CAPRICE.

[1]The old-fashioned flatboats were so called.

The old-fashioned flatboats were so called.

49CAPRICE.

I.She hung the cage at the window:“If he goes by,” she said,“He will hear my robin singing,And when he lifts his head,I shall be sitting here to sew,And he will bow to me, I know.”The robin sang a love-sweet song,The young man raised his head;The maiden turned away and blushed:“I am a fool!” she said,And went on broidering in silkA pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.II.The young man loitered slowlyBy the house three times that day;She took her bird from the window:“He need not look this way.”She sat at her piano long,And sighed, and played a death-sad song.50But when the day was done, she said,“I wish that he would come!Remember, Mary, if he callsTo-night––I’m not at home.”So when he rang, she went––the elf!––She went and let him in herself.III.They sang full long togetherTheir songs love-sweet, death-sad;The robin woke from his slumber,And rang out, clear and glad.“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late;”And followed him––to latch the gate.He took the rosebud from her hair,While, “You shall not!” she said;He closed her hand within his own,And, while her tongue forbade,Her will was darkened in the eclipseOf blinding love upon his lips.

She hung the cage at the window:“If he goes by,” she said,“He will hear my robin singing,And when he lifts his head,I shall be sitting here to sew,And he will bow to me, I know.”

She hung the cage at the window:

“If he goes by,” she said,

“He will hear my robin singing,

And when he lifts his head,

I shall be sitting here to sew,

And he will bow to me, I know.”

The robin sang a love-sweet song,The young man raised his head;The maiden turned away and blushed:“I am a fool!” she said,And went on broidering in silkA pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.

The robin sang a love-sweet song,

The young man raised his head;

The maiden turned away and blushed:

“I am a fool!” she said,

And went on broidering in silk

A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.

II.

The young man loitered slowlyBy the house three times that day;She took her bird from the window:“He need not look this way.”She sat at her piano long,And sighed, and played a death-sad song.

The young man loitered slowly

By the house three times that day;

She took her bird from the window:

“He need not look this way.”

She sat at her piano long,

And sighed, and played a death-sad song.

50But when the day was done, she said,“I wish that he would come!Remember, Mary, if he callsTo-night––I’m not at home.”So when he rang, she went––the elf!––She went and let him in herself.

But when the day was done, she said,

“I wish that he would come!

Remember, Mary, if he calls

To-night––I’m not at home.”

So when he rang, she went––the elf!––

She went and let him in herself.

III.

They sang full long togetherTheir songs love-sweet, death-sad;The robin woke from his slumber,And rang out, clear and glad.“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late;”And followed him––to latch the gate.

They sang full long together

Their songs love-sweet, death-sad;

The robin woke from his slumber,

And rang out, clear and glad.

“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late;”

And followed him––to latch the gate.

He took the rosebud from her hair,While, “You shall not!” she said;He closed her hand within his own,And, while her tongue forbade,Her will was darkened in the eclipseOf blinding love upon his lips.

He took the rosebud from her hair,

While, “You shall not!” she said;

He closed her hand within his own,

And, while her tongue forbade,

Her will was darkened in the eclipse

Of blinding love upon his lips.

51SWEET CLOVER.

“... My letters back to me.”

I.I know they won the faint perfume,That to their faded pages clings,From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and thingsKept in the soft and scented gloomOf some mysterious box––poor leavesOf summer, now as sere and deadAs any leaves of summer shedFrom crimson boughs when autumn grieves!The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrillAll through with such delicious painOf soul and sense, to breathe againThe sweet that haunted memory still.And under these December skies,As bland as May’s in other climes,I move, and muse my idle rhymesAnd subtly sentimentalize.52I hear the music that was played,––The songs that silence knows by heart!––I see sweet burlesque feigning art,The careless grace that curved and swayedThrough dances and through breezy walks;I feel once more the eyes that smiled,And that dear presence that beguiledThe pauses of the foolish talks,When this poor phantom of perfumeWas the Sweet Clover’s living soul,And breathed from her as if it stole,Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom!II.We have not many ways with pain:We weep weak tears, or else we laugh;I doubt, not less the cup we quaff,And tears and scorn alike are vain.But let me live my quiet life;I will not vex my calm with grief,I only know the pang was brief,And there an end of hope and strife.53And thou? I put the letters by:In years the sweetness shall not pass;More than the perfect blossom wasI count its lingering memory.Alas! with Time dear Love is dead,And not with Fate. And who can guessHow weary of our happinessWe might have been if we were wed?

I know they won the faint perfume,That to their faded pages clings,From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and thingsKept in the soft and scented gloom

I know they won the faint perfume,

That to their faded pages clings,

From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and things

Kept in the soft and scented gloom

Of some mysterious box––poor leavesOf summer, now as sere and deadAs any leaves of summer shedFrom crimson boughs when autumn grieves!

Of some mysterious box––poor leaves

Of summer, now as sere and dead

As any leaves of summer shed

From crimson boughs when autumn grieves!

The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrillAll through with such delicious painOf soul and sense, to breathe againThe sweet that haunted memory still.

The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrill

All through with such delicious pain

Of soul and sense, to breathe again

The sweet that haunted memory still.

And under these December skies,As bland as May’s in other climes,I move, and muse my idle rhymesAnd subtly sentimentalize.

And under these December skies,

As bland as May’s in other climes,

I move, and muse my idle rhymes

And subtly sentimentalize.

52I hear the music that was played,––The songs that silence knows by heart!––I see sweet burlesque feigning art,The careless grace that curved and swayed

I hear the music that was played,––

The songs that silence knows by heart!––

I see sweet burlesque feigning art,

The careless grace that curved and swayed

Through dances and through breezy walks;I feel once more the eyes that smiled,And that dear presence that beguiledThe pauses of the foolish talks,

Through dances and through breezy walks;

I feel once more the eyes that smiled,

And that dear presence that beguiled

The pauses of the foolish talks,

When this poor phantom of perfumeWas the Sweet Clover’s living soul,And breathed from her as if it stole,Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom!

When this poor phantom of perfume

Was the Sweet Clover’s living soul,

And breathed from her as if it stole,

Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom!

II.

We have not many ways with pain:We weep weak tears, or else we laugh;I doubt, not less the cup we quaff,And tears and scorn alike are vain.

We have not many ways with pain:

We weep weak tears, or else we laugh;

I doubt, not less the cup we quaff,

And tears and scorn alike are vain.

But let me live my quiet life;I will not vex my calm with grief,I only know the pang was brief,And there an end of hope and strife.

But let me live my quiet life;

I will not vex my calm with grief,

I only know the pang was brief,

And there an end of hope and strife.

53And thou? I put the letters by:In years the sweetness shall not pass;More than the perfect blossom wasI count its lingering memory.

And thou? I put the letters by:

In years the sweetness shall not pass;

More than the perfect blossom was

I count its lingering memory.

Alas! with Time dear Love is dead,And not with Fate. And who can guessHow weary of our happinessWe might have been if we were wed?

Alas! with Time dear Love is dead,

And not with Fate. And who can guess

How weary of our happiness

We might have been if we were wed?

Venice.

54THE ROYAL PORTRAITS.(AT LUDWIGSHOF.)

I.Confronting each other the pictures stareInto each other’s sleepless eyes;And the daylight into the darkness dies,From year to year in the palace there:But they watch and guard that no deviceTake either one of them unaware.Their majesties the king and the queen,The parents of the reigning prince:Both put off royalty many years since,With life and the gifts that have always beenGiven to kings from God, to evinceHis sense of the mighty over the mean.I cannot say that I like the faceOf the king; it is something fat and red;And the neck that lifts the royal headIs thick and coarse; and a scanty graceDwells in the dull blue eyes that are laidSullenly on the queen in her place.55He must have been a king in his day’Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:One of the heaven-anointed sortWho ruled his people with iron sway,And knew that, through good and evil report,God meant him to rule and them to obey.There are many other likenessesOf the king in his royal palace there;You find him depicted everywhere,––In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,––A king in all of them, none the less;But most himself in this on the wallOver against his consort, whoseLaces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoesMake her the finest lady of allThe queens or courtly dames you choose,In the ancestral portrait hall.A glorious blonde: a luxuryOf luring blue and wanton gold,Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,Of lines that flow voluptuouslyIn tender, languorous curves to foldHer form in perfect symmetry.56She might have been false. Of her withered dustThere scarcely would be enough to writeHer guilt in now; and the dead have a rightTo our lenient doubt if not to our trust:So if the truth cannot make her white,Let us be as merciful as we––must.II.The queen died first, the queen died young,But the king was very old when he died,Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;And the usual Virtues came and hungTheir cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wideThroughout his kingdom his praise was sung.How the queen died is not certainly known,And faithful subjects are all forbidTo speak of the murder which some one didOne night while she slept in the dark alone:History keeps the story hid,And Fear only tells it in undertone.Up from your startled feet aloof,In the famous Echo-Room, with a boundLeaps the echo, and round and roundBeating itself against the roof,––A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,––Dies ere its terror can utter proof57Of that it knows. A door is fast,And none is suffered to enter there.His sacred majesty could not bearTo look at it toward the last,As he grew very old. It opened whereThe queen died young so many years past.III.How the queen died is not certainly known;But in the palace’s solitudeA harking dread and horror brood,And a silence, as if a mortal groanHad been hushed the moment before, and wouldBreak forth again when you were gone.The present king has never dweltIn the desolate palace. From year to yearIn the wide and stately garden drearThe snows and the snowy blossoms meltUnheeded, and a ghastly fearThrough all the shivering leaves is felt.By night the gathering shadows creepAlong the dusk and hollow halls,And the slumber-broken palace callsWith stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;And then the ghostly moonlight fallsAthwart the darkness brown and deep.58At early dawn the light wind sighs,And through the desert garden blowsThe wasted sweetness of the rose;At noon the feverish sunshine liesSick in the walks. But at evening’s close,When the last, long rays to the windows rise,And with many a blood-red, wrathful streakPierce through the twilight glooms that blurHis cruel vigilance and herRegard, they light fierce looks that wreakA hopeless hate that cannot stir,A voiceless hate that cannot speakIn the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;And as if she saw her murderer glareOn her face, and he the white despairOf his victim kindle in wild surmise,Confronted the conscious pictures stare,––And their secret back into darkness dies.

Confronting each other the pictures stareInto each other’s sleepless eyes;And the daylight into the darkness dies,From year to year in the palace there:But they watch and guard that no deviceTake either one of them unaware.

Confronting each other the pictures stare

Into each other’s sleepless eyes;

And the daylight into the darkness dies,

From year to year in the palace there:

But they watch and guard that no device

Take either one of them unaware.

Their majesties the king and the queen,The parents of the reigning prince:Both put off royalty many years since,With life and the gifts that have always beenGiven to kings from God, to evinceHis sense of the mighty over the mean.

Their majesties the king and the queen,

The parents of the reigning prince:

Both put off royalty many years since,

With life and the gifts that have always been

Given to kings from God, to evince

His sense of the mighty over the mean.

I cannot say that I like the faceOf the king; it is something fat and red;And the neck that lifts the royal headIs thick and coarse; and a scanty graceDwells in the dull blue eyes that are laidSullenly on the queen in her place.

I cannot say that I like the face

Of the king; it is something fat and red;

And the neck that lifts the royal head

Is thick and coarse; and a scanty grace

Dwells in the dull blue eyes that are laid

Sullenly on the queen in her place.

55He must have been a king in his day’Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:One of the heaven-anointed sortWho ruled his people with iron sway,And knew that, through good and evil report,God meant him to rule and them to obey.

He must have been a king in his day

’Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:

One of the heaven-anointed sort

Who ruled his people with iron sway,

And knew that, through good and evil report,

God meant him to rule and them to obey.

There are many other likenessesOf the king in his royal palace there;You find him depicted everywhere,––In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,––A king in all of them, none the less;

There are many other likenesses

Of the king in his royal palace there;

You find him depicted everywhere,––

In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,

In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,––

A king in all of them, none the less;

But most himself in this on the wallOver against his consort, whoseLaces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoesMake her the finest lady of allThe queens or courtly dames you choose,In the ancestral portrait hall.

But most himself in this on the wall

Over against his consort, whose

Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes

Make her the finest lady of all

The queens or courtly dames you choose,

In the ancestral portrait hall.

A glorious blonde: a luxuryOf luring blue and wanton gold,Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,Of lines that flow voluptuouslyIn tender, languorous curves to foldHer form in perfect symmetry.

A glorious blonde: a luxury

Of luring blue and wanton gold,

Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,

Of lines that flow voluptuously

In tender, languorous curves to fold

Her form in perfect symmetry.

56She might have been false. Of her withered dustThere scarcely would be enough to writeHer guilt in now; and the dead have a rightTo our lenient doubt if not to our trust:So if the truth cannot make her white,Let us be as merciful as we––must.

She might have been false. Of her withered dust

There scarcely would be enough to write

Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right

To our lenient doubt if not to our trust:

So if the truth cannot make her white,

Let us be as merciful as we––must.

II.

The queen died first, the queen died young,But the king was very old when he died,Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;And the usual Virtues came and hungTheir cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wideThroughout his kingdom his praise was sung.

The queen died first, the queen died young,

But the king was very old when he died,

Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;

And the usual Virtues came and hung

Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide

Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung.

How the queen died is not certainly known,And faithful subjects are all forbidTo speak of the murder which some one didOne night while she slept in the dark alone:History keeps the story hid,And Fear only tells it in undertone.

How the queen died is not certainly known,

And faithful subjects are all forbid

To speak of the murder which some one did

One night while she slept in the dark alone:

History keeps the story hid,

And Fear only tells it in undertone.

Up from your startled feet aloof,In the famous Echo-Room, with a boundLeaps the echo, and round and roundBeating itself against the roof,––A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,––Dies ere its terror can utter proof

Up from your startled feet aloof,

In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound

Leaps the echo, and round and round

Beating itself against the roof,––

A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,––

Dies ere its terror can utter proof

57Of that it knows. A door is fast,And none is suffered to enter there.His sacred majesty could not bearTo look at it toward the last,As he grew very old. It opened whereThe queen died young so many years past.

Of that it knows. A door is fast,

And none is suffered to enter there.

His sacred majesty could not bear

To look at it toward the last,

As he grew very old. It opened where

The queen died young so many years past.

III.

How the queen died is not certainly known;But in the palace’s solitudeA harking dread and horror brood,And a silence, as if a mortal groanHad been hushed the moment before, and wouldBreak forth again when you were gone.

How the queen died is not certainly known;

But in the palace’s solitude

A harking dread and horror brood,

And a silence, as if a mortal groan

Had been hushed the moment before, and would

Break forth again when you were gone.

The present king has never dweltIn the desolate palace. From year to yearIn the wide and stately garden drearThe snows and the snowy blossoms meltUnheeded, and a ghastly fearThrough all the shivering leaves is felt.

The present king has never dwelt

In the desolate palace. From year to year

In the wide and stately garden drear

The snows and the snowy blossoms melt

Unheeded, and a ghastly fear

Through all the shivering leaves is felt.

By night the gathering shadows creepAlong the dusk and hollow halls,And the slumber-broken palace callsWith stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;And then the ghostly moonlight fallsAthwart the darkness brown and deep.

By night the gathering shadows creep

Along the dusk and hollow halls,

And the slumber-broken palace calls

With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;

And then the ghostly moonlight falls

Athwart the darkness brown and deep.

58At early dawn the light wind sighs,And through the desert garden blowsThe wasted sweetness of the rose;At noon the feverish sunshine liesSick in the walks. But at evening’s close,When the last, long rays to the windows rise,

At early dawn the light wind sighs,

And through the desert garden blows

The wasted sweetness of the rose;

At noon the feverish sunshine lies

Sick in the walks. But at evening’s close,

When the last, long rays to the windows rise,

And with many a blood-red, wrathful streakPierce through the twilight glooms that blurHis cruel vigilance and herRegard, they light fierce looks that wreakA hopeless hate that cannot stir,A voiceless hate that cannot speak

And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak

Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur

His cruel vigilance and her

Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak

A hopeless hate that cannot stir,

A voiceless hate that cannot speak

In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;And as if she saw her murderer glareOn her face, and he the white despairOf his victim kindle in wild surmise,Confronted the conscious pictures stare,––And their secret back into darkness dies.

In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;

And as if she saw her murderer glare

On her face, and he the white despair

Of his victim kindle in wild surmise,

Confronted the conscious pictures stare,––

And their secret back into darkness dies.

59THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.[2]

I.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,Downcast, through the garden goes:He is hurt with the grace of the lily,And the beauty of the rose.For what is the grace of the lilyBut her own slender grace?And what is the rose’s beautyBut the beauty of her face?––Who sits beside her windowWaiting to welcome him,60That comes so lothly toward herWith his visage sick and dim.“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!Ah! rose, a bitter rainOf tears shall beat thy light outThat thou never burn again!”II.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,Takes the lady by the hand:“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,For I leave my native land.“From Mantua to-morrowI go, a banished man;Make me glad for truth and love’s sakeOf my father’s curse and ban.“Our quarrel has left my motherLike death upon the floor;And I come from a furious presenceI never shall enter more.“I would not wed the womanHe had chosen for my bride,For my heart had been before him,With his statecraft and his pride.61“I swore to him by my princehoodIn my love I would be free;And I swear to thee by my manhood,I love no one but thee.“Let the Duke of Bavaria marryHis daughter to whom he will:There where my love was givenMy word shall be faithful still.“There are six true hearts will followMy truth wherever I go,And thou equal truth wilt keep meIn welfare and in woe.”The maiden answered him nothingOf herself, but his words againCame back through her lips like an echoFrom an abyss of pain;And vacantly repeating“In welfare and in woe,”Like a dream from the heart of feverFrom her arms she felt him go.III.Out of Mantua’s gate at daybreakSeven comrades wander forth62On a path that leads at their humor,East, west, or south, or north.The prince’s laugh rings lightly,“What road shall we take from home?”And they answer, “We never shall lose itIf we take the road to Rome.”And with many a jest and banterThe comrades keep their way,Journeying out of the twilightForward into the day,When they are aware beside themGoes a pretty minstrel lad,With a shy and downward aspect,That is neither sad nor glad.Over his slender shoulder,His mandolin was slung,And around its chords the treasureOf his golden tresses hung.Spoke one of the seven companions,“Little minstrel, whither away?”––“With seven true-hearted comradesOn their journey, if I may.”63Spoke one of the seven companions,“If our way be hard and long?”––“I will lighten it with my musicAnd shorten it with my song.”Spoke one of the seven companions,“But what are the songs thou know’st?”––“O, I know many a ditty,But this I sing the most:“How once was an humble maidenBeloved of a great lord’s son,That for her sake and his troth’s sakeWas banished and undone.“And forth of his father’s cityHe went at break of day,And the maiden softly followedBehind him on the way“In the figure of a minstrel,And prayed him of his love,‘Let me go with thee and serve theeWherever thou may’st rove.“‘For if thou goest in exileI rest banished at home,64And where thou wanderest with theeMy fears in anguish roam,“‘Besetting thy path with perils,Making thee hungry and cold,Filling thy heart with troubleAnd heaviness untold.“‘But let me go beside thee,And banishment shall beHonor, and riches, and country,And home to thee and me!’”Down falls the minstrel-maidenBefore the Marquis’ son,And the six true-hearted comradesBow round them every one.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,From its scabbard draws his sword:“Now swear by the honor and fealtyYe bear your friend and lord,“That whenever, and wherever,As long as ye have life,Ye will honor and serve this ladyAs ye would your prince’s wife!”65IV.Over the broad expansesOf garlanded Lombardy,Where the gentle vines are swingingIn the orchards from tree to tree;Through Padua from Verona,From the sculptured gothic town,Carved from ruin upon ruin,And ancienter than renown;Through Padua from VeronaTo fair Venice, where she standsWith her feet on subject waters,Lady of many lands;From Venice by sea to Ancona;From Ancona to the west;Climbing many a gardened hillsideAnd many a castled crest;Through valleys dim with the twilightOf their gray olive trees;Over plains that swim with harvestsLike golden noonday seas;Whence the lofty campaniliLike the masts of ships arise,66And like a fleet at anchorUnder them, the village lies;To Florence beside her Arno,In her many-marbled pride,Crowned with infamy and gloryBy the sons she has denied;To pitiless Pisa, where neverSince the anguish of UgolinThe moon in the Tower of Famine[3]Fate so dread as his hath seen;Out through the gates of PisaTo Livorno on her bay,To Genoa and to NaplesThe comrades hold their way,Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,Past the fortressed Ghibelline,Through lands that reek with slaughter,Treason, and shame, and sin;67By desert, by sea, by city,High hill-cope and temple-dome,Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,Upon the road to Rome;While every land behind themForgets them as they go,And in Mantua they are rememberedAs is the last year’s snow;But the Marchioness goes to her chamberDay after day to weep,––For the changeless heart of a motherThe love of a son must keep.The Marchioness weeps in her chamberOver tidings that come to herOf the exiles she seeks, by letterAnd by lips of messenger,Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,Comfortless, vague, and slight,––Like feathers wafted backwardsFrom passage birds in flight.[4]68The tale of a drunken sailor,In whose ship they went to sea;A traveller’s evening storyAt a village hostelry,Of certain comrades sent himBy our Lady, of her grace,To save his life from robbersIn a lonely desert place;Word from the monks of a conventOf gentle comrades that layOne stormy night at their convent,And passed with the storm at day;The long parley of a peasantThat sold them wine and food,The gossip of a shepherdThat guided them through a wood;A boatman’s talk at the ferryOf a river where they crossed,And as if they had sunk in the currentAll trace of them was lost;And so is an end of tidingsBut never an end of tears,69Of secret and friendless sorrowThrough blank and silent years.V.To the Marchioness in her chamberSends word a messenger,Newly come from the land of Naples,Praying for speech with her.The messenger stands before her,A minstrel slender and wan:“In a village of my countryLies a Mantuan gentleman,“Sick of a smouldering fever,Of sorrow and poverty;And no one in all that countryKnows his title or degree.“But six true Mantuan peasants,Or nobles, as some men say,Watch by the sick man’s bedside,And toil for him, night and day,“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,Bearing burdens, and far and nighBegging for him on the highwayOf the strangers that pass by;70“And they look whenever you meet themLike broken-hearted men,And I heard that the sick man would notIf he could, be well again;“For they say that he for love’s sakeWas gladly banishèd,But she for whom he was banishedIs worse to him, now, than dead,––“A recreant to his sorrow,A traitress to his woe.”From her place the Marchioness rises,The minstrel turns to go.But fast by the hand she takes him,––His hand in her clasp is cold,––“If gold may be thy guerdonThou shalt not lack for gold;“And if the love of a motherCan bless thee for that thou hast done,Thou shalt stay and be his brother,Thou shalt stay and be my son.”“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,And his face is deadly pale,71“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,But let my words prevail.“Let me go now from your presence,And I will come again,When you stand with your son beside you,And be your servant then.”VI.At the feet of the Marquis GonzagaKneels his lady on the floor;“Lord, grant me before I ask itThe thing that I implore.”“So it be not of that ingrate.”––“Nay, lord, it is of him.”’Neath the stormy brows of the MarquisHis eyes are tender and dim.“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,Near unto death, as they tell,In his need and pain forsakenBy the wanton he loved so well.“Now send for him and forgive him,If ever thou loved’st me,Now send for him and forgive himAs God shall be good to thee.”72“Well so,––if he turn in repentanceAnd bow himself to my will;That the high-born lady I chose himMay be my daughter still.”VII.In Mantua there is feastingFor the Marquis’ grace to his son;In Mantua there is rejoicingFor the prince come back to his own.The pomp of a wedding processionPauses under the pillared porch,With silken rustle and whisper,Before the door of the church.In the midst, Federigo the bridegroomStands with his high-born bride;The six true-hearted comradesAre three on either side.The bridegroom is gray as his father,Where they stand face to face,And the six true-hearted comradesAre like old men in their place.The Marquis takes the comradesAnd kisses them one by one:73“That ye were fast and faithfulAnd better than I to my son,“Ye shall be called forever,In the sign that ye were so true,The Faithful of the Gonzaga,And your sons after you.”VIII.To the Marchioness comes a courtier:“I am prayed to bring you wordThat the minstrel keeps his promiseWho brought you news of my lord;“And he waits without the circleTo kiss your highness’ hand;And he asks no gold for guerdon,But before he leaves the land“He craves of your love once profferedThat you suffer him for reward,In this crowning hour of his glory,To look on your son, my lord.”Through the silken press of the courtiersThe minstrel faltered in.His claspèd hands were bloodless,His face was white and thin;74And he bent his knee to the lady,But of her love and graceTo her heart she raised him and kissed himUpon his gentle face.Turned to her son the bridegroom,Turned to his high-born wife,“I give you here for your brotherWho gave back my son to life.“For this youth brought me news from NaplesHow thou layest sick and poor,By true comrades kept, and forsakenBy a false paramour.“Wherefore I charge you love himFor a brother that is my son.”The comrades turned to the bridegroomIn silence every one.But the bridegroom looked on the minstrelWith a visage blank and changed,As his whom the sight of a spectreFrom his reason hath estranged;And the smiling courtiers near themOn a sudden were still as death;75And, subtly-stricken, the peopleHearkened and held their breathWith an awe uncomprehendedFor an unseen agony:––Who is this that lies a-dying,With her head on the prince’s knee?A light of anguish and wonderIs in the prince’s eye,“O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me,Or I cannot let thee die!“For now I see thy hardnessWas softer than mortal ruth,And thy heavenly guile was whiter,My saint, than martyr’s truth.”She speaks not and she moves not,But a blessed brightness liesOn her lips in their silent raptureAnd her tender closèd eyes.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,He rises from his knee:“Aye, you have been good, my father,To them that were good to me.76“You have given them honors and titles,But here lies one unknown––Ah, God reward her in heavenWith the peace he gives his own!”

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,Downcast, through the garden goes:He is hurt with the grace of the lily,And the beauty of the rose.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,

Downcast, through the garden goes:

He is hurt with the grace of the lily,

And the beauty of the rose.

For what is the grace of the lilyBut her own slender grace?And what is the rose’s beautyBut the beauty of her face?––

For what is the grace of the lily

But her own slender grace?

And what is the rose’s beauty

But the beauty of her face?––

Who sits beside her windowWaiting to welcome him,60That comes so lothly toward herWith his visage sick and dim.

Who sits beside her window

Waiting to welcome him,

That comes so lothly toward her

With his visage sick and dim.

“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!Ah! rose, a bitter rainOf tears shall beat thy light outThat thou never burn again!”

“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!

Ah! rose, a bitter rain

Of tears shall beat thy light out

That thou never burn again!”

II.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,Takes the lady by the hand:“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,For I leave my native land.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,

Takes the lady by the hand:

“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,

For I leave my native land.

“From Mantua to-morrowI go, a banished man;Make me glad for truth and love’s sakeOf my father’s curse and ban.

“From Mantua to-morrow

I go, a banished man;

Make me glad for truth and love’s sake

Of my father’s curse and ban.

“Our quarrel has left my motherLike death upon the floor;And I come from a furious presenceI never shall enter more.

“Our quarrel has left my mother

Like death upon the floor;

And I come from a furious presence

I never shall enter more.

“I would not wed the womanHe had chosen for my bride,For my heart had been before him,With his statecraft and his pride.

“I would not wed the woman

He had chosen for my bride,

For my heart had been before him,

With his statecraft and his pride.

61“I swore to him by my princehoodIn my love I would be free;And I swear to thee by my manhood,I love no one but thee.

“I swore to him by my princehood

In my love I would be free;

And I swear to thee by my manhood,

I love no one but thee.

“Let the Duke of Bavaria marryHis daughter to whom he will:There where my love was givenMy word shall be faithful still.

“Let the Duke of Bavaria marry

His daughter to whom he will:

There where my love was given

My word shall be faithful still.

“There are six true hearts will followMy truth wherever I go,And thou equal truth wilt keep meIn welfare and in woe.”

“There are six true hearts will follow

My truth wherever I go,

And thou equal truth wilt keep me

In welfare and in woe.”

The maiden answered him nothingOf herself, but his words againCame back through her lips like an echoFrom an abyss of pain;

The maiden answered him nothing

Of herself, but his words again

Came back through her lips like an echo

From an abyss of pain;

And vacantly repeating“In welfare and in woe,”Like a dream from the heart of feverFrom her arms she felt him go.

And vacantly repeating

“In welfare and in woe,”

Like a dream from the heart of fever

From her arms she felt him go.

III.

Out of Mantua’s gate at daybreakSeven comrades wander forth62On a path that leads at their humor,East, west, or south, or north.

Out of Mantua’s gate at daybreak

Seven comrades wander forth

On a path that leads at their humor,

East, west, or south, or north.

The prince’s laugh rings lightly,“What road shall we take from home?”And they answer, “We never shall lose itIf we take the road to Rome.”

The prince’s laugh rings lightly,

“What road shall we take from home?”

And they answer, “We never shall lose it

If we take the road to Rome.”

And with many a jest and banterThe comrades keep their way,Journeying out of the twilightForward into the day,

And with many a jest and banter

The comrades keep their way,

Journeying out of the twilight

Forward into the day,

When they are aware beside themGoes a pretty minstrel lad,With a shy and downward aspect,That is neither sad nor glad.

When they are aware beside them

Goes a pretty minstrel lad,

With a shy and downward aspect,

That is neither sad nor glad.

Over his slender shoulder,His mandolin was slung,And around its chords the treasureOf his golden tresses hung.

Over his slender shoulder,

His mandolin was slung,

And around its chords the treasure

Of his golden tresses hung.

Spoke one of the seven companions,“Little minstrel, whither away?”––“With seven true-hearted comradesOn their journey, if I may.”

Spoke one of the seven companions,

“Little minstrel, whither away?”––

“With seven true-hearted comrades

On their journey, if I may.”

63Spoke one of the seven companions,“If our way be hard and long?”––“I will lighten it with my musicAnd shorten it with my song.”

Spoke one of the seven companions,

“If our way be hard and long?”––

“I will lighten it with my music

And shorten it with my song.”

Spoke one of the seven companions,“But what are the songs thou know’st?”––“O, I know many a ditty,But this I sing the most:

Spoke one of the seven companions,

“But what are the songs thou know’st?”––

“O, I know many a ditty,

But this I sing the most:

“How once was an humble maidenBeloved of a great lord’s son,That for her sake and his troth’s sakeWas banished and undone.

“How once was an humble maiden

Beloved of a great lord’s son,

That for her sake and his troth’s sake

Was banished and undone.

“And forth of his father’s cityHe went at break of day,And the maiden softly followedBehind him on the way

“And forth of his father’s city

He went at break of day,

And the maiden softly followed

Behind him on the way

“In the figure of a minstrel,And prayed him of his love,‘Let me go with thee and serve theeWherever thou may’st rove.

“In the figure of a minstrel,

And prayed him of his love,

‘Let me go with thee and serve thee

Wherever thou may’st rove.

“‘For if thou goest in exileI rest banished at home,64And where thou wanderest with theeMy fears in anguish roam,

“‘For if thou goest in exile

I rest banished at home,

And where thou wanderest with thee

My fears in anguish roam,

“‘Besetting thy path with perils,Making thee hungry and cold,Filling thy heart with troubleAnd heaviness untold.

“‘Besetting thy path with perils,

Making thee hungry and cold,

Filling thy heart with trouble

And heaviness untold.

“‘But let me go beside thee,And banishment shall beHonor, and riches, and country,And home to thee and me!’”

“‘But let me go beside thee,

And banishment shall be

Honor, and riches, and country,

And home to thee and me!’”

Down falls the minstrel-maidenBefore the Marquis’ son,And the six true-hearted comradesBow round them every one.

Down falls the minstrel-maiden

Before the Marquis’ son,

And the six true-hearted comrades

Bow round them every one.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,From its scabbard draws his sword:“Now swear by the honor and fealtyYe bear your friend and lord,

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,

From its scabbard draws his sword:

“Now swear by the honor and fealty

Ye bear your friend and lord,

“That whenever, and wherever,As long as ye have life,Ye will honor and serve this ladyAs ye would your prince’s wife!”

“That whenever, and wherever,

As long as ye have life,

Ye will honor and serve this lady

As ye would your prince’s wife!”

65IV.

IV.

Over the broad expansesOf garlanded Lombardy,Where the gentle vines are swingingIn the orchards from tree to tree;

Over the broad expanses

Of garlanded Lombardy,

Where the gentle vines are swinging

In the orchards from tree to tree;

Through Padua from Verona,From the sculptured gothic town,Carved from ruin upon ruin,And ancienter than renown;

Through Padua from Verona,

From the sculptured gothic town,

Carved from ruin upon ruin,

And ancienter than renown;

Through Padua from VeronaTo fair Venice, where she standsWith her feet on subject waters,Lady of many lands;

Through Padua from Verona

To fair Venice, where she stands

With her feet on subject waters,

Lady of many lands;

From Venice by sea to Ancona;From Ancona to the west;Climbing many a gardened hillsideAnd many a castled crest;

From Venice by sea to Ancona;

From Ancona to the west;

Climbing many a gardened hillside

And many a castled crest;

Through valleys dim with the twilightOf their gray olive trees;Over plains that swim with harvestsLike golden noonday seas;

Through valleys dim with the twilight

Of their gray olive trees;

Over plains that swim with harvests

Like golden noonday seas;

Whence the lofty campaniliLike the masts of ships arise,66And like a fleet at anchorUnder them, the village lies;

Whence the lofty campanili

Like the masts of ships arise,

And like a fleet at anchor

Under them, the village lies;

To Florence beside her Arno,In her many-marbled pride,Crowned with infamy and gloryBy the sons she has denied;

To Florence beside her Arno,

In her many-marbled pride,

Crowned with infamy and glory

By the sons she has denied;

To pitiless Pisa, where neverSince the anguish of UgolinThe moon in the Tower of Famine[3]Fate so dread as his hath seen;

To pitiless Pisa, where never

Since the anguish of Ugolin

The moon in the Tower of Famine[3]

Fate so dread as his hath seen;

Out through the gates of PisaTo Livorno on her bay,To Genoa and to NaplesThe comrades hold their way,

Out through the gates of Pisa

To Livorno on her bay,

To Genoa and to Naples

The comrades hold their way,

Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,Past the fortressed Ghibelline,Through lands that reek with slaughter,Treason, and shame, and sin;

Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,

Past the fortressed Ghibelline,

Through lands that reek with slaughter,

Treason, and shame, and sin;

67By desert, by sea, by city,High hill-cope and temple-dome,Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,Upon the road to Rome;

By desert, by sea, by city,

High hill-cope and temple-dome,

Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,

Upon the road to Rome;

While every land behind themForgets them as they go,And in Mantua they are rememberedAs is the last year’s snow;

While every land behind them

Forgets them as they go,

And in Mantua they are remembered

As is the last year’s snow;

But the Marchioness goes to her chamberDay after day to weep,––For the changeless heart of a motherThe love of a son must keep.

But the Marchioness goes to her chamber

Day after day to weep,––

For the changeless heart of a mother

The love of a son must keep.

The Marchioness weeps in her chamberOver tidings that come to herOf the exiles she seeks, by letterAnd by lips of messenger,

The Marchioness weeps in her chamber

Over tidings that come to her

Of the exiles she seeks, by letter

And by lips of messenger,

Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,Comfortless, vague, and slight,––Like feathers wafted backwardsFrom passage birds in flight.[4]

Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,

Comfortless, vague, and slight,––

Like feathers wafted backwards

From passage birds in flight.[4]

68The tale of a drunken sailor,In whose ship they went to sea;A traveller’s evening storyAt a village hostelry,

The tale of a drunken sailor,

In whose ship they went to sea;

A traveller’s evening story

At a village hostelry,

Of certain comrades sent himBy our Lady, of her grace,To save his life from robbersIn a lonely desert place;

Of certain comrades sent him

By our Lady, of her grace,

To save his life from robbers

In a lonely desert place;

Word from the monks of a conventOf gentle comrades that layOne stormy night at their convent,And passed with the storm at day;

Word from the monks of a convent

Of gentle comrades that lay

One stormy night at their convent,

And passed with the storm at day;

The long parley of a peasantThat sold them wine and food,The gossip of a shepherdThat guided them through a wood;

The long parley of a peasant

That sold them wine and food,

The gossip of a shepherd

That guided them through a wood;

A boatman’s talk at the ferryOf a river where they crossed,And as if they had sunk in the currentAll trace of them was lost;

A boatman’s talk at the ferry

Of a river where they crossed,

And as if they had sunk in the current

All trace of them was lost;

And so is an end of tidingsBut never an end of tears,69Of secret and friendless sorrowThrough blank and silent years.

And so is an end of tidings

But never an end of tears,

Of secret and friendless sorrow

Through blank and silent years.

To the Marchioness in her chamberSends word a messenger,Newly come from the land of Naples,Praying for speech with her.

To the Marchioness in her chamber

Sends word a messenger,

Newly come from the land of Naples,

Praying for speech with her.

The messenger stands before her,A minstrel slender and wan:“In a village of my countryLies a Mantuan gentleman,

The messenger stands before her,

A minstrel slender and wan:

“In a village of my country

Lies a Mantuan gentleman,

“Sick of a smouldering fever,Of sorrow and poverty;And no one in all that countryKnows his title or degree.

“Sick of a smouldering fever,

Of sorrow and poverty;

And no one in all that country

Knows his title or degree.

“But six true Mantuan peasants,Or nobles, as some men say,Watch by the sick man’s bedside,And toil for him, night and day,

“But six true Mantuan peasants,

Or nobles, as some men say,

Watch by the sick man’s bedside,

And toil for him, night and day,

“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,Bearing burdens, and far and nighBegging for him on the highwayOf the strangers that pass by;

“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,

Bearing burdens, and far and nigh

Begging for him on the highway

Of the strangers that pass by;

70“And they look whenever you meet themLike broken-hearted men,And I heard that the sick man would notIf he could, be well again;

“And they look whenever you meet them

Like broken-hearted men,

And I heard that the sick man would not

If he could, be well again;

“For they say that he for love’s sakeWas gladly banishèd,But she for whom he was banishedIs worse to him, now, than dead,––

“For they say that he for love’s sake

Was gladly banishèd,

But she for whom he was banished

Is worse to him, now, than dead,––

“A recreant to his sorrow,A traitress to his woe.”From her place the Marchioness rises,The minstrel turns to go.

“A recreant to his sorrow,

A traitress to his woe.”

From her place the Marchioness rises,

The minstrel turns to go.

But fast by the hand she takes him,––His hand in her clasp is cold,––“If gold may be thy guerdonThou shalt not lack for gold;

But fast by the hand she takes him,––

His hand in her clasp is cold,––

“If gold may be thy guerdon

Thou shalt not lack for gold;

“And if the love of a motherCan bless thee for that thou hast done,Thou shalt stay and be his brother,Thou shalt stay and be my son.”

“And if the love of a mother

Can bless thee for that thou hast done,

Thou shalt stay and be his brother,

Thou shalt stay and be my son.”

“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,And his face is deadly pale,71“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,But let my words prevail.

“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,

And his face is deadly pale,

“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,

But let my words prevail.

“Let me go now from your presence,And I will come again,When you stand with your son beside you,And be your servant then.”

“Let me go now from your presence,

And I will come again,

When you stand with your son beside you,

And be your servant then.”

VI.

At the feet of the Marquis GonzagaKneels his lady on the floor;“Lord, grant me before I ask itThe thing that I implore.”

At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga

Kneels his lady on the floor;

“Lord, grant me before I ask it

The thing that I implore.”

“So it be not of that ingrate.”––“Nay, lord, it is of him.”’Neath the stormy brows of the MarquisHis eyes are tender and dim.

“So it be not of that ingrate.”––

“Nay, lord, it is of him.”

’Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis

His eyes are tender and dim.

“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,Near unto death, as they tell,In his need and pain forsakenBy the wanton he loved so well.

“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,

Near unto death, as they tell,

In his need and pain forsaken

By the wanton he loved so well.

“Now send for him and forgive him,If ever thou loved’st me,Now send for him and forgive himAs God shall be good to thee.”

“Now send for him and forgive him,

If ever thou loved’st me,

Now send for him and forgive him

As God shall be good to thee.”

72“Well so,––if he turn in repentanceAnd bow himself to my will;That the high-born lady I chose himMay be my daughter still.”

“Well so,––if he turn in repentance

And bow himself to my will;

That the high-born lady I chose him

May be my daughter still.”

VII.

In Mantua there is feastingFor the Marquis’ grace to his son;In Mantua there is rejoicingFor the prince come back to his own.

In Mantua there is feasting

For the Marquis’ grace to his son;

In Mantua there is rejoicing

For the prince come back to his own.

The pomp of a wedding processionPauses under the pillared porch,With silken rustle and whisper,Before the door of the church.

The pomp of a wedding procession

Pauses under the pillared porch,

With silken rustle and whisper,

Before the door of the church.

In the midst, Federigo the bridegroomStands with his high-born bride;The six true-hearted comradesAre three on either side.

In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom

Stands with his high-born bride;

The six true-hearted comrades

Are three on either side.

The bridegroom is gray as his father,Where they stand face to face,And the six true-hearted comradesAre like old men in their place.

The bridegroom is gray as his father,

Where they stand face to face,

And the six true-hearted comrades

Are like old men in their place.

The Marquis takes the comradesAnd kisses them one by one:73“That ye were fast and faithfulAnd better than I to my son,

The Marquis takes the comrades

And kisses them one by one:

“That ye were fast and faithful

And better than I to my son,

“Ye shall be called forever,In the sign that ye were so true,The Faithful of the Gonzaga,And your sons after you.”

“Ye shall be called forever,

In the sign that ye were so true,

The Faithful of the Gonzaga,

And your sons after you.”

VIII.

To the Marchioness comes a courtier:“I am prayed to bring you wordThat the minstrel keeps his promiseWho brought you news of my lord;

To the Marchioness comes a courtier:

“I am prayed to bring you word

That the minstrel keeps his promise

Who brought you news of my lord;

“And he waits without the circleTo kiss your highness’ hand;And he asks no gold for guerdon,But before he leaves the land

“And he waits without the circle

To kiss your highness’ hand;

And he asks no gold for guerdon,

But before he leaves the land

“He craves of your love once profferedThat you suffer him for reward,In this crowning hour of his glory,To look on your son, my lord.”

“He craves of your love once proffered

That you suffer him for reward,

In this crowning hour of his glory,

To look on your son, my lord.”

Through the silken press of the courtiersThe minstrel faltered in.His claspèd hands were bloodless,His face was white and thin;

Through the silken press of the courtiers

The minstrel faltered in.

His claspèd hands were bloodless,

His face was white and thin;

74And he bent his knee to the lady,But of her love and graceTo her heart she raised him and kissed himUpon his gentle face.

And he bent his knee to the lady,

But of her love and grace

To her heart she raised him and kissed him

Upon his gentle face.

Turned to her son the bridegroom,Turned to his high-born wife,“I give you here for your brotherWho gave back my son to life.

Turned to her son the bridegroom,

Turned to his high-born wife,

“I give you here for your brother

Who gave back my son to life.

“For this youth brought me news from NaplesHow thou layest sick and poor,By true comrades kept, and forsakenBy a false paramour.

“For this youth brought me news from Naples

How thou layest sick and poor,

By true comrades kept, and forsaken

By a false paramour.

“Wherefore I charge you love himFor a brother that is my son.”The comrades turned to the bridegroomIn silence every one.

“Wherefore I charge you love him

For a brother that is my son.”

The comrades turned to the bridegroom

In silence every one.

But the bridegroom looked on the minstrelWith a visage blank and changed,As his whom the sight of a spectreFrom his reason hath estranged;

But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel

With a visage blank and changed,

As his whom the sight of a spectre

From his reason hath estranged;

And the smiling courtiers near themOn a sudden were still as death;75And, subtly-stricken, the peopleHearkened and held their breath

And the smiling courtiers near them

On a sudden were still as death;

And, subtly-stricken, the people

Hearkened and held their breath

With an awe uncomprehendedFor an unseen agony:––Who is this that lies a-dying,With her head on the prince’s knee?

With an awe uncomprehended

For an unseen agony:––

Who is this that lies a-dying,

With her head on the prince’s knee?

A light of anguish and wonderIs in the prince’s eye,“O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me,Or I cannot let thee die!

A light of anguish and wonder

Is in the prince’s eye,

“O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me,

Or I cannot let thee die!

“For now I see thy hardnessWas softer than mortal ruth,And thy heavenly guile was whiter,My saint, than martyr’s truth.”

“For now I see thy hardness

Was softer than mortal ruth,

And thy heavenly guile was whiter,

My saint, than martyr’s truth.”

She speaks not and she moves not,But a blessed brightness liesOn her lips in their silent raptureAnd her tender closèd eyes.

She speaks not and she moves not,

But a blessed brightness lies

On her lips in their silent rapture

And her tender closèd eyes.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,He rises from his knee:“Aye, you have been good, my father,To them that were good to me.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis,

He rises from his knee:

“Aye, you have been good, my father,

To them that were good to me.

76“You have given them honors and titles,But here lies one unknown––Ah, God reward her in heavenWith the peace he gives his own!”

“You have given them honors and titles,

But here lies one unknown––

Ah, God reward her in heaven

With the peace he gives his own!”

FOOTNOTES:

[2]The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so nearly as he found it in theCronache Montovane, that he is ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it. The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his subjects.

The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so nearly as he found it in theCronache Montovane, that he is ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it. The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his subjects.

[3]“Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda,La qual per me ha il titol della fameE in che conviene ancor ch’altri si chiuda,M’avea mostrato per lo suo foramePiu lune gia.”Dante,L’Inferno.

“Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda,La qual per me ha il titol della fameE in che conviene ancor ch’altri si chiuda,M’avea mostrato per lo suo foramePiu lune gia.”Dante,L’Inferno.

“Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda,La qual per me ha il titol della fameE in che conviene ancor ch’altri si chiuda,M’avea mostrato per lo suo foramePiu lune gia.”

“Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda,

La qual per me ha il titol della fame

E in che conviene ancor ch’altri si chiuda,

M’avea mostrato per lo suo forame

Piu lune gia.”

Dante,L’Inferno.

[4]“As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in its flight.”

“As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in its flight.”

“As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in its flight.”

77THE FIRST CRICKET.

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning,And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,––Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining,All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,Yet with th’ unconscious earth’s boded evil my soul thou dost cumber,And in the year’s lost youth makest me still lose my own.Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room,78And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,––Thou wilt again give me all,––dew and fragrance and bloom?Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling,Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and––himself:Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singersLures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers,Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning,

And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,––

Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining,

All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?

Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,Yet with th’ unconscious earth’s boded evil my soul thou dost cumber,And in the year’s lost youth makest me still lose my own.

Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,

Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,

Yet with th’ unconscious earth’s boded evil my soul thou dost cumber,

And in the year’s lost youth makest me still lose my own.

Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room,78And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,––Thou wilt again give me all,––dew and fragrance and bloom?

Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,

And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room,

And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,––

Thou wilt again give me all,––dew and fragrance and bloom?

Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling,Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and––himself:

Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,

If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,

Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling,

Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and––himself:

Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singersLures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers,Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers

Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.

Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers,

Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

79THE MULBERRIES.

I.On the Rialto Bridge we stand;The street ebbs under and makes no sound;But, with bargains shrieked on every hand,The noisy market rings around.“Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!”A tuneful voice,––and light, light measure;Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,The basket wreathed with mulberry leavesHiding the berries beneath them;––good!Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.For you know, old friend, I haven’t eatenA mulberry since the ignorant joyOf anything sweet in the mouth could sweetenAll this bitter world for a boy.80II.O, I mind the tree in the meadow stoodBy the road near the hill: when I clomb aloofOn its branches, this side of the girdled wood,I could see the top of our cabin roof.And, looking westward, could sweep the shoresOf the river where we used to swimUnder the ghostly sycamores,Haunting the waters smooth and dim;And eastward athwart the pasture-lotAnd over the milk-white buckwheat fieldI could see the stately elm, where I shotThe first black squirrel I ever killed.And southward over the bottom-landI could see the mellow breadths of farmFrom the river-shores to the hills expand,Clasped in the curving river’s arm.In the fields we set our guileless snaresFor rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,Content with the vaguest feathers and hairsFrom doubtful wings and vanished tails.And in the blue summer afternoonWe used to sit in the mulberry-tree:81The breaths of wind that remembered JuneShook the leaves and glittering berries free;And while we watched the wagons goAcross the river, along the road,To the mill above, or the mill below,With horses that stooped to the heavy load,We told old stories and made new plans,And felt our hearts gladden within us again,For we did not dream that this life of a man’sCould ever be what we know as men.We sat so still that the woodpeckers cameAnd pillaged the berries overhead;From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame,Peered, and listened to what we said.III.One of us long ago was carriedTo his grave on the hill above the tree;One is a farmer there, and married;One has wandered over the sea.And, if you ask me, I hardly knowWhether I’d be the dead or the clown,––The clod above or the clay below,––Or this listless dust by fortune blown82To alien lands. For, however it is,So little we keep with us in life:At best we win only victories,Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.But if I could turn from the long defeatOf the little successes once more, and beA boy, with the whole wide world at my feet,Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,––From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleepOf the will that cannot itself awaken,From the promise the future can never keep,From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,––Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrillIn the grass beneath the blanching thistle,And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill,Harked to the quail’s complaining whistle,––Ah me! should I paint the morrows againIn quite the colors so faint to-day,And with the imperial mulberry’s stainRe-purple life’s doublet of hodden-gray?Know again the losses of disillusion?For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?––83In spite of the question’s bitter infusion,Don’t you find these mulberries over-sweet?All our atoms are changed, they say;And the taste is so different since then;We live, but a world has passed awayWith the years that perished to make us men.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand;The street ebbs under and makes no sound;But, with bargains shrieked on every hand,The noisy market rings around.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand;

The street ebbs under and makes no sound;

But, with bargains shrieked on every hand,

The noisy market rings around.

“Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!”A tuneful voice,––and light, light measure;Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

“Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!”

A tuneful voice,––and light, light measure;

Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,

If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,The basket wreathed with mulberry leavesHiding the berries beneath them;––good!Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,

The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves

Hiding the berries beneath them;––good!

Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old friend, I haven’t eatenA mulberry since the ignorant joyOf anything sweet in the mouth could sweetenAll this bitter world for a boy.

For you know, old friend, I haven’t eaten

A mulberry since the ignorant joy

Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten

All this bitter world for a boy.

80II.

II.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stoodBy the road near the hill: when I clomb aloofOn its branches, this side of the girdled wood,I could see the top of our cabin roof.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood

By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof

On its branches, this side of the girdled wood,

I could see the top of our cabin roof.

And, looking westward, could sweep the shoresOf the river where we used to swimUnder the ghostly sycamores,Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And, looking westward, could sweep the shores

Of the river where we used to swim

Under the ghostly sycamores,

Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And eastward athwart the pasture-lotAnd over the milk-white buckwheat fieldI could see the stately elm, where I shotThe first black squirrel I ever killed.

And eastward athwart the pasture-lot

And over the milk-white buckwheat field

I could see the stately elm, where I shot

The first black squirrel I ever killed.

And southward over the bottom-landI could see the mellow breadths of farmFrom the river-shores to the hills expand,Clasped in the curving river’s arm.

And southward over the bottom-land

I could see the mellow breadths of farm

From the river-shores to the hills expand,

Clasped in the curving river’s arm.

In the fields we set our guileless snaresFor rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,Content with the vaguest feathers and hairsFrom doubtful wings and vanished tails.

In the fields we set our guileless snares

For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,

Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs

From doubtful wings and vanished tails.

And in the blue summer afternoonWe used to sit in the mulberry-tree:81The breaths of wind that remembered JuneShook the leaves and glittering berries free;

And in the blue summer afternoon

We used to sit in the mulberry-tree:

The breaths of wind that remembered June

Shook the leaves and glittering berries free;

And while we watched the wagons goAcross the river, along the road,To the mill above, or the mill below,With horses that stooped to the heavy load,

And while we watched the wagons go

Across the river, along the road,

To the mill above, or the mill below,

With horses that stooped to the heavy load,

We told old stories and made new plans,And felt our hearts gladden within us again,For we did not dream that this life of a man’sCould ever be what we know as men.

We told old stories and made new plans,

And felt our hearts gladden within us again,

For we did not dream that this life of a man’s

Could ever be what we know as men.

We sat so still that the woodpeckers cameAnd pillaged the berries overhead;From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame,Peered, and listened to what we said.

We sat so still that the woodpeckers came

And pillaged the berries overhead;

From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame,

Peered, and listened to what we said.

III.

One of us long ago was carriedTo his grave on the hill above the tree;One is a farmer there, and married;One has wandered over the sea.

One of us long ago was carried

To his grave on the hill above the tree;

One is a farmer there, and married;

One has wandered over the sea.

And, if you ask me, I hardly knowWhether I’d be the dead or the clown,––The clod above or the clay below,––Or this listless dust by fortune blown

And, if you ask me, I hardly know

Whether I’d be the dead or the clown,––

The clod above or the clay below,––

Or this listless dust by fortune blown

82To alien lands. For, however it is,So little we keep with us in life:At best we win only victories,Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.

To alien lands. For, however it is,

So little we keep with us in life:

At best we win only victories,

Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.

But if I could turn from the long defeatOf the little successes once more, and beA boy, with the whole wide world at my feet,Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,––

But if I could turn from the long defeat

Of the little successes once more, and be

A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet,

Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,––

From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleepOf the will that cannot itself awaken,From the promise the future can never keep,From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,––

From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleep

Of the will that cannot itself awaken,

From the promise the future can never keep,

From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,––

Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrillIn the grass beneath the blanching thistle,And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill,Harked to the quail’s complaining whistle,––

Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrill

In the grass beneath the blanching thistle,

And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill,

Harked to the quail’s complaining whistle,––

Ah me! should I paint the morrows againIn quite the colors so faint to-day,And with the imperial mulberry’s stainRe-purple life’s doublet of hodden-gray?

Ah me! should I paint the morrows again

In quite the colors so faint to-day,

And with the imperial mulberry’s stain

Re-purple life’s doublet of hodden-gray?

Know again the losses of disillusion?For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?––83In spite of the question’s bitter infusion,Don’t you find these mulberries over-sweet?

Know again the losses of disillusion?

For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?––

In spite of the question’s bitter infusion,

Don’t you find these mulberries over-sweet?

All our atoms are changed, they say;And the taste is so different since then;We live, but a world has passed awayWith the years that perished to make us men.

All our atoms are changed, they say;

And the taste is so different since then;

We live, but a world has passed away

With the years that perished to make us men.

84BEFORE THE GATE.

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter,To fitful song and jest,To moods of soberness as idle, after,And silences, as idle too as the rest.But when at last upon their way returning,Taciturn, late, and loath,Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguishSuch as but women knowThat wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,And what they would, would rather they would not so;Till he said,––man-like nothing comprehendingOf all the wondrous guileThat women won win themselves with, and bendingEyes of relentless asking on her the while,––85“Ah, if beyond this gate the path unitedOur steps as far as death,And I might open it!––” His voice, affrightedAt its own daring, faltered under his breath.Then she––whom both his faith and fear enchantedFar beyond words to tell,Feeling her woman’s finest wit had wantedThe art he had that knew to blunder so well––Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,“Shall we not be too lateFor tea?” she said. “I’m quite worn out with walking:Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you––open the gate?”

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter,To fitful song and jest,To moods of soberness as idle, after,And silences, as idle too as the rest.

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter,

To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,

And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning,Taciturn, late, and loath,Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

But when at last upon their way returning,

Taciturn, late, and loath,

Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguishSuch as but women knowThat wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,

And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Till he said,––man-like nothing comprehendingOf all the wondrous guileThat women won win themselves with, and bendingEyes of relentless asking on her the while,––

Till he said,––man-like nothing comprehending

Of all the wondrous guile

That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,––

85“Ah, if beyond this gate the path unitedOur steps as far as death,And I might open it!––” His voice, affrightedAt its own daring, faltered under his breath.

“Ah, if beyond this gate the path united

Our steps as far as death,

And I might open it!––” His voice, affrighted

At its own daring, faltered under his breath.

Then she––whom both his faith and fear enchantedFar beyond words to tell,Feeling her woman’s finest wit had wantedThe art he had that knew to blunder so well––

Then she––whom both his faith and fear enchanted

Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman’s finest wit had wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well––

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,“Shall we not be too lateFor tea?” she said. “I’m quite worn out with walking:Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you––open the gate?”

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,

“Shall we not be too late

For tea?” she said. “I’m quite worn out with walking:

Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you––open the gate?”

86CLEMENT.

I.That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, cryingAll the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings,87When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,––Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendorCrimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with foldedHands, that held a few sad asters: “I sigh for this idylLived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,”With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,88“Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happenedSince I came here in June: the walks we have taken togetherThrough these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlitVillage,––so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil tohimfor his kindness,Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin Clement;Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.––No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,––just as you like it;––Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.Then I’ll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young person89Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a geniusUnder the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband.”Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,Dark’ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,––All her mocking face transfigured,––with mournful effusion:“Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,––Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,Fame, and your art,––you have all these things to console you.I––what have I in this world? Since my child is dead––a bereavement.”Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within himBroken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered90(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),“Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!Yes, you might play it, I think,––thatrôleof remorseful young person,That, or the old man’s darling, or anything else you attempted.Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you––Not, indeed, for your word––that is light––but I wish to believe you.Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!I––I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,––Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!”There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,91Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:“You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,––Sensible, almost. So! I’ll try to forget and remember.”Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.II.High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-treeBurned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished.Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together,Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor;Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)92Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners,Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment,In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,––Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols,By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clamberedOver his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.Airily to and fro, and out of one room to anotherPassed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household,Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance,Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,93Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers togetherOver his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, “Who is it?”Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,Calling his sister’s children around her, and stilling their clamor,Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visageWith the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotionOf the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone together94Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricketCarked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the penduleSighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,––It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.“Read it to-night,” she said, “that I may not seem to be going.”Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him.From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,––All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing,Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,––Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love’s sake.Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence,95Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another,Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passionWith their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict,Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving.So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,––Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder.Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silenceShrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistleOut of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her:“Perish the thorns and splendor,––the bloom and the sweetness are perished.Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one’s Duty,––96These and the world, for dead Love!––The end of these modern romances!Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement.”

That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, cryingAll the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings,87When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,––Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendorCrimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with foldedHands, that held a few sad asters: “I sigh for this idylLived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,”With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,88“Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happenedSince I came here in June: the walks we have taken togetherThrough these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlitVillage,––so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil tohimfor his kindness,Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin Clement;Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.––No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,––just as you like it;––Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.Then I’ll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young person89Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a geniusUnder the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband.”Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,Dark’ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,––All her mocking face transfigured,––with mournful effusion:“Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,––Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,Fame, and your art,––you have all these things to console you.I––what have I in this world? Since my child is dead––a bereavement.”Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within himBroken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered90(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),“Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!Yes, you might play it, I think,––thatrôleof remorseful young person,That, or the old man’s darling, or anything else you attempted.Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you––Not, indeed, for your word––that is light––but I wish to believe you.Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!I––I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,––Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!”There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,91Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:“You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,––Sensible, almost. So! I’ll try to forget and remember.”Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.

That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,

Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,

Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying

All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;

Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,

But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,

Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;

And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,

And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;

When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,

Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings,

When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,

And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;

When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,

And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,––

Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!

That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,

Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor

Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,

Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,

Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.

Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded

Hands, that held a few sad asters: “I sigh for this idyl

Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,”

With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,

“Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened

Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together

Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;

All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit

Village,––so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,

Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.

Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil tohimfor his kindness,

Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin Clement;

Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.

––No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:

Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?

Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,––just as you like it;––

Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.

Then I’ll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young person

Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius

Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.

O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?

Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband.”

Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,

Dark’ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,

Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,––

All her mocking face transfigured,––with mournful effusion:

“Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,––

Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,

Fame, and your art,––you have all these things to console you.

I––what have I in this world? Since my child is dead––a bereavement.”

Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him

Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered

(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),

“Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,

With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!

Yes, you might play it, I think,––thatrôleof remorseful young person,

That, or the old man’s darling, or anything else you attempted.

Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,

Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you––

Not, indeed, for your word––that is light––but I wish to believe you.

Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!

I––I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.

Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,––

Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!”

There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,

Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,

Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:

“You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,––

Sensible, almost. So! I’ll try to forget and remember.”

Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,

Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.

II.

High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-treeBurned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished.Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together,Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor;Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)92Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners,Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment,In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,––Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols,By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clamberedOver his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.Airily to and fro, and out of one room to anotherPassed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household,Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance,Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,93Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers togetherOver his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, “Who is it?”Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,Calling his sister’s children around her, and stilling their clamor,Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visageWith the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotionOf the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone together94Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricketCarked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the penduleSighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,––It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.“Read it to-night,” she said, “that I may not seem to be going.”Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him.From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,––All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing,Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,––Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love’s sake.Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence,95Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another,Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passionWith their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict,Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving.So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,––Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder.Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silenceShrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistleOut of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her:“Perish the thorns and splendor,––the bloom and the sweetness are perished.Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one’s Duty,––96These and the world, for dead Love!––The end of these modern romances!Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement.”

High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;

Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-tree

Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished.

Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together,

Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor;

Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,

Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.

(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)

Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners,

Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment,

In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,––

Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.

Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,

Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols,

By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clambered

Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,

Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.

Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another

Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household,

Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance,

Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;

Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,

Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together

Over his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, “Who is it?”

Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,

Calling his sister’s children around her, and stilling their clamor,

Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,

Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visage

With the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion

Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,

Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.

Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;

Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,

Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,

Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.

But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone together

Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket

Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the pendule

Sighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,––

It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.

“Read it to-night,” she said, “that I may not seem to be going.”

Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him.

From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,––

All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing,

Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,––

Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,

Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,

But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,

Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love’s sake.

Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence,

Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another,

Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,

Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion

With their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict,

Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,

Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving.

So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,

Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,––

Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder.

Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silence

Shrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistle

Out of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her:

“Perish the thorns and splendor,––the bloom and the sweetness are perished.

Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one’s Duty,––

These and the world, for dead Love!––The end of these modern romances!

Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement.”

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