo, had I only known!
For his grand eyes, so large and bright,Though turned, through sound, my form to find,Were totally devoid of sight;He faced me in the darkness … blind!
What could such gloom have been to him,As weeks and months had crept away,While all the outer world grew dim,Till endless night eclipsed the day!
What had it meant to him to wakeAnd mid familiar things to grope?To hear old sounds on shore and lake,Yet wander darkly without hope!
But now, his head upon my knee,He tried in various ways to showThat, though my face he could not see,He knew the voice of long ago.Yes, now it was quite plainThat I had come again.
Within my arms he breathed his last,In my embrace his noble headDrooped back, and left to me … the Past,With tender memories of the dead.
He lies beneath the stately trees,Whose ample shade he loved the best,Mid flowers, whose perfume every breezeWafts lightly o'er his place of rest.
Yet somehow still I watch and waitFor him, as he once watched for me;At every footstep near my gateI look, his bounding form to see.
Good-night? … Good-bye! for I must leave thee,My boat is waiting on the shore;May I not hope that it will grieve thee,When thou shalt see me here no more?
Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted;"Have statues souls?" the cynic sneers;But I am happier to have doubted,And loved thee thus these many years.
Behind the form is the ideal,Forever high, forever true;Behind the false exists the real,Known only to the favored few.
Not all can hear the music stealingFrom out that lightly-lifted flute;To those devoid of kindred feelingIts melody is always mute.
But thou to me hast been a tokenOf classic legend, wrought in stone;In thee the thread of Art, unbroken,Made all the storied past mine own.
And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee,The old-time Genius of the Place,Aware of those who still adore thee,Unchanged by time, or creed, or race.
Through thee came also inspirationFor many a rare, poetic thought;And oh, how much of resignationThy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught!
Though thine own past hath had its sorrow,Though all thy sylvan friends have fled,Thou still canst smile at every morrow,For Nature lives, though Pan is dead.
Thou didst not grieve with futile wailingWhen altars crumbled far and near,When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing,And worship lessened year by year.
Above thee still rose lofty mountains,Before thee lay the lake divine,Around thee sang the crystal fountains,—With all these treasures, why repine?
Religions changed, and shrines were banished,Years slipped away, men came and went,But thou, whatever pleasures vanished,With what thou hadst wast still content.
Not thine our fatal strain of sadness,As cherished fancies fade away;For thee the simple soul of gladness,—The careless rapture of to-day!
Farewell! within my heart abidingI hear thy music, gentle Faun,—The wounds of disillusion hiding,The prelude to a happier dawn.
Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streamsMeet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams,Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep!Sleep, so dear to me,Sleep, come near to me,Sleep, sweet sleep!
Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way,Striving, ever striving to forget the day,Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep!Sleep, so dear to me,Sleep, come near to me,Sleep, sweet sleep!
By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink,Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link,Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep,Sleep, so dear to me,Sleep, come near to me,Sleep, sweet sleep!
Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call,And the welcome darkness that envelops all,If no more to waken, then no more to weep,Sleep, so dear to me,Sleep, come near to me,Sleep, sweet sleep!
It stands where darkly wooded cliffsSlope swiftly to the deep,And silvery streams from ledge to ledgeIn foaming splendor leap,—A broad expanse of saffron walls,A wilderness of mouldering halls.
The torrent's breath hath spread its blightOn every darkened room,And oozing mosses drip decayThrough corridors of gloom,While Ruin lays a subtle snareOn many a yielding rail and stair.
There seats, which beauty once enthroned,In tattered damask stand;In gray neglect a faun extendsA mutilated hand;And silence makes the festal boardMute as the stringless harpsichord.
The boldest hesitate to treadThose gruesome courts at night;'Tis whispered that a spectral formThen haunts the lonely height;For he who built this home apartHad stabbed his rival to the heart.
Oblivion's boon is vainly soughtAmid those scenes sublime;Forever lurked within his breastThe nemesis of crime;Not all that flood of limpid sprayCould wash the fatal stain away.
Yet certain fearless souls have dweltWithin that haunted pile;Among them she, whose portrait still,With enigmatic smile,Lights up the mansion, like a gemSet in a tarnished diadem;—
The princess, at whose thrilling callUnnumbered patriots roseTo drive from fettered LombardyHer immemorial foes,—A woman, loved from sea to sea,As Liberty's divinity.
But now the old, historic siteLives only in the past;Neglected and untenanted,Its life is ebbing fast;Each crumbling step, each mossy stoneIs marked by Ruin for her own.
Yet one mysterious charm abides,—The spring, whose ebb and flowWere praised in Pliny's classic proseTwo thousand years ago,—A fountain, whose perennial graceMillenniums could not efface.
Thrice daily in their polished cupIts crystal waters sink;Thrice daily do they rise againAnd overflow the brink,—Since Pliny's day no more, no less,Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.
Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs,Cascade, and storied spring,Ye are the same as when he lovedYour varied charms to sing;'Tis man alone who sadly goes!The lake remains, the fountain flows.
Like drops in its exhaustless flood,Our little lives emerge,Swirl for an instant, and are gone,Sunk by another surge!Whence come they? Whither do they go?O Roman poet, dost thou know?
From Lake Como's depths ascending,With embankments steepStands a wooded headland, bendingWith majestic sweepTill its rugged shores, expanding,Join two charming bays,Now, as formerly, commandingUniversal praise.
Years ago a papal PrimateBuilt a hospice here,Which, from its delightful climate,Mild throughout the year,Soon became for convalescenceA renowned retreat,Where pure air and strict quiescenceMade all cures complete.
"Villa Balbi",—appellationOf the Primate's seat—,Gave its name to this locationIn a form more sweet,—Soft, sonorous "Balbianello",Spoken, as if sungIn the speech, so smooth and mellow,Of the Latin tongue.
Balbianello, Balbianello!Point of liquid name,With thy walls of golden yellowAnd thy flowers of flame,When thy varied charms enthrall meUnder summer skies,Tenderly I love to call theeComo's Paradise.
From thy base, where in profusionCountless roses bloom,To thy crest, where sweet seclusionReigns in leafy gloom,All is beauty, uncontestedBy a rival claim,All is symmetry investedWith a storied fame.
Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded,Which thy slopes ascend;Grand the loggia, old and faded,Where those pathways end;—Noble arches, well recallingMighty works of old,Columns which, when night is falling,Turn to shafts of gold.
In that loggia, fringed with roses,All my soul expands;Every arch a view disclosesOf historic lands;Southward lies fair Comacina,Famed in classic lore,Northward Pliny's TremezzinaAnd Bellagio's shore.
Miles of liquid opalescenceStretch on either hand,Curving into lovely crescents,Each with sylvan strand;While on Alpine peaks lie sleepingRealms of stainless snow,Whence the milk-white streams come leapingTo the lake below.
Many a far-off promontoryMelts in silvery haze,Many a scene of song and storyTells of Roman days;Real and unreal, past and present,Make the vision seemLike the rapture evanescentOf a happy dream.
Yet this point, so well selected,—Peerless in its day—,Now, abandoned and neglected,Sinks to slow decay;Sculptured saints, with broken fingers,Line the ancient walls,Like a loyal guard that lingersTill the rampart falls;
Vases, o'er the portal standing,Crumble into lime;Steps, ascending from the landing,Show the touch of time;And its one lone gardener, weepingAs he tells his fears,Faithful watch has here been keepingMany, many years!
Even he must leave it lonely,When the night grows late;Then the mouldering statues onlyGuard its rusty gate;Then no eye its charm discovers,And its moonlit bowersWait in vain for happy loversThrough the silent hours.
Will no champion protect thee,Fairest spot on earth?Doth a busy world neglect thee,Careless of thy worth?Even so, thy site elysianStill remains supreme,—Acme of the painter's visionAnd the poet's dream.
By Lake Como's sylvan shore,Where the wavelets evermoreSeem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of yore,Cease, O boatman, now to row!While the Alpine summits glow,Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.
Where the Tremezzina ends,And the bay of Lenno bendsTill the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave descends,On this strand of silver foamStood the Younger Pliny's home,When the world at last lay subject to the dominance of Rome.
Here he passed his sweetest hours'Mid his statues, books, and flowersWith a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours,For the city's rush and roarNever reached this tranquil shore,And his writings prove completely that he yearned for them no more.
Here, as scholar, poet, sage,He filled many a pliant pageWith the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his age,And his letters to his peersThrough a life of smiles and tearsMake me often quite forgetful of the intervening years;
For the beauty of the bayAnd the magical displayOf its coronet of mountains have not altered since his day,And the lake of which he wroteAt that epoch so remoteWith the same caressing murmur laps my undulating boat.
Hence the subtle, tender spellOf the place he loved so wellHolds me captive and enchanted, as these waters gently swell,And a vague and nameless painMakes me long for,—though in vain—,That delightful classic era, which will never come again.
Since the Goths' invading tideWrecked Rome's potency and pride,Something wonderful has vanished, something exquisite has died;And in spite of modern fameAnd the lustre of its name,Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the same.
So beside its sylvan shore,Where the wavelets evermoreSeem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of yore,Cease, O boatman, now to row!For, while Alpine summits glow,I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.
written for a Golden Wedding, 1883
Just fifty years ago to-night,When earth was mantled deep with snow,The stars beheld with tender lightThe fairest scene this world can show.
Two graceful forms stood side by side,Two trembling hands were clasped as one,Two hearts exchanged perpetual faith,And love's sweet poem was begun.
For suns may rise and suns may set,And tides may ebb and tides may flow,Love is man's greatest blessing yet,And honest wedlock makes it so.
"Father" and "Mother",—sweetest wordsThat human lips can ever frame,We gather here as children nowTo find your loving hearts the same.
Unchanged, unchangeable by time,Your love is boundless as the sea;The same as when our childish griefsWere hushed beside our mother's knee.
Years may have given us separate homes,Friends, children, happiness and fame,But oh! to-night our greatest wealthIs that we call you still by name.
God bless you both! for fifty yearsYou've journeyed onward side by side;And still, for years to come, God grantYour paths may nevermore divide;
But, just as sunset's golden glowMakes Alpine snows divinely fair,So may the setting sun of lifeRest lightly on your silvered hair!
Yes, suns may rise and suns may set,And tides may ebb and tides may flow,We are your loving children yet,And time will ever prove us so.
To my hand thou com'st at last,Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,—Often carried in the pastBy a hand that now lies coldIn his grave beyond the sea,Many thousand miles from me.
Faithful staff! for many yearsThou didst travel far and wideThrough a life of smiles and tears,—Rarely absent from his side,As the light of day for himGrew pathetically dim.
When with thee he walked abroad,Every crossing, every stairBy thy touch was first explored,Ere his feet were planted there,With a sort of rhythmic beatOn the pavement of the street.
Hence, when brought to face the gloomOf a way, to all unknown,Called to leave his sunlit roomFor death's darkness, quite alone,He instinctively againCalled to mind his faithful cane.
To whose grasp should it descend,Since with him it could not go?Surely no one save a friendWould receive and prize it so!Thus to me wast thou bequeathed,To console a heart bereaved.
Friendship's gift, belovd wand!Thou shalt likewise go with meTo the shore of the Beyond,To the dark, untravelled sea;Only left upon the strand,When my bark puts forth from land.
Behind a laughing waterfallThere lies a little fount of tears,Deep, dark, and rarely seen at allBy those the sparkling torrent cheers.
Beneath a suit of armor bright,Shaft-proof and burnished, hard and cold,There beats, concealed from common sight,A tender woman's heart of gold!
To Mr. and Mrs. A.H.S., Brussels
Two homeless birds, fatigued by flight,Have rested on the Belgian shore;And now, at the approach of night,Must spread their wings, and fly once more.
Two others, when they saw them comeFrom out the dark and stormy west,Conveyed them to their pleasant home,And fed and warmed them, breast to breast.
Dear Birds of Brussels, do not craveThe long, long route by which we came;More safe than any restless waveThe sheltered nest of Auderghem.
Henceforth, however far we roam,'Neath clouds that chill, or suns that burn,The memory of your lovely homeWill make us certain to return.
For, stronger than the subtle spellThat homeward draws the carrier-dove,Are the sweet bonds that clearly tellOf Friendship welded into Love.
Son of the race that gave the world its best,Of ancient Greece a noble type thou art,—An Attic spirit transferred to the West,The blood of Hellas pulsing at thy heart;In homage to thyself and to thy land,Accept, I pray, these simple lines of mine;To one I offer both my heart and hand,Before the other kneel, as at a shrine.
Within an Old World, classic vaseShe blossomed like a flower,And made Italian summer daysSeem fleeting as an hour;Then left the antique vase in gloom,—Yet o'er its edges climbSome petals, with a sweet perfumeThat triumphs over time.
The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss,And rails at Evil's stride,But Love still holds aloft the Cross,And shows the Crucified.
One, safe in a secure retreat,Disdains the maddened throng;The other braves the seething street,And strives to right the wrong.
Self shudders at the angry waves,And dreams of what should be,But Love the sinking sinner saves,And stills the stormy sea.
A thousand eyes, by thee made bright,Have read thy cheering lines;A thousand hearts have felt the lightThat through thy poetry shines;Thou dost not know them all, 'tis true,But they all wait for thee,As wait the rosebuds for the dew,Queen of the Christmas Tree!
His letter lies before me here,Scarce written ere the hand grew coldThat traced the lines so fine and clear,Which still of love and friendship told.
This fragile film of black and white,—A traveller over land and sea—,Is all the bond I have to-nightBetween the friend I loved and me.
I know not where his form may rest,Yet well I know Death cannot takeHis memory from the Central WestAnd its proud city by the lake.
But where are now his loyal soul,His loving heart and gifted mind;Do they survive—a conscious whole—The dwelling they have left behind?
Beyond this tiny orb we treadWho can the spirit's pathway trace,Or find a haven for our deadIn seas of interstellar space?
O silent stars, that flash and burnAcross the bridgeless vault of blue,Ye may receive, but ne'er return,The dead we sadly yield to you.
In vain we urge the old request;In vain the darkness we explore;Light lie the turf above thy breast,O friend, whom I shall see no more!
If it be true, as some have dreamed,That all have lived and loved before,I cannot wonder it hath seemedThat on some other shore,In former ages long ago,Our souls had met and learned to knowThe truths that now upon the seaEstablish our affinity.
Heart leaps to heart and mind to mind:A look, a word, a smile, a phrase,—And we at once a kinship find,A relic of those days,When we both watched the sunset kissThe storied Bay of Salamis,Or paced beside the classic streamThat borders Plato's Academe.—
Perhaps our spirits met again,When Virgil wrote his deathless lines,And Horace praised, in lighter vein,His farm amid the Apennines;Or else we walked this old, old EarthWhen Grecian learning found new birth,And arm in arm watched Giotto's towerRise heavenward, like a peerless flower.
Enough that we have surely met,No matter in what land or age;For, if such trifles we forget,We share a common heritage:And though in this brief life stern FateShall bid us once more separate,O brother poet, it must beThat kindred spirits such as weShall sail another ocean blue,Still you with me and I with you.
Sent with a Copy of "Red Letter Days Abroad"To J.C.Y.
To HON. JESSE HOLDOM OF CHICAGO,
on receipt of his picture and that of his baby in his arms.
Far from the great lake's pride,Over the ocean vast,Two faces picture, side by side,The future and the past.
On one is the flush of dawnAnd the light of the morning star;On the other a shade, from knowledge drawnAnd the dusk of the sunset bar.
One brow has the spotless sweepOf a page that is white and fair;The other forehead is graven deepWith lines of thought and care.
The eyes of the child look outOn a world all pure and sweet;But those of the man are sad from doubtAnd a knowledge of men's deceit.
To the baby's dainty earsOnly love's accents flow;Through the man's alas! have surged for yearsStories of crime and woe.
Held in the infant's graspIs a tiny, lifeless toy;In the father's firm yet tender claspIs his last great hope,—his boy!
Wisely the parent peersThrough the future's unknown skies,For knowledge of life has awakened fearsOf the storms that may arise
When his darling boy no moreCan cling to his father's breast,But when on the strand of the silent shoreThat father shall be at rest.
Ah me! could the wisdom wonThrough the father's fateful yearsBe but transmitted to the son,There were little need for fears.
But each must tread aloneThe wine-press of his life;Into each cup by Fate is thrownThe bitter drops of strife.
Forth from that fond embraceMust the little stranger go;For the rising sun must mount through space.And the waning sun sink low.
Ta ra! Boom boom! A regiment is coming down the street;From every side an eager throng is hurrying to greetFrom overflowing sidewalk and densely crowded square,A brilliant, uniformed cortège whose music fills the air;For such a gorgeous spectacle is not seen every day;It gives the town a festival to view the fine array;All hearts are filled with happiness, and no one seems to lag,When he has thus a chance to see the soldiers … and the flag.The old retired officers, their hats like helmets worn,Have thrust them gaily on one side at sound of drum and horn;The eldest, whose brave heart is stirred by that familiar strain,Surmounts, with stifled sigh, his chair, a better view to gain;Cafes, salons, mansards alike their windows open throw,And pretty girls wear radiant smiles to greet the passing show.Ah, here they are! Yes, here they come! preceded by the boys,Who imitate in fashion droll, yet with no actual noise,But merely by the gesturing of finger or of hand,The cymbals, flute, and (best of all) the trombones of the band.The babies even laugh and crow, upheld in nurses' arms,And have no fear of trumpets loud, or the bass-drum's alarms.The pavement of the boulevard is struck in perfect time;Six hundred echoes blend in one, and make the scene sublime;Six hundred hearts are throbbing there, imbued with martial pride;Twelve hundred feet with rhythmic beat make but a single stride.United, too, are all the hearts of those whose eyes pursueWith admiration every line now passing in review.But when a gallant regiment appears thus on parade,A little vain of its fine looks, and conscious of its grade,Each soldier, (since a time of peace allows him to be gay),Aspires to be attentive to the ladies on the way,And stares at every pretty face, with no wish to be rude,But, then, you know, a regiment is never quite … a prude!And this explains why Captain Short has said to Captain Tall,Despite the order which enjoins strict silence upon all,
"A lovely girl!" "Is that so? Where?" "Beside the window there.""By Jove! I'd like to know her. She is divinely fair!"Then both a little thoughtfully move on with some regret,And now the entire regiment the lovely girl has met;
Across the broad, resplendent ranks she looks now left, now right,Now straight before her, but as yet no smiles her features light;More than one mounted officer, with flashing sabre, wheelsHis well-groomed horse, and calls to him the sergeant at his heels;And makes excuse of some detail, endeavoring the while,Perhaps half consciously, to win the favor of a smile.In vain; the glance he hopes to gain, as hero of her heart,Comes not; but rank forbids delay, he must at once depart.The Colonel even has remarked this charming thoughtful girl,And gives to his fine gray moustache the customary twirl;A handsome man, with uniform whose gilded lustre shinesFrom clanking spur to epaulette with stars and golden lines;He knows how potent is the spell such ornaments impartTo make of soldiers demi-gods in woman's gentle heart."The Flag! The Flag!" The crowd is thrilled to see it now advance!Hail, Colors of the Fatherland! Hail, Banner of Fair France!Hail, wounded emblem of the brave; blood-red, and heaven's blue,And purest white,—the noble Flag, now waving in our view!
Standard sublime, that moves all hearts, as now thy form unrolls,Our dead seem shrouded in thy folds, stirred by the breath of souls!The color-bearer, young as Hope, and still a charming boy,In rhythm to the beating hearts and symphony of joy,Sways gently, as he bears it on, the emblem of a landWhose sons will in united ranks all enemies withstand.The young lieutenant, on whose face the standard's shadow falls,Knows well it makes him pass admired between those human walls,And that its presence lifts him high above the rank and file,And gains for him a sentiment worth many a pretty smile."That girl has smiled", the Colonel thinks, "but on whom'? Who can tell?""It is the bearer of the flag, on whom her favor fell",Exclaims the Captain, who then adds, "Great Heavens! worse than this,She has not only smiled, but now she really throws a kiss!"
The Colonel, somewhat bent with years, sits up and swells his chest;"A charming girl" a sergeant cries, and tries to look his best;Each soldier, if a comrade laughs, a rival seems to fear;The chief of a battalion looks, and makes his charger rear.While several soldiers thus assume an air of martial pride,The color-bearer, whom the band has quite electrified,Caresses with a trembling hand the down upon his lip,In doing which he rashly lets the tattered banner dip.But she has seen within its folds, thus torn with shell and shot,The soul of one she dearly loved, who, dead at Gravelotte,Returned no more, but sleeps to-day within an unknown grave …The maiden's kiss was for the Flag, the death-shroud of the brave.
(Translated from the poem by Jean Aicard, entitled "Le Baiser au Drapeau".)
Idly one day in a foreign townIn a churchyard's shade I sat me downBy the side of a little cross of stoneOn which was a woman's name alone.A cypress whispered in my earThat all was now neglected here;"Emily's Grave" was all I read;Nothing more on the cross was said;Neither a name, nor Bible verse,Nor date relieved the inscription terse,—"Emily's Grave".So strange this seemed, my blood turned coldAt thought of a tragedy never told.The flowers, the grass, and the humming beesWere blithe and gay in the sun and breeze,Yet no kind hand had ever strewnSweet flowers, where only weeds had grown,And nothing brightened the lonely moundWhose edge was lost in the trodden ground.At length to the churchyard gate I went,And asked of a woman old and bent,"Who was the girl, whose cross of stoneBears nothing save these words alone,—'Emily's Grave'?""Alas!" she answered, "many a yearHath passed since I beheld her bier;She was young, and came from a humble nest,And credulous too, like all the rest;So a stranger met her here one dayAnd caught her in his net straightway.He said he was rich, and she should shineLike a queen in his castle by the Rhine,And, winning her love, he took her henceTo where she found it was all pretence.He had basely lied to the simple maid,And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed,Abandoned her; then home once moreShe came, to sink at her mother's door.Of shame and grief she was quickly dead,For here she could no more lift her head;And her mother, wishing to effaceAll memory of her child's disgrace,Reared that small cross, to which she gaveThe title only,—'Emily's Grave'".
(From the German.)
Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading?Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day;How dost thou live, still deaf to Love's sweet pleading?To-night's fair rose to-morrow fades away.To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost!What! Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be lost?Canst travel without book? In silence march to strife?What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk of life?I for a little love would give my latest breath;And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death!What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn,If from another's life our own heart's life be drawn?O youthful flowers, unfold! If blown o'er Death's cold stream,This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream;And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above,You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love!
(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)
Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,Why are thy plumes so red?"In part because I restOn Ortler's lordly crest;There share I with the snowThe sunset's crimson glow."
Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,Why are thy plumes so red?"From drinking of the wineOf Etschland's peerless vine;Its juice so redly shines,That it incarnadines."
Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,Why are thy plumes so red?"My plumage hath been dyedIn blood my foes supplied;Oft on my breast hath lainThat deeply purple stain."
Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,Why are thy plumes so red?"From suns that fiercely shine,From draughts of ruddy wine,From blood my foes have shed,—From these am I so red."
(From the German of Senn.)
In Mantua in fettersThe faithful Hofer lay,Condemned by hostile soldiersTo die at break of day;Now bled his comrades' hearts in vain;All Germany felt shame and pain,As did his land, Tyrol.
When through his dungeon gratingIn Mantua's fortress grimHe saw his loyal comradesStretch out their hands to him,He cried: "God give to you his aid,And to the German realm betrayed,And to the land Tyrol!"
With step serene and steadfast,His hands behind him chained,Went forth the valiant HoferTo death which he disdained,—That death, which by his valor foiledHad oft from Iselberg recoiled,In his loved land, Tyrol.
The noisy drum-beat slackened,And silenced was its roarWhen Andreas the dauntless,Stepped through the prison door;The "Sandwirt", fettered still, yet free,Stood on the wall with unbent knee,—The hero of Tyrol.
When told to kneel, he answered:"That will I never do;I'll die, as I am standing,Die, as I fought with you;Here I resist your last advance,Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz,And with him his Tyrol!"
The soldier takes the kerchiefWhich Hofer will not wear;Once more the hero murmursTo God a farewell prayer;Then cries: "Take aim! Hit well this spot!Now fire! … How badly you have shot!Adieu, my land Tyrol"!
(From the German.)
A river flowed through a desert landOn its way to find the sea,And saw naught else than glaring sandAnd scarcely a shady tree.
The distant stars looked down by night,And the burning sun by day,On the crystal stream, so pure and bright;But the sea was far away.
Sometimes at night the little streamWould sigh for the sea's embrace,And oft would see, as in a dream,The longed-for ocean's face.
At last one day it felt a thrillIt had never known before,As it reached the brow of a lofty hill,And saw the wave-lapped shore.
And it flung itself with a mighty leapFrom the crest of the hill above,Till its waters mingled with the deep;—And the name of the sea was Love.
* * * * *
'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the lightStill lingered on the city's walls, and crownedMount Olivet with splendor, while below,Among the trees of dark GethsemaneAnd on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay,As if but waiting for the death of dayTo rise and mantle Zion in a shroud.To one who watched it in that golden light,Across the gulf between the sunlit hills,The city seemed transfigured, lifted highAbove the gloom and misery of earth,—A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings.The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt,And where the hallowed Temple of the JewsHad glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold,Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque,But bore it as a captive bears his chains,Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloftBy thrilling memories of a noble past.The rays of dying day yet half illumedA dreary spot outside the city wallsWhere sat, apart, an old man and his child.
Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stoneWhich once had graced the Temple's sacred court;It was the "Day of Wailing", and the Jews,—A poor scant remnant of their outcast race—,Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont,To read of all the glories they have lost,And count their endless list of shattered hopes.Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot,Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair,Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall,And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as ifThe historic stones held sentient sympathy.Their lamentations ended, all had goneTo their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one,Save these two lingering mourners, who still satWith downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears.At length the old man raised his head, and spoke;—
"Our Fathers' God! whose all-protecting handLed us, Thy people, to this chosen land,Through the cleft waters of a distant sea,That we might rear a temple here to Thee;Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine,And in Thy majesty and power divineWast daily by our suppliant race adoredAs sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord;Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and dieIn foreign countries' harsh captivity?Our race is scattered now the wide world o'er;Our wailings rise to Thee from every shore;Baited or banished by the Christian Powers,Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers,Like pariah dogs, an execrated race,We crouch to-day within our 'Wailing Place',Begging, and paying dearly for, the rightTo bathe with tears this consecrated site.How long, O Israel's God, shall this endure?Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure?Oh, speed the day when once again Thy nameShall here be worshipped, and the sacred flameOf pure, atoning offerings shall rise,And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice!"
Tears choked his utterance, and the old man wept,His meagre frame convulsed with mighty sobs,—Pathetic tokens of a broken heart.His daughter crept beside him, drew his head,—Adorned with thin, white hair,—upon her breast,And soothed him as a mother might her child;Then, when his grief abated, took his hands,—So worn and white,—within her own soft palms,And chafed them gently with a loving care;Then pressed them to her lips, and lightly layHer warm cheek next his own, while murmuring wordsOf tender, filial love in that old tongueWhich once had rung in triumph on this spot,When poets of her race in glowing wordsHad sung their glorious, prophetic strains.
"Father," she whispered, "shall we now despair,When we at last inhale the sacred airOf our ancestral glory, and have come,Despite long years of waiting, to our home?Didst thou not say, when far beyond the sea,In our dark days of want and misery,That thou hadst but one prayer,—to go to dieUpon the hill where Zion's ruins lie?Now this is granted, and thou hast attainedThy dearest wish, with ample wealth retainedTo keep us here from want, till on the breastOf Olivet's gray slope in death we rest."
She paused, and faintly smiled, while at her voiceHer father turned his tear-dimmed eyes to hers,As one who hears soft music with delight.The sunset glow fell full upon her face,—A rich, dark oval, crowned with raven hair;Her lustrous eyes were shrines of tenderness,Large, dark, profound, and tremulously bright,And fringed by lashes of the deepest hue,Which swept the downy smoothness of her cheek;While her full lips, inimitably archedAnd exquisitely mobile, told her thoughts,Ere their soft motion framed them into speech;Divinely there had Beauty set her seal;As who should say,—"Behold a perfect typeOf southern loveliness, in whose warm veinsThe blood of good, ancestral stock runs pure,Maintained through centuries of Spanish suns."The old man fondly took her hands in his,And, bending forward, kissed her broad, fair brow;Then in a faint and weary voice replied;—
"Rachel, my well-belov'd, I have in theeThe only blessing left on earth to me,The one sweet solace in my dreary lifeOf fourscore years of racial hate and strife;Dear Comforter, 'tis true, our feet now standWithin the limits of our people's land;Behind us are the obloquy and painEndured in cruel, persecuting Spain,Yet feel I still more keenly here than thereThe degradation which our people share;Each object here speaks sadly to the JewOf all the grandeur which his race once knew.But let that pass; there is another painWhich hurts me sorely, Rachel, and in vainI seek a remedy; it is that thouHast now new lines of sorrow on thy brow.'Tis true, thou art a Jewess, and must knowThe shame which constitutes thy people's woe;But I detect the signs of some new griefFor which the lapse of time brings no relief;Thy cheek hath paled since our arrival here,And often on its pallor gleams a tear."
At first she spoke not; but at length her lipsMoved, quivering as in pain, while o'er her faceAn ashen paleness came, which whiter seemedFrom startling contrast with her ebon hair;"Father", she murmured, "speak of that no more!I shared thy coming to this Syrian shore,And here shall die, for nothing more I craveThan on these lonely hills to find a grave.My life, though like a flower deprived of light,Hath yet known moments so divinely bright,So full of rapture, that I then forgaveThe insults we endured, and still could braveExistence in Seville, if thou wouldst stay;But in thy absence how could I betrayMy dying mother's trust and farewell prayerThat I henceforth thy lonely life should share?"
She paused, and from her lips a stifled moanRevealed the torture that her soul had known.Her father noted it, and with a sighOf self-reproach attempted a reply;—"Dear child, thy love for me hath cost thee much;For young Emanuel,—shrink not from my touch!—Was dear to thee; I knew it, and confessThat I, to consummate thy happiness,Had given thee to him with full consent,(Who with Emanuel would not be content?)Had not my vow and purpose of long yearsCompelled me to depart despite thy tears.I knew the struggle, Rachel, in thy heart,I felt the anguish of thy soul to partFrom one for whom thy love was so intense;In truth, for weeks I suffered in suspense,Lest thy impetuous temperament might leadEven thee to leave me, in my hour of need,Infirm with years, to sail alone from Spain,Go unattended on the stormy main,And lay my poor, worn body in a graveUnknown, uncared for, by a foreign wave.God bless thee, Rachel, that thy noble soulCould make this filial choice, and thus controlA love which, though supreme, could not effaceThy duty, as a daughter of thy race;Thy ancestors were princes on this hill!Within thy veins their blood runs nobly still!"
Rachel sat motionless, with outstretched hands,And fingers interlocked; her steadfast eyesHad hopeless sorrow in their stony gaze,As though they read Fate's sentence of despair.At length she turned her face; the light had fledFrom her young features, just as in the westThe glow had faded from the sky, and leftA wintry coldness in the unlit clouds.She seemed about to speak, when, sweet and clear,From out the shadow of the ancient wallSoft vocal music stirred the evening air,With plaintive passion thrilled,—a proof that loveInspired the words that floated into song,—
Light of the glorious, setting sun,Gilding the Syrian shore,Ere the bright, lingering day be done,Guide me to her whose heart, well won,Holds me forevermore.
Moon, that hath spanned the silvered plain,Olivet's brow to kiss,Lead her by memory's golden chainBack to the olive groves of Spain;Back to our days of bliss!
Star of the evening's darkening sky,Gemming the lonely hill,Whisper to her that I am nigh,Waiting in hope for her reply;Tell her I love her still!
The song had ended; Rachel stood erect,Her pale lips parted breathlessly, her headBent forward to receive the words, which cameLike grateful raindrops to a drooping flower;Her slender form was quivering with delightAnd sudden rush of feeling; she scarce knewIf this were all a dream, or if in truthShe heard Emanuel's welcome accents there;Her heart for that brief moment wanted naughtTo supplement its rapture; 'twas enoughTo stand thus in expectancy, and knowThe idol of her soul was drawing near.At length her father touched her hand, and spoke;—
"'Tis he, my Rachel; thy sweet power hath drawnThy lover o'er the sea! Again the dawnOf love and hope is kindled in thy face;The concentrated beauty of thy raceIllumes thy features; now alas! I knowThat thy self-sacrifice hath cost thee woeIntenser than I thought; I too rejoiceTo hear the music of Emanuel's voice,Although I tremble lest his purpose beTo lure thee, Rachel, far away from me."
His daughter, even in the thrill of blissWhich filled her throbbing heart, yet saw the painThat marked his closing words; and, turning, twinedHer arms about the old man's drooping neck;"Dear Father, fear not that," she gently said;"Though it be true that ardent love hath ledEmanuel to this distant Syrian shore,Thy lot shall still be mine forevermore;Doubt not thy faithful child, for none the less'Twill be thy Rachel's greatest happinessAt thy dear side to minister to thee;For only death can come 'twixt thee and me!"
She paused, and hid her face upon his breast;Her father clasped her fondly in his arms,And bent his cheek to hers, his whitened locksOn her dark tresses glistening like the snow.'Twas thus Emanuel found them; silentlyHe stood before them in a dread suspense;His very soul seemed poised upon the wordWhich left at last his trembling lips,—"Rachel!"She raised her head, and their bright, ardent eyesExchanged the voiceless language of the soul;A joy ineffable diffused its flushO'er both their faces; yet she did not speak,But only clung the closer to her sire,As if in fear to lose her self-control.At length Emanuel spoke in tones so chargedWith deep emotion that the very airSeemed tremulous with thoughts transcending speech;—
"Rachel, my more than life! Canst thou forgiveThe momentary thought that I could liveWithout thee? See, our separation ends!Henceforth I know no country, home or friendsSave thine, my love! I gladly leave them all,Obedient to a higher, nobler call,—The cry of my whole being to be nearThee, thee, my Rachel, now so wholly dear,That life without thee is but lingering death!Already with thee a diviner breathOf inspiration lifts my soul to gainThe purest, loftiest heights I can attain!Not to entice thee from thy father's care,Have I come hither, but to seek a shareIn that dear filial duty, and to giveLove, loyalty and homage, while I live,To him, the honored hero of our race,Beside whom here I also crave a place.Not only do I plead my love anew,But also thus lay open to thy viewThe dearest wishes of my soul, and waitTo learn thy answer. Do I come too late?"
In doubt, 'twixt hope and fear, she raised her eyesTo read her fate in her lov'd father's face;Who, taking her fair hands within his own,Advanced with her to where Emanuel stood,And laid them in her lover's eager grasp.With softened radiance, from their lonely paths,The far-off stars beheld their kneeling forms,While, with his hands in benediction raised,The old man stood absorbed in silent prayer.
* * * * *
The old, old story, ever newAlike in Gentile and in Jew;For Love remains man's sovereign yetIn Eden and on Olivet.