Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest,Am I not blind?Each bird that flyeth east or westThe track can find.Each bird that flies from north to southKnows the far way;From mountain’s crest to river’s mouthIt does not stray.Not one in all the lengthening land,In all the sky,Or by the ocean’s silver strand,Is blind as I!And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest?Build Thou for meSome shelter where my soul may restSecure in Thee.Close clinging to the bending bough,Bind it so fastIt shall not loose if high or lowBlows the loud blast.If fierce storms break, and the wild rainComes pelting in,Cover the shrinking nest, restrainThe furious din.At sultry noontide, when the airTrembles with heat,Draw close the leafy covert whereCool shadows meet.And when night falleth, dark and chill,Let one fair star,Love’s star all luminous and still,Shine from afar.Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nestBuild Thou for me;So shall my being find its restForevermore in Thee.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest,Am I not blind?Each bird that flyeth east or westThe track can find.Each bird that flies from north to southKnows the far way;From mountain’s crest to river’s mouthIt does not stray.Not one in all the lengthening land,In all the sky,Or by the ocean’s silver strand,Is blind as I!And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest?Build Thou for meSome shelter where my soul may restSecure in Thee.Close clinging to the bending bough,Bind it so fastIt shall not loose if high or lowBlows the loud blast.If fierce storms break, and the wild rainComes pelting in,Cover the shrinking nest, restrainThe furious din.At sultry noontide, when the airTrembles with heat,Draw close the leafy covert whereCool shadows meet.And when night falleth, dark and chill,Let one fair star,Love’s star all luminous and still,Shine from afar.Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nestBuild Thou for me;So shall my being find its restForevermore in Thee.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest,Am I not blind?Each bird that flyeth east or westThe track can find.
Each bird that flies from north to southKnows the far way;From mountain’s crest to river’s mouthIt does not stray.
Not one in all the lengthening land,In all the sky,Or by the ocean’s silver strand,Is blind as I!
And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest?Build Thou for meSome shelter where my soul may restSecure in Thee.
Close clinging to the bending bough,Bind it so fastIt shall not loose if high or lowBlows the loud blast.
If fierce storms break, and the wild rainComes pelting in,Cover the shrinking nest, restrainThe furious din.
At sultry noontide, when the airTrembles with heat,Draw close the leafy covert whereCool shadows meet.
And when night falleth, dark and chill,Let one fair star,Love’s star all luminous and still,Shine from afar.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nestBuild Thou for me;So shall my being find its restForevermore in Thee.
A Path across a meadow fair and sweet,Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.A straight, swift path—and at its end, a starGleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar,And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!A path across the meadow fair and sweet,Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gateBehind whose bars she doth in silence waitTo keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
A Path across a meadow fair and sweet,Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.A straight, swift path—and at its end, a starGleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar,And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!A path across the meadow fair and sweet,Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gateBehind whose bars she doth in silence waitTo keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
A Path across a meadow fair and sweet,Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.
A straight, swift path—and at its end, a starGleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar,And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
A path across the meadow fair and sweet,Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.
A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gateBehind whose bars she doth in silence waitTo keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
The veil is thin betweenThe seen and the unseen—Thinner to-night than the transparent air;All heaven and earth are still,Save when from some far hillFloateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer;Up from the mountain barsClimb the slow, patient stars,Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!Ere earth had grown too wiseTo commerce with the skies,On this midsummer night the men of oldBelieved the dead drew near,Believed that they could hearVoices long silent speaking from the mould,Believed whoever sleptUnearthly vigil keptWhere his own death-knell should at last be tolled.In solemn midnight marchesBeneath dark forest archesThey fancied that their hungry souls found God;His angels clad in lightStole softly through the night,Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,And bore to mortal earsTidings from other spheres,The undiscovered way no man hath trod.Ah! what if it were true?Then would I call ye whoHave one by one beyond my vision flown;I would set wide the doorYe enter now no moreCrying, “Come in from out the void unknown!Come as ye came of oldLaden with love untold”—Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?
The veil is thin betweenThe seen and the unseen—Thinner to-night than the transparent air;All heaven and earth are still,Save when from some far hillFloateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer;Up from the mountain barsClimb the slow, patient stars,Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!Ere earth had grown too wiseTo commerce with the skies,On this midsummer night the men of oldBelieved the dead drew near,Believed that they could hearVoices long silent speaking from the mould,Believed whoever sleptUnearthly vigil keptWhere his own death-knell should at last be tolled.In solemn midnight marchesBeneath dark forest archesThey fancied that their hungry souls found God;His angels clad in lightStole softly through the night,Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,And bore to mortal earsTidings from other spheres,The undiscovered way no man hath trod.Ah! what if it were true?Then would I call ye whoHave one by one beyond my vision flown;I would set wide the doorYe enter now no moreCrying, “Come in from out the void unknown!Come as ye came of oldLaden with love untold”—Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?
The veil is thin betweenThe seen and the unseen—Thinner to-night than the transparent air;All heaven and earth are still,Save when from some far hillFloateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer;Up from the mountain barsClimb the slow, patient stars,Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!
Ere earth had grown too wiseTo commerce with the skies,On this midsummer night the men of oldBelieved the dead drew near,Believed that they could hearVoices long silent speaking from the mould,Believed whoever sleptUnearthly vigil keptWhere his own death-knell should at last be tolled.
In solemn midnight marchesBeneath dark forest archesThey fancied that their hungry souls found God;His angels clad in lightStole softly through the night,Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,And bore to mortal earsTidings from other spheres,The undiscovered way no man hath trod.
Ah! what if it were true?Then would I call ye whoHave one by one beyond my vision flown;I would set wide the doorYe enter now no moreCrying, “Come in from out the void unknown!Come as ye came of oldLaden with love untold”—Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?
Little song I fain would sing,Why dost thou elude me so?Like a bird upon the wing,Sailing high, sailing low,Yet forever out of reach,Thou dost vex me beyond measure,Unallured by prayer or speech,Waiting thine own time and pleasure!Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—I could call thee by thy name;I have wooed thee day and night,Yet thou wilt not own my claim.Hark! thou’rt hovering even nowIn the soft still air above me—Fantasy or dream art thou,That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?Little song I never sang,Thou art sweeter than the strainThat through starry mazes rang,First-born child of joy and pain.I shall sing thee not; but surelyFrom some all-compelling voiceSwelling high, serenely, purely,I shall hear thee and rejoice!
Little song I fain would sing,Why dost thou elude me so?Like a bird upon the wing,Sailing high, sailing low,Yet forever out of reach,Thou dost vex me beyond measure,Unallured by prayer or speech,Waiting thine own time and pleasure!Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—I could call thee by thy name;I have wooed thee day and night,Yet thou wilt not own my claim.Hark! thou’rt hovering even nowIn the soft still air above me—Fantasy or dream art thou,That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?Little song I never sang,Thou art sweeter than the strainThat through starry mazes rang,First-born child of joy and pain.I shall sing thee not; but surelyFrom some all-compelling voiceSwelling high, serenely, purely,I shall hear thee and rejoice!
Little song I fain would sing,Why dost thou elude me so?Like a bird upon the wing,Sailing high, sailing low,Yet forever out of reach,Thou dost vex me beyond measure,Unallured by prayer or speech,Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—I could call thee by thy name;I have wooed thee day and night,Yet thou wilt not own my claim.Hark! thou’rt hovering even nowIn the soft still air above me—Fantasy or dream art thou,That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?
Little song I never sang,Thou art sweeter than the strainThat through starry mazes rang,First-born child of joy and pain.I shall sing thee not; but surelyFrom some all-compelling voiceSwelling high, serenely, purely,I shall hear thee and rejoice!
I stood upon Tower Hill,Bright were the skies and gay,Yet a cloud and a sudden chillPassed over the summer day—A thrill, and a nameless dread,As of one who waits aloneWhere gather the silent deadUnder the charnel stone.For before my shrinking eyesThey glided, one by one,The great, the good, the wise,Who here to death were done;Sinners and saints they cameWith blood-stained garments on,Reckless of praise or blame,Or battles lost or won.Then over the moat I passedAnd paused at the Traitors’ Gate;Did I hear a trumpet’s blast,Forerunner of deadly fate?Lo! up the stairs from the river,Where the sombre shadows crept,With none to help or deliver,Kings, queens, and princes swept!O, some of those royal damesDrooped, with dishevelled hair,And mien of one who claimsClose kindred with despair!And some were proud and cold,With eyes that blazed like stars,As under that archway oldThey passed to their prison-bars.To prison-bars or death!Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;That haughty maid, Elizabeth;Northumberland’s pale queen;Margaret Plantagenet,Her gray locks floating wild—How the line lengthens yet,Knight, prelate, statesman, child!Fiercely the black portcullisFrowned as I onward went;The Bloody Tower is this—Strong tower of dread portent!“Show me the Princes’ Chamber,”To the Yeoman Guard I said;O, the stairs were steep to clamber,And the rough vault dark o’erhead!No sigh in the sunny room,No moan from the groined roof,No wail of expectant doomEchoed alow, aloof!But instead a mother sangTo a child upon her knee,Whose peals of laughter rangLike sweet bells mad with glee.Sunshine for murky air,Smiles for the sob of pain,Joy for dark despair,Hope where sweet hope was slain!“Art thou happy here,” I cried,“Where once was lonely woe,And the royal children died,—Murdered so long ago?”She smiled. “O, lady, yes!Earth hath forgotten them;See how my roses press,Blooming on each fair stem!The princes, they sleep sound,But love nor joy are dead;I fear no haunted ground,I have my child,” she said.
I stood upon Tower Hill,Bright were the skies and gay,Yet a cloud and a sudden chillPassed over the summer day—A thrill, and a nameless dread,As of one who waits aloneWhere gather the silent deadUnder the charnel stone.For before my shrinking eyesThey glided, one by one,The great, the good, the wise,Who here to death were done;Sinners and saints they cameWith blood-stained garments on,Reckless of praise or blame,Or battles lost or won.Then over the moat I passedAnd paused at the Traitors’ Gate;Did I hear a trumpet’s blast,Forerunner of deadly fate?Lo! up the stairs from the river,Where the sombre shadows crept,With none to help or deliver,Kings, queens, and princes swept!O, some of those royal damesDrooped, with dishevelled hair,And mien of one who claimsClose kindred with despair!And some were proud and cold,With eyes that blazed like stars,As under that archway oldThey passed to their prison-bars.To prison-bars or death!Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;That haughty maid, Elizabeth;Northumberland’s pale queen;Margaret Plantagenet,Her gray locks floating wild—How the line lengthens yet,Knight, prelate, statesman, child!Fiercely the black portcullisFrowned as I onward went;The Bloody Tower is this—Strong tower of dread portent!“Show me the Princes’ Chamber,”To the Yeoman Guard I said;O, the stairs were steep to clamber,And the rough vault dark o’erhead!No sigh in the sunny room,No moan from the groined roof,No wail of expectant doomEchoed alow, aloof!But instead a mother sangTo a child upon her knee,Whose peals of laughter rangLike sweet bells mad with glee.Sunshine for murky air,Smiles for the sob of pain,Joy for dark despair,Hope where sweet hope was slain!“Art thou happy here,” I cried,“Where once was lonely woe,And the royal children died,—Murdered so long ago?”She smiled. “O, lady, yes!Earth hath forgotten them;See how my roses press,Blooming on each fair stem!The princes, they sleep sound,But love nor joy are dead;I fear no haunted ground,I have my child,” she said.
I stood upon Tower Hill,Bright were the skies and gay,Yet a cloud and a sudden chillPassed over the summer day—A thrill, and a nameless dread,As of one who waits aloneWhere gather the silent deadUnder the charnel stone.
For before my shrinking eyesThey glided, one by one,The great, the good, the wise,Who here to death were done;Sinners and saints they cameWith blood-stained garments on,Reckless of praise or blame,Or battles lost or won.
Then over the moat I passedAnd paused at the Traitors’ Gate;Did I hear a trumpet’s blast,Forerunner of deadly fate?Lo! up the stairs from the river,Where the sombre shadows crept,With none to help or deliver,Kings, queens, and princes swept!
O, some of those royal damesDrooped, with dishevelled hair,And mien of one who claimsClose kindred with despair!And some were proud and cold,With eyes that blazed like stars,As under that archway oldThey passed to their prison-bars.
To prison-bars or death!Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;That haughty maid, Elizabeth;Northumberland’s pale queen;Margaret Plantagenet,Her gray locks floating wild—How the line lengthens yet,Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fiercely the black portcullisFrowned as I onward went;The Bloody Tower is this—Strong tower of dread portent!“Show me the Princes’ Chamber,”To the Yeoman Guard I said;O, the stairs were steep to clamber,And the rough vault dark o’erhead!
No sigh in the sunny room,No moan from the groined roof,No wail of expectant doomEchoed alow, aloof!But instead a mother sangTo a child upon her knee,Whose peals of laughter rangLike sweet bells mad with glee.
Sunshine for murky air,Smiles for the sob of pain,Joy for dark despair,Hope where sweet hope was slain!“Art thou happy here,” I cried,“Where once was lonely woe,And the royal children died,—Murdered so long ago?”
She smiled. “O, lady, yes!Earth hath forgotten them;See how my roses press,Blooming on each fair stem!The princes, they sleep sound,But love nor joy are dead;I fear no haunted ground,I have my child,” she said.
Wonderland is here and there;Wonderland is everywhere;Fly not then to east or westOn some far, uncertain quest.Seek not India nor Japan,Nor the city Ispahan,Where to-day the shadows broodOver lonely Zendarood.Somewhere smileth far CathayThrough the long resplendent day;Somewhere, moored in purple seas,Sleep the fair Hesperides.Somewhere, in vague realms remoteOver which strange banners float,Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,The dear Wonderland of dreams.Yet no need to sail in shipsWhere the blue sea dips and dips,Nor on wings of cloud to flyWhere the haunts of faery lie.For by miracle of mornEach successive day is born;And wherever shines the sun,There enchanted rivers run!Would you go to Wonderland?Lo! it lieth close at hand;Wonderland is wheresoe’erEyes can see and ears can hear!
Wonderland is here and there;Wonderland is everywhere;Fly not then to east or westOn some far, uncertain quest.Seek not India nor Japan,Nor the city Ispahan,Where to-day the shadows broodOver lonely Zendarood.Somewhere smileth far CathayThrough the long resplendent day;Somewhere, moored in purple seas,Sleep the fair Hesperides.Somewhere, in vague realms remoteOver which strange banners float,Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,The dear Wonderland of dreams.Yet no need to sail in shipsWhere the blue sea dips and dips,Nor on wings of cloud to flyWhere the haunts of faery lie.For by miracle of mornEach successive day is born;And wherever shines the sun,There enchanted rivers run!Would you go to Wonderland?Lo! it lieth close at hand;Wonderland is wheresoe’erEyes can see and ears can hear!
Wonderland is here and there;Wonderland is everywhere;Fly not then to east or westOn some far, uncertain quest.
Seek not India nor Japan,Nor the city Ispahan,Where to-day the shadows broodOver lonely Zendarood.
Somewhere smileth far CathayThrough the long resplendent day;Somewhere, moored in purple seas,Sleep the fair Hesperides.
Somewhere, in vague realms remoteOver which strange banners float,Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,The dear Wonderland of dreams.
Yet no need to sail in shipsWhere the blue sea dips and dips,Nor on wings of cloud to flyWhere the haunts of faery lie.
For by miracle of mornEach successive day is born;And wherever shines the sun,There enchanted rivers run!
Would you go to Wonderland?Lo! it lieth close at hand;Wonderland is wheresoe’erEyes can see and ears can hear!
The Virgin floating on the silver moon;Madonna Mary with her holy child;Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,Where patient women toiled; with here and thereThe glint of summer skies and summer seas,And the red glow of humble, household fires!Breathless I stood and silent, even as oneWho, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a faceDown the long gallery drew me as a star;A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lipsJust touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyesThat kept their own dear secret, smiling stillWith a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,And a long, slender hand whose fingers heldLoosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.Yet from those high, imperial presences,Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earthWith all its loves and longings, back I turnedAgain and yet again, lured by the smileThat called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue,And “Painted by himself.”Three hundred yearsThou hast been dust and ashes. I who writeAnd they who read, we know another worldFrom that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,Even as here thou smilest, if to-dayThou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlivedSo much earth held more precious, let thy lipsOpen and answer me! Whence was it born,The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?What manner of man wert thou? For the booksOf the long generations do not tell!Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other menWould pose as heroes; would go grandly downTo coming ages in the martyr’srôle;Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woesTo wailing music, that the world may countTheir heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
The Virgin floating on the silver moon;Madonna Mary with her holy child;Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,Where patient women toiled; with here and thereThe glint of summer skies and summer seas,And the red glow of humble, household fires!Breathless I stood and silent, even as oneWho, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a faceDown the long gallery drew me as a star;A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lipsJust touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyesThat kept their own dear secret, smiling stillWith a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,And a long, slender hand whose fingers heldLoosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.Yet from those high, imperial presences,Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earthWith all its loves and longings, back I turnedAgain and yet again, lured by the smileThat called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue,And “Painted by himself.”Three hundred yearsThou hast been dust and ashes. I who writeAnd they who read, we know another worldFrom that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,Even as here thou smilest, if to-dayThou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlivedSo much earth held more precious, let thy lipsOpen and answer me! Whence was it born,The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?What manner of man wert thou? For the booksOf the long generations do not tell!Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other menWould pose as heroes; would go grandly downTo coming ages in the martyr’srôle;Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woesTo wailing music, that the world may countTheir heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
The Virgin floating on the silver moon;Madonna Mary with her holy child;Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,Where patient women toiled; with here and thereThe glint of summer skies and summer seas,And the red glow of humble, household fires!
Breathless I stood and silent, even as oneWho, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a faceDown the long gallery drew me as a star;A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lipsJust touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyesThat kept their own dear secret, smiling stillWith a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,And a long, slender hand whose fingers heldLoosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.Yet from those high, imperial presences,Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earthWith all its loves and longings, back I turnedAgain and yet again, lured by the smileThat called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”
“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue,And “Painted by himself.”Three hundred yearsThou hast been dust and ashes. I who writeAnd they who read, we know another worldFrom that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,Even as here thou smilest, if to-dayThou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlivedSo much earth held more precious, let thy lipsOpen and answer me! Whence was it born,The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?What manner of man wert thou? For the booksOf the long generations do not tell!Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other menWould pose as heroes; would go grandly downTo coming ages in the martyr’srôle;Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woesTo wailing music, that the world may countTheir heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
So still, so still they lieAs centuries pass by,Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;They never lift their eyesIn sudden, sweet surprise;The wandering winds stir not their heavy hairForth from their close-sealed lipsNor moan, nor laughter, slips,Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!Yet evermore they pray!We creatures of a dayLive, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;Nations arise and fall;Oblivion’s heavy pallHides kings and princes from all human ken,While these in marble state,From age to age awaitThe rolling thunder of the last amen!Not in dim crypts alone,Or aisles of fretted stone,Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;And the red light streams downOn mitre and on crown,Till each proud jewel blazes like a star;But where the tall grass wavesO’er long-forgotten graves,Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!Dost Thou not hear and heed?O, in Earth’s utmost needWilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?Not for themselves they prayWhose woes have passed for aye;For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!Thou Sovereign Lord of All,On whom they mutely call,Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
So still, so still they lieAs centuries pass by,Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;They never lift their eyesIn sudden, sweet surprise;The wandering winds stir not their heavy hairForth from their close-sealed lipsNor moan, nor laughter, slips,Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!Yet evermore they pray!We creatures of a dayLive, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;Nations arise and fall;Oblivion’s heavy pallHides kings and princes from all human ken,While these in marble state,From age to age awaitThe rolling thunder of the last amen!Not in dim crypts alone,Or aisles of fretted stone,Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;And the red light streams downOn mitre and on crown,Till each proud jewel blazes like a star;But where the tall grass wavesO’er long-forgotten graves,Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!Dost Thou not hear and heed?O, in Earth’s utmost needWilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?Not for themselves they prayWhose woes have passed for aye;For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!Thou Sovereign Lord of All,On whom they mutely call,Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
So still, so still they lieAs centuries pass by,Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;They never lift their eyesIn sudden, sweet surprise;The wandering winds stir not their heavy hairForth from their close-sealed lipsNor moan, nor laughter, slips,Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!
Yet evermore they pray!We creatures of a dayLive, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;Nations arise and fall;Oblivion’s heavy pallHides kings and princes from all human ken,While these in marble state,From age to age awaitThe rolling thunder of the last amen!
Not in dim crypts alone,Or aisles of fretted stone,Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;And the red light streams downOn mitre and on crown,Till each proud jewel blazes like a star;But where the tall grass wavesO’er long-forgotten graves,Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!
Dost Thou not hear and heed?O, in Earth’s utmost needWilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?Not for themselves they prayWhose woes have passed for aye;For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!Thou Sovereign Lord of All,On whom they mutely call,Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
O bird beneath the midnight sky!As on my lonely couch I lie,I hear thee singing in the dark—Why sing not I?No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;No fond mate answers to thy cry;No other voice, through all the dark,Makes sweet reply.Yet never skylark soaring highWhere sunlit clouds rejoicing lie,Sang as thou singest in the dark,Not mute as I!O lone, sweet spirit! tell me whySo far thy ringing love-notes fly,While other birds, hushed by the dark,Are mute as I?No prophecy of morn is nigh;Yet as the sombre hours glide by,Bravely thou singest in the dark—Why sing not I?
O bird beneath the midnight sky!As on my lonely couch I lie,I hear thee singing in the dark—Why sing not I?No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;No fond mate answers to thy cry;No other voice, through all the dark,Makes sweet reply.Yet never skylark soaring highWhere sunlit clouds rejoicing lie,Sang as thou singest in the dark,Not mute as I!O lone, sweet spirit! tell me whySo far thy ringing love-notes fly,While other birds, hushed by the dark,Are mute as I?No prophecy of morn is nigh;Yet as the sombre hours glide by,Bravely thou singest in the dark—Why sing not I?
O bird beneath the midnight sky!As on my lonely couch I lie,I hear thee singing in the dark—Why sing not I?
No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;No fond mate answers to thy cry;No other voice, through all the dark,Makes sweet reply.
Yet never skylark soaring highWhere sunlit clouds rejoicing lie,Sang as thou singest in the dark,Not mute as I!
O lone, sweet spirit! tell me whySo far thy ringing love-notes fly,While other birds, hushed by the dark,Are mute as I?
No prophecy of morn is nigh;Yet as the sombre hours glide by,Bravely thou singest in the dark—Why sing not I?
Come what may—Though what remaineth I may not know,Nor how many times the rose may blowFor my delight, or whether the yearsShall be set to the chime of falling tears,Or go on their way rejoicing—Yet, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may—The lurid storm or the sunset peace,The lingering pain or the swift release,Lonely vigils and watchings long,Passionate prayer or soaring song,Or silence deep and golden—Still, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may,I have known the fiery heart of youth,Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,The flush of glad possession—And, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may,I have learned that out of the night is bornThe mystic flower of the early morn;I have learned that after the frost of painThe lily of peace will bloom again,And the rose of consolation.Then, come what may,I have had my day!
Come what may—Though what remaineth I may not know,Nor how many times the rose may blowFor my delight, or whether the yearsShall be set to the chime of falling tears,Or go on their way rejoicing—Yet, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may—The lurid storm or the sunset peace,The lingering pain or the swift release,Lonely vigils and watchings long,Passionate prayer or soaring song,Or silence deep and golden—Still, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may,I have known the fiery heart of youth,Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,The flush of glad possession—And, come what may,I have had my day!Come what may,I have learned that out of the night is bornThe mystic flower of the early morn;I have learned that after the frost of painThe lily of peace will bloom again,And the rose of consolation.Then, come what may,I have had my day!
Come what may—Though what remaineth I may not know,Nor how many times the rose may blowFor my delight, or whether the yearsShall be set to the chime of falling tears,Or go on their way rejoicing—Yet, come what may,I have had my day!
Come what may—The lurid storm or the sunset peace,The lingering pain or the swift release,Lonely vigils and watchings long,Passionate prayer or soaring song,Or silence deep and golden—Still, come what may,I have had my day!
Come what may,I have known the fiery heart of youth,Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,The flush of glad possession—And, come what may,I have had my day!
Come what may,I have learned that out of the night is bornThe mystic flower of the early morn;I have learned that after the frost of painThe lily of peace will bloom again,And the rose of consolation.Then, come what may,I have had my day!
Over the wide, tumultuous seaIn trancèd hours I dream of thee,Ancient city of song and myth,Whose name is a name to conjure with,And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!I see thee fair in the white moonlight;The stars are asleep at noon of night,Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spiresKindles aloft its silver fires—A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!Leaning over thy river’s brimCrowd the red roofs and oriels dim,While under its bridges glide and gleamThe rippling waves of a silent stream,Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!Oh, the charm of each haunted street,Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;Sculptured miracles soaring freeIn temple and mart for all to see,Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!Even thy beggars lift their eyes,Finding ever some new surprise;Even thy children pause from play,To hear what thy graven marbles say,Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!Other cities for crown and kingWide their glorious banners fling,Lifting high on the azure fieldBlazoned trophies of sword and shield,That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!But thou, O city of old renown,Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;Thou dost give to the poet bays,Immortelles for the deathless laysChanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!They are thy Lords of High Degree,Marvels of art who wrought for thee,Toiling on with tireless willTill the wondrous hands in death were still.Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!They were dust and ashes long ago;Over their graves the sweet winds blow;Yet they are alive whom men call dead—This is thy spell, when all is said;This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
Over the wide, tumultuous seaIn trancèd hours I dream of thee,Ancient city of song and myth,Whose name is a name to conjure with,And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!I see thee fair in the white moonlight;The stars are asleep at noon of night,Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spiresKindles aloft its silver fires—A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!Leaning over thy river’s brimCrowd the red roofs and oriels dim,While under its bridges glide and gleamThe rippling waves of a silent stream,Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!Oh, the charm of each haunted street,Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;Sculptured miracles soaring freeIn temple and mart for all to see,Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!Even thy beggars lift their eyes,Finding ever some new surprise;Even thy children pause from play,To hear what thy graven marbles say,Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!Other cities for crown and kingWide their glorious banners fling,Lifting high on the azure fieldBlazoned trophies of sword and shield,That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!But thou, O city of old renown,Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;Thou dost give to the poet bays,Immortelles for the deathless laysChanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!They are thy Lords of High Degree,Marvels of art who wrought for thee,Toiling on with tireless willTill the wondrous hands in death were still.Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!They were dust and ashes long ago;Over their graves the sweet winds blow;Yet they are alive whom men call dead—This is thy spell, when all is said;This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
Over the wide, tumultuous seaIn trancèd hours I dream of thee,Ancient city of song and myth,Whose name is a name to conjure with,And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
I see thee fair in the white moonlight;The stars are asleep at noon of night,Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spiresKindles aloft its silver fires—A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
Leaning over thy river’s brimCrowd the red roofs and oriels dim,While under its bridges glide and gleamThe rippling waves of a silent stream,Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Oh, the charm of each haunted street,Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;Sculptured miracles soaring freeIn temple and mart for all to see,Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Even thy beggars lift their eyes,Finding ever some new surprise;Even thy children pause from play,To hear what thy graven marbles say,Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
Other cities for crown and kingWide their glorious banners fling,Lifting high on the azure fieldBlazoned trophies of sword and shield,That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
But thou, O city of old renown,Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;Thou dost give to the poet bays,Immortelles for the deathless laysChanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
They are thy Lords of High Degree,Marvels of art who wrought for thee,Toiling on with tireless willTill the wondrous hands in death were still.Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
They were dust and ashes long ago;Over their graves the sweet winds blow;Yet they are alive whom men call dead—This is thy spell, when all is said;This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
Then down the street came Giacomo, flushedWith wine and laughter. I can see him now,With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crewOf merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,So long ago it was! Yet I can seeJust how the campanile shone that nightLike molten silver, while its carven saintsPrayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow creptOver the moon’s face; and it grew so darkThat the red star in Giacomo’s capPaled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-claspLost all the lustre of its burnished gold,And faded out of sight. Strange, how we loseSo much we would remember, and yet keepTrifles like this until the day of doom!They had swept past me where I stood in shadeWhen Giacomo turned. Just then the moonShone out again, illumining the place,And he paused laughing, catching sight of meThere by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!I was young then, and some said I was fair;But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed!Know you Fra Alessandro? He would haveA model for his picture. Go you thenTo-morrow to his studio and sayGiacomo sent you. At the convent there,Near Santa Croce.”So I thither wentEarly next morning, trembling as I stoleInto the master’s presence. A grave manOf most unworldly aspect, with bowed headAnd pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,He sat before an easel, lost in thought.“Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in,And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eyeFor minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemedAs if the judgment-day had come, and GodSat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,Nodding as one content—“To-morrow mornI pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bringA little child with thee—some fair, sweet childWhose eyes are like the morning?”Then I said,Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boyWhose mother died last week—“Yes, I will comeSurely, my father, and will bring with meThe fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,”Softly he answered, and a sudden lightMade his pale face all glorious. At the doorI paused, and looking backward saw him bowBefore the easel as before a shrine.I know not if he prayed, but never saintHad aspect more divine.Next day I wentWith little Nello to the studio.Impatiently the Frate greeted us,Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?”But as I drew the cap from Nello’s headAnd the moist tendrils of his golden hairFell softly on his forehead, he cried out:“The boy is like an angel! And thy face,Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,As thus, or thus.”The child was half afraid;And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I heldHim close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,“O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.And thou and this fair child——”Even while he spokeHe turned back to the easel; but I sprangFrom the low pedestal, and, with the boyStill in my arms, I fell down at his feet.“Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried,While my hot forehead touched his garment’s hem;“Not that, for God’s sake! Paint me otherwise.Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe’er you will,Only not that, not that!”Smiling he stoopedAnd raised me from the ground, and took the childIn unaccustomed arms all tenderly,Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.“But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing elseEver paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.”Then suddenly I saw it all—the lightDim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,The swinging censers, candles burning clear,With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume,The high white altar, and above a face,Myface, pale shining through the scented gloomLike a lone star! Then in the hush a voiceChanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still.I who had been a sinner, could I dareThus to mock God and man? Low at his feetAgain I fell, and there I told him allAs he had been my soul’s confessor, pouredMy very heart out. Signor, life is hardAnd cruel to child-women, when the streetIs their sole nursing mother. I had hadNo friend, no home, save when old BarbaraIn some rare mood of pity let me creepUnder her wing for shelter. Then she died,And even that poor semblance of a homeWas mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,Out of the dust and moil I grew as tallAnd fair as lily in a garden plot,Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—God knows how girls are tempted when false loveComes with beguiling words and tender lips,Promising all things, and their barren livesBreak into sudden bloom as when a budUnfolds its shining petals in the sunAnd joys to be a rose!No word he spake,Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his handsInto the shining masses of my hair,Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted upMy wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;And even in that dark hour a thrill of joyRan through my soul as the pure lips met mine.Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the childClasped to my bosom, daring not to raiseMy eyes to the face above me. Well I knewIt was the priest’s face, not the painter’s, now!Was it his voice that through the silence stole,“A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low?Just for one instant on my head a handFell as in benediction. Then he said“Arise, my daughter, and come thou with meWhere bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of allThe saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soulOf all iniquity, and make it clean.”Startled I answered him—“But who will careFor Nello then? His mother died last week,And Beppo’s heart is buried in her grave—He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.”But with a wide sweep of his beckoning armDown the long cloisters strode he, and acrossThe heated pavement of the market-place,Nor looked to see if we were following himUntil he paused before the convent gate;Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heardThe sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame.“Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said.“Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,And straightway tell the abbess all the taleTold unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gateSwung to with iron clang, and Nello’s armsHalf strangled me as round my neck he clung,Awed by the holy stillness.Since that hourI with the humble sisters of St. ClareHave given myself to deeds of mercy, worksMeet for repentance, ministering stillUnto all souls that suffer, even as nowI minister to you.But what, you ask,Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—God rest his soul!—and the child ’bode with us.But when the lad drew nigh to man’s estate—Too old for women’s guidance—he was foundOftener than elsewhere at the studioOf old Fra Alessandro. He becameA painter, Signor, and men call him great.I know not if he is—but you can seeHis pictures yonder in San Spirito.You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you knowWhence comes the semblance that has puzzled youThrough all these weeks of languor?It may be.I am too old to care now, have outlivedYouth and its petty consciousness. My faceIs mine no longer. It is God’s alone.A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
Then down the street came Giacomo, flushedWith wine and laughter. I can see him now,With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crewOf merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,So long ago it was! Yet I can seeJust how the campanile shone that nightLike molten silver, while its carven saintsPrayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow creptOver the moon’s face; and it grew so darkThat the red star in Giacomo’s capPaled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-claspLost all the lustre of its burnished gold,And faded out of sight. Strange, how we loseSo much we would remember, and yet keepTrifles like this until the day of doom!They had swept past me where I stood in shadeWhen Giacomo turned. Just then the moonShone out again, illumining the place,And he paused laughing, catching sight of meThere by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!I was young then, and some said I was fair;But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed!Know you Fra Alessandro? He would haveA model for his picture. Go you thenTo-morrow to his studio and sayGiacomo sent you. At the convent there,Near Santa Croce.”So I thither wentEarly next morning, trembling as I stoleInto the master’s presence. A grave manOf most unworldly aspect, with bowed headAnd pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,He sat before an easel, lost in thought.“Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in,And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eyeFor minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemedAs if the judgment-day had come, and GodSat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,Nodding as one content—“To-morrow mornI pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bringA little child with thee—some fair, sweet childWhose eyes are like the morning?”Then I said,Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boyWhose mother died last week—“Yes, I will comeSurely, my father, and will bring with meThe fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,”Softly he answered, and a sudden lightMade his pale face all glorious. At the doorI paused, and looking backward saw him bowBefore the easel as before a shrine.I know not if he prayed, but never saintHad aspect more divine.Next day I wentWith little Nello to the studio.Impatiently the Frate greeted us,Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?”But as I drew the cap from Nello’s headAnd the moist tendrils of his golden hairFell softly on his forehead, he cried out:“The boy is like an angel! And thy face,Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,As thus, or thus.”The child was half afraid;And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I heldHim close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,“O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.And thou and this fair child——”Even while he spokeHe turned back to the easel; but I sprangFrom the low pedestal, and, with the boyStill in my arms, I fell down at his feet.“Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried,While my hot forehead touched his garment’s hem;“Not that, for God’s sake! Paint me otherwise.Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe’er you will,Only not that, not that!”Smiling he stoopedAnd raised me from the ground, and took the childIn unaccustomed arms all tenderly,Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.“But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing elseEver paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.”Then suddenly I saw it all—the lightDim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,The swinging censers, candles burning clear,With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume,The high white altar, and above a face,Myface, pale shining through the scented gloomLike a lone star! Then in the hush a voiceChanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still.I who had been a sinner, could I dareThus to mock God and man? Low at his feetAgain I fell, and there I told him allAs he had been my soul’s confessor, pouredMy very heart out. Signor, life is hardAnd cruel to child-women, when the streetIs their sole nursing mother. I had hadNo friend, no home, save when old BarbaraIn some rare mood of pity let me creepUnder her wing for shelter. Then she died,And even that poor semblance of a homeWas mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,Out of the dust and moil I grew as tallAnd fair as lily in a garden plot,Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—God knows how girls are tempted when false loveComes with beguiling words and tender lips,Promising all things, and their barren livesBreak into sudden bloom as when a budUnfolds its shining petals in the sunAnd joys to be a rose!No word he spake,Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his handsInto the shining masses of my hair,Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted upMy wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;And even in that dark hour a thrill of joyRan through my soul as the pure lips met mine.Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the childClasped to my bosom, daring not to raiseMy eyes to the face above me. Well I knewIt was the priest’s face, not the painter’s, now!Was it his voice that through the silence stole,“A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low?Just for one instant on my head a handFell as in benediction. Then he said“Arise, my daughter, and come thou with meWhere bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of allThe saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soulOf all iniquity, and make it clean.”Startled I answered him—“But who will careFor Nello then? His mother died last week,And Beppo’s heart is buried in her grave—He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.”But with a wide sweep of his beckoning armDown the long cloisters strode he, and acrossThe heated pavement of the market-place,Nor looked to see if we were following himUntil he paused before the convent gate;Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heardThe sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame.“Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said.“Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,And straightway tell the abbess all the taleTold unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gateSwung to with iron clang, and Nello’s armsHalf strangled me as round my neck he clung,Awed by the holy stillness.Since that hourI with the humble sisters of St. ClareHave given myself to deeds of mercy, worksMeet for repentance, ministering stillUnto all souls that suffer, even as nowI minister to you.But what, you ask,Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—God rest his soul!—and the child ’bode with us.But when the lad drew nigh to man’s estate—Too old for women’s guidance—he was foundOftener than elsewhere at the studioOf old Fra Alessandro. He becameA painter, Signor, and men call him great.I know not if he is—but you can seeHis pictures yonder in San Spirito.You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you knowWhence comes the semblance that has puzzled youThrough all these weeks of languor?It may be.I am too old to care now, have outlivedYouth and its petty consciousness. My faceIs mine no longer. It is God’s alone.A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
Then down the street came Giacomo, flushedWith wine and laughter. I can see him now,With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crewOf merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,So long ago it was! Yet I can seeJust how the campanile shone that nightLike molten silver, while its carven saintsPrayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow creptOver the moon’s face; and it grew so darkThat the red star in Giacomo’s capPaled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-claspLost all the lustre of its burnished gold,And faded out of sight. Strange, how we loseSo much we would remember, and yet keepTrifles like this until the day of doom!They had swept past me where I stood in shadeWhen Giacomo turned. Just then the moonShone out again, illumining the place,And he paused laughing, catching sight of meThere by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!I was young then, and some said I was fair;But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed!Know you Fra Alessandro? He would haveA model for his picture. Go you thenTo-morrow to his studio and sayGiacomo sent you. At the convent there,Near Santa Croce.”So I thither wentEarly next morning, trembling as I stoleInto the master’s presence. A grave manOf most unworldly aspect, with bowed headAnd pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,He sat before an easel, lost in thought.“Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in,And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eyeFor minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemedAs if the judgment-day had come, and GodSat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,Nodding as one content—“To-morrow mornI pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bringA little child with thee—some fair, sweet childWhose eyes are like the morning?”Then I said,Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boyWhose mother died last week—“Yes, I will comeSurely, my father, and will bring with meThe fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,”Softly he answered, and a sudden lightMade his pale face all glorious. At the doorI paused, and looking backward saw him bowBefore the easel as before a shrine.I know not if he prayed, but never saintHad aspect more divine.Next day I wentWith little Nello to the studio.Impatiently the Frate greeted us,Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?”But as I drew the cap from Nello’s headAnd the moist tendrils of his golden hairFell softly on his forehead, he cried out:“The boy is like an angel! And thy face,Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,As thus, or thus.”The child was half afraid;And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I heldHim close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,“O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.And thou and this fair child——”Even while he spokeHe turned back to the easel; but I sprangFrom the low pedestal, and, with the boyStill in my arms, I fell down at his feet.“Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried,While my hot forehead touched his garment’s hem;“Not that, for God’s sake! Paint me otherwise.Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe’er you will,Only not that, not that!”Smiling he stoopedAnd raised me from the ground, and took the childIn unaccustomed arms all tenderly,Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.“But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing elseEver paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.”Then suddenly I saw it all—the lightDim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,The swinging censers, candles burning clear,With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume,The high white altar, and above a face,Myface, pale shining through the scented gloomLike a lone star! Then in the hush a voiceChanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still.I who had been a sinner, could I dareThus to mock God and man? Low at his feetAgain I fell, and there I told him allAs he had been my soul’s confessor, pouredMy very heart out. Signor, life is hardAnd cruel to child-women, when the streetIs their sole nursing mother. I had hadNo friend, no home, save when old BarbaraIn some rare mood of pity let me creepUnder her wing for shelter. Then she died,And even that poor semblance of a homeWas mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,Out of the dust and moil I grew as tallAnd fair as lily in a garden plot,Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—God knows how girls are tempted when false loveComes with beguiling words and tender lips,Promising all things, and their barren livesBreak into sudden bloom as when a budUnfolds its shining petals in the sunAnd joys to be a rose!No word he spake,Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his handsInto the shining masses of my hair,Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted upMy wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;And even in that dark hour a thrill of joyRan through my soul as the pure lips met mine.Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the childClasped to my bosom, daring not to raiseMy eyes to the face above me. Well I knewIt was the priest’s face, not the painter’s, now!Was it his voice that through the silence stole,“A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low?Just for one instant on my head a handFell as in benediction. Then he said“Arise, my daughter, and come thou with meWhere bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of allThe saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soulOf all iniquity, and make it clean.”Startled I answered him—“But who will careFor Nello then? His mother died last week,And Beppo’s heart is buried in her grave—He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.”But with a wide sweep of his beckoning armDown the long cloisters strode he, and acrossThe heated pavement of the market-place,Nor looked to see if we were following himUntil he paused before the convent gate;Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heardThe sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame.“Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said.“Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,And straightway tell the abbess all the taleTold unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gateSwung to with iron clang, and Nello’s armsHalf strangled me as round my neck he clung,Awed by the holy stillness.Since that hourI with the humble sisters of St. ClareHave given myself to deeds of mercy, worksMeet for repentance, ministering stillUnto all souls that suffer, even as nowI minister to you.But what, you ask,Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—God rest his soul!—and the child ’bode with us.But when the lad drew nigh to man’s estate—Too old for women’s guidance—he was foundOftener than elsewhere at the studioOf old Fra Alessandro. He becameA painter, Signor, and men call him great.I know not if he is—but you can seeHis pictures yonder in San Spirito.You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you knowWhence comes the semblance that has puzzled youThrough all these weeks of languor?It may be.I am too old to care now, have outlivedYouth and its petty consciousness. My faceIs mine no longer. It is God’s alone.A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
After long waiting when my soul puts offThis mortal vesture and is free to goThrough all God’s universe in search of thee,How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost?Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deepProfound abysses where the dim spheres roll;Through starry mazes and through violet seas,And purple reaches stretched from world to world;Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived,Where knowledge falters and where reason fails,And only faith’s strong pinion dares to soar,How shall it make its lonely way to thee?In that far realm what myriads abide!When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear?One grain of sand beside the unresting sea—One blade of grass where endless prairies roll!I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed!The face you knew I shall no longer wear;For few or many though the years may be,My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown.I have grown older here, whilst thou beneathThe tree of life hast found thy youth again;I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free,Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God.O friend and lover, go thou not too far!Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight,Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy,I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!
After long waiting when my soul puts offThis mortal vesture and is free to goThrough all God’s universe in search of thee,How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost?Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deepProfound abysses where the dim spheres roll;Through starry mazes and through violet seas,And purple reaches stretched from world to world;Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived,Where knowledge falters and where reason fails,And only faith’s strong pinion dares to soar,How shall it make its lonely way to thee?In that far realm what myriads abide!When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear?One grain of sand beside the unresting sea—One blade of grass where endless prairies roll!I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed!The face you knew I shall no longer wear;For few or many though the years may be,My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown.I have grown older here, whilst thou beneathThe tree of life hast found thy youth again;I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free,Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God.O friend and lover, go thou not too far!Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight,Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy,I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!
After long waiting when my soul puts offThis mortal vesture and is free to goThrough all God’s universe in search of thee,How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost?
Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deepProfound abysses where the dim spheres roll;Through starry mazes and through violet seas,And purple reaches stretched from world to world;
Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived,Where knowledge falters and where reason fails,And only faith’s strong pinion dares to soar,How shall it make its lonely way to thee?
In that far realm what myriads abide!When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear?One grain of sand beside the unresting sea—One blade of grass where endless prairies roll!
I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed!The face you knew I shall no longer wear;For few or many though the years may be,My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown.
I have grown older here, whilst thou beneathThe tree of life hast found thy youth again;I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free,Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God.
O friend and lover, go thou not too far!Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight,Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy,I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!
Transcriber's Notes:The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.
Transcriber's Notes:
The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.
Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.
Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.