One summer morning, when the sun was hot,Weary with labor in his garden-plot,On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves,Ser Federigo sat among the leavesOf a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread,Hung its delicious clusters overhead.Below him, through the lovely valley, flowedThe river Arno, like a winding road,And from its banks were lifted high in airThe spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair:To him a marble tomb, that rose aboveHis wasted fortunes and his buried love.For there, in banquet and in tournament,His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent,To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped,Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed,Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme,The ideal woman of a young man's dream.Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain,To this small farm, the last of his domain,His only comfort and his only careTo prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear;His only forester and only guestHis falcon, faithful to him, when the rest,Whose willing hands had found so light of yoreThe brazen knocker of his palace door.Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch,That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch.Companion of his solitary ways,Purveyor of his feasts on holidays,On him this melancholy man bestowedThe love with which his nature overflowed.And so the empty-handed years went round,Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound,And so, that summer morn, he sat and musedWith folded, patient hands, as he was used,And dreamily before his half-closed sightFloated the vision of his lost delight.Beside him, motionless, the drowsy birdDreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heardThe sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dareThe headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air,Then, starting broad awake upon his perch,Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church,And, looking at his master, seemed to say,"Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?"Ser Federigo thought not of the chase;The tender vision of her lovely face,I will not say he seems to see, he seesIn the leaf-shadows of the trellises,Herself, yet not herself; a lovely childWith flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild,Coming undaunted up the garden walk,And looking not at him, but at the hawk."Beautiful falcon!" said he, "would that IMight hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!"The voice was hers, and made strange echoes startThrough all the haunted chambers of his heart,As an æolian harp through gusty doorsOf some old ruin its wild music pours."Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said,His hand laid softly on that shining head."Monna Giovanna.—Will you let me stayA little while, and with your falcon play?We live there, just beyond your garden wall,In the great house behind the poplars tall."So he spake on; and Federigo heardAs from afar each softly uttered word,And drifted onward through the golden gleamsAnd shadows of the misty sea of dreams,As mariners becalmed through vapors drift,And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift,And hear far off the mournful breakers roar,And voices calling faintly from the shore!Then, waking from his pleasant reveries,He took the little boy upon his knees,And told him stories of his gallant bird,Till in their friendship he became a third.Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime,Had come with friends to pass the summer timeIn her grand villa, half-way up the hill,O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still;With iron gates, that opened through long linesOf sacred ilex and centennial pines,And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown,And fountains palpitating in the heat,And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet.Here in seclusion, as a widow may,The lovely lady whiled the hours away,Pacing in sable robes the statued hall,Herself the stateliest statue among all,And seeing more and more, with secret joy,Her husband risen and living in her boy,Till the lost sense of life returned again,Not as delight, but as relief from pain.Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength,Stormed down the terraces from length to length;The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,And climbed the garden trellises for fruit.But his chief pastime was to watch the flightOf a gerfalcon, soaring into sight,Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,Then downward stooping at some distant call;And as he gazed full often wondered heWho might the master of the falcon be,Until that happy morning, when he foundMaster and falcon in the cottage ground.And now a shadow and a terror fellOn the great house, as if a passing-bellTolled from the tower, and filled each spacious roomWith secret awe, and preternatural gloom;The petted boy grew ill, and day by dayPined with mysterious malady away.The mother's heart would not be comforted;Her darling seemed to her already dead,And often, sitting by the sufferer's side,"What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried.At first the silent lips made no reply,But, moved at length by her importunate cry,"Give me," he answered, with imploring tone,"Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!"No answer could the astonished mother make;How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake,Such favor at a luckless lover's hand,Well knowing that to ask was to command?Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,In all the land that falcon was the best,The master's pride and passion and delight,And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.But yet, for her child's sake, she could no lessThan give assent, to soothe his restlessness,So promised, and then promising to keepHer promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.The morrow was a bright September morn;The earth was beautiful as if new-born;There was that nameless splendor everywhere,That wild exhilaration in the air,Which makes the passers in the city streetCongratulate each other as they meet.Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood,Passed through the garden gate into the wood,Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheenOf dewy sunshine showering down between.The one, close-hooded, had the attractive graceWhich sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face;Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that rollFrom the gulf-stream of passion in the soul;The other with her hood thrown back, her hairMaking a golden glory in the air,Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,Each by the other's presence lovelier made,Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend,Intent upon their errand and its end.They found Ser Federigo at his toil,Like banished Adam, delving in the soil;And when he looked and these fair women spied,The garden suddenly was glorified;His long-lost Eden was restored again,And the strange river winding through the plainNo longer was the Arno to his eyes,But the Euphrates watering Paradise!Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,And with fair words of salutation said:"Ser Federigo, we come here as friends,Hoping in this to make some poor amendsFor past unkindness. I who ne'er beforeWould even cross the threshold of your door,I who in happier days such pride maintained,Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,This morning come, a self-invited guest,To put your generous nature to the test,And breakfast with you under your own vine."To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine,Not your unkindness call it, for if aughtIs good in me of feeling or of thought,From you it comes, and this last grace outweighsAll sorrows, all regrets of other days."And after further compliment and talk,Among the dahlias in the garden walkHe left his guests; and to his cottage turned,And as he entered for a moment yearnedFor the lost splendors of the days of old,The ruby glass, the silver and the gold,And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,By want embittered and intensified.He looked about him for some means or wayTo keep this unexpected holiday;Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain;"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said,"There's nothing in the house but wine and bread."Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shookHis little bells, with that sagacious look,Which said, as plain as language to the ear,"If anything is wanting, I am here!"Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird!The master seized thee without further word,Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me!The pomp and flutter of brave falconry,The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood,The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood,All these forevermore are ended now;No longer victor, but the victim thou!Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread,Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread,Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot;Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.Ser Federigo, would not these sufficeWithout thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?When all was ready, and the courtly dameWith her companion to the cottage came,Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fellThe wild enchantment of a magic spell;The room they entered, mean and low and small,Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall,With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown;The rustic chair she sat on was a throne;He ate celestial food, and a divineFlavor was given to his country wine,And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,A peacock was, or bird of paradise!When the repast was ended, they aroseAnd passed again into the garden-close.Then said the lady, "Far too well I know,Remembering still the days of long ago,Though you betray it not, with what surpriseYou see me here in this familiar wise.You have no children, and you cannot guessWhat anguish, what unspeakable distressA mother feels, whose child is lying ill,Nor how her heart anticipates his will.And yet for this, you see me lay asideAll womanly reserve and check of pride,And ask the thing most precious in your sight,Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,Which if you find it in your heart to give,My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live."Ser Federigo listens, and replies,With tears of love and pity in his eyes:"Alas, dear lady! there can be no taskSo sweet to me, as giving when you ask.One little hour ago, if I had knownThis wish of yours, it would have been my own.But thinking in what manner I could bestDo honor to the presence of my guest,I deemed that nothing worthier could beThan what most dear and precious was to me,And so my gallant falcon breathed his lastTo furnish forth this morning our repast."In mute contrition, mingled with dismay,The gentle lady turned her eyes away,Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,And kill his falcon for a woman's sake,Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride,That nothing she could ask for was denied;Then took her leave, and passed out at the gateWith footstep slow and soul disconsolate.Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bellTolled from the little chapel in the dell;Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said,Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!"Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chimeRang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;The cottage was deserted, and no moreSer Federigo sat beside its door,But now, with servitors to do his will,In the grand villa, half-way up the hill,Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his sideMonna Giovanna, his beloved bride,Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair,Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,High-perched upon the back of which there stoodThe image of a falcon carved in wood,And underneath the inscription, with a date,"All things come round to him who will but wait."
One summer morning, when the sun was hot,Weary with labor in his garden-plot,On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves,Ser Federigo sat among the leavesOf a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread,Hung its delicious clusters overhead.Below him, through the lovely valley, flowedThe river Arno, like a winding road,And from its banks were lifted high in airThe spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair:To him a marble tomb, that rose aboveHis wasted fortunes and his buried love.For there, in banquet and in tournament,His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent,To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped,Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed,Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme,The ideal woman of a young man's dream.
Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain,To this small farm, the last of his domain,His only comfort and his only careTo prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear;His only forester and only guestHis falcon, faithful to him, when the rest,Whose willing hands had found so light of yoreThe brazen knocker of his palace door.Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch,That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch.Companion of his solitary ways,Purveyor of his feasts on holidays,On him this melancholy man bestowedThe love with which his nature overflowed.And so the empty-handed years went round,Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound,And so, that summer morn, he sat and musedWith folded, patient hands, as he was used,And dreamily before his half-closed sightFloated the vision of his lost delight.Beside him, motionless, the drowsy birdDreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heardThe sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dareThe headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air,Then, starting broad awake upon his perch,Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church,And, looking at his master, seemed to say,"Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?"
Ser Federigo thought not of the chase;The tender vision of her lovely face,I will not say he seems to see, he seesIn the leaf-shadows of the trellises,Herself, yet not herself; a lovely childWith flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild,Coming undaunted up the garden walk,And looking not at him, but at the hawk."Beautiful falcon!" said he, "would that IMight hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!"The voice was hers, and made strange echoes startThrough all the haunted chambers of his heart,As an æolian harp through gusty doorsOf some old ruin its wild music pours.
"Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said,His hand laid softly on that shining head."Monna Giovanna.—Will you let me stayA little while, and with your falcon play?We live there, just beyond your garden wall,In the great house behind the poplars tall."
So he spake on; and Federigo heardAs from afar each softly uttered word,And drifted onward through the golden gleamsAnd shadows of the misty sea of dreams,As mariners becalmed through vapors drift,And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift,And hear far off the mournful breakers roar,And voices calling faintly from the shore!Then, waking from his pleasant reveries,He took the little boy upon his knees,And told him stories of his gallant bird,Till in their friendship he became a third.
Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime,Had come with friends to pass the summer timeIn her grand villa, half-way up the hill,O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still;With iron gates, that opened through long linesOf sacred ilex and centennial pines,And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown,And fountains palpitating in the heat,And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet.Here in seclusion, as a widow may,The lovely lady whiled the hours away,Pacing in sable robes the statued hall,Herself the stateliest statue among all,And seeing more and more, with secret joy,Her husband risen and living in her boy,Till the lost sense of life returned again,Not as delight, but as relief from pain.Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength,Stormed down the terraces from length to length;The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,And climbed the garden trellises for fruit.But his chief pastime was to watch the flightOf a gerfalcon, soaring into sight,Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,Then downward stooping at some distant call;And as he gazed full often wondered heWho might the master of the falcon be,Until that happy morning, when he foundMaster and falcon in the cottage ground.
And now a shadow and a terror fellOn the great house, as if a passing-bellTolled from the tower, and filled each spacious roomWith secret awe, and preternatural gloom;The petted boy grew ill, and day by dayPined with mysterious malady away.The mother's heart would not be comforted;Her darling seemed to her already dead,And often, sitting by the sufferer's side,"What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried.At first the silent lips made no reply,But, moved at length by her importunate cry,"Give me," he answered, with imploring tone,"Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!"
No answer could the astonished mother make;How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake,Such favor at a luckless lover's hand,Well knowing that to ask was to command?Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,In all the land that falcon was the best,The master's pride and passion and delight,And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.But yet, for her child's sake, she could no lessThan give assent, to soothe his restlessness,So promised, and then promising to keepHer promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.
The morrow was a bright September morn;The earth was beautiful as if new-born;There was that nameless splendor everywhere,That wild exhilaration in the air,Which makes the passers in the city streetCongratulate each other as they meet.Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood,Passed through the garden gate into the wood,Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheenOf dewy sunshine showering down between.
The one, close-hooded, had the attractive graceWhich sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face;Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that rollFrom the gulf-stream of passion in the soul;The other with her hood thrown back, her hairMaking a golden glory in the air,Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,Each by the other's presence lovelier made,Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend,Intent upon their errand and its end.
They found Ser Federigo at his toil,Like banished Adam, delving in the soil;And when he looked and these fair women spied,The garden suddenly was glorified;His long-lost Eden was restored again,And the strange river winding through the plainNo longer was the Arno to his eyes,But the Euphrates watering Paradise!
Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,And with fair words of salutation said:"Ser Federigo, we come here as friends,Hoping in this to make some poor amendsFor past unkindness. I who ne'er beforeWould even cross the threshold of your door,I who in happier days such pride maintained,Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,This morning come, a self-invited guest,To put your generous nature to the test,And breakfast with you under your own vine."To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine,Not your unkindness call it, for if aughtIs good in me of feeling or of thought,From you it comes, and this last grace outweighsAll sorrows, all regrets of other days."
And after further compliment and talk,Among the dahlias in the garden walkHe left his guests; and to his cottage turned,And as he entered for a moment yearnedFor the lost splendors of the days of old,The ruby glass, the silver and the gold,And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,By want embittered and intensified.He looked about him for some means or wayTo keep this unexpected holiday;Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain;"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said,"There's nothing in the house but wine and bread."
Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shookHis little bells, with that sagacious look,Which said, as plain as language to the ear,"If anything is wanting, I am here!"Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird!The master seized thee without further word,Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me!The pomp and flutter of brave falconry,The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood,The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood,All these forevermore are ended now;No longer victor, but the victim thou!
Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread,Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread,Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot;Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.Ser Federigo, would not these sufficeWithout thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?
When all was ready, and the courtly dameWith her companion to the cottage came,Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fellThe wild enchantment of a magic spell;The room they entered, mean and low and small,Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall,With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown;The rustic chair she sat on was a throne;He ate celestial food, and a divineFlavor was given to his country wine,And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,A peacock was, or bird of paradise!
When the repast was ended, they aroseAnd passed again into the garden-close.Then said the lady, "Far too well I know,Remembering still the days of long ago,Though you betray it not, with what surpriseYou see me here in this familiar wise.You have no children, and you cannot guessWhat anguish, what unspeakable distressA mother feels, whose child is lying ill,Nor how her heart anticipates his will.And yet for this, you see me lay asideAll womanly reserve and check of pride,And ask the thing most precious in your sight,Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,Which if you find it in your heart to give,My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live."
Ser Federigo listens, and replies,With tears of love and pity in his eyes:"Alas, dear lady! there can be no taskSo sweet to me, as giving when you ask.One little hour ago, if I had knownThis wish of yours, it would have been my own.But thinking in what manner I could bestDo honor to the presence of my guest,I deemed that nothing worthier could beThan what most dear and precious was to me,And so my gallant falcon breathed his lastTo furnish forth this morning our repast."
In mute contrition, mingled with dismay,The gentle lady turned her eyes away,Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,And kill his falcon for a woman's sake,Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride,That nothing she could ask for was denied;Then took her leave, and passed out at the gateWith footstep slow and soul disconsolate.
Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bellTolled from the little chapel in the dell;Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said,Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!"Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chimeRang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;The cottage was deserted, and no moreSer Federigo sat beside its door,But now, with servitors to do his will,In the grand villa, half-way up the hill,Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his sideMonna Giovanna, his beloved bride,Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair,Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,High-perched upon the back of which there stoodThe image of a falcon carved in wood,And underneath the inscription, with a date,"All things come round to him who will but wait."
Soon as the story reached its end,One, over eager to commend,Crowned it with injudicious praise;And then the voice of blame found vent,And fanned the embers of dissentInto a somewhat lively blaze.The Theologian shook his head;"These old Italian tales," he said,"From the much-praised Decameron downThrough all the rabble of the rest,Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;The gossip of a neighborhoodIn some remote provincial town,A scandalous chronicle at best!They seem to me a stagnant fen,Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,Where a white lily, now and then,Blooms in the midst of noxious weedsAnd deadly nightshade on its banks."To this the Student straight replied,"For the white lily, many thanks!One should not say, with too much pride,Fountain, I will not drink of thee!Nor were it grateful to forget,That from these reservoirs and tanksEven imperial Shakspeare drewHis Moor of Venice and the Jew,And Romeo and Juliet,And many a famous comedy."Then a long pause; till some one said,"An Angel is flying overhead!"At these words spake the Spanish Jew,And murmured with an inward breath:"God grant, if what you say is trueIt may not be the Angel of Death!"And then another pause; and then,Stroking his beard, he said again:"This brings back to my memoryA story in the Talmud told,That book of gems, that book of gold,Of wonders many and manifold,A tale that often comes to me,And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,And never wearies nor grows old."
Soon as the story reached its end,One, over eager to commend,Crowned it with injudicious praise;And then the voice of blame found vent,And fanned the embers of dissentInto a somewhat lively blaze.
The Theologian shook his head;"These old Italian tales," he said,"From the much-praised Decameron downThrough all the rabble of the rest,Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;The gossip of a neighborhoodIn some remote provincial town,A scandalous chronicle at best!They seem to me a stagnant fen,Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,Where a white lily, now and then,Blooms in the midst of noxious weedsAnd deadly nightshade on its banks."
To this the Student straight replied,"For the white lily, many thanks!One should not say, with too much pride,Fountain, I will not drink of thee!Nor were it grateful to forget,That from these reservoirs and tanksEven imperial Shakspeare drewHis Moor of Venice and the Jew,And Romeo and Juliet,And many a famous comedy."
Then a long pause; till some one said,"An Angel is flying overhead!"At these words spake the Spanish Jew,And murmured with an inward breath:"God grant, if what you say is trueIt may not be the Angel of Death!"
And then another pause; and then,Stroking his beard, he said again:"This brings back to my memoryA story in the Talmud told,That book of gems, that book of gold,Of wonders many and manifold,A tale that often comes to me,And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,And never wearies nor grows old."
Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, readA volume of the Law, in which it said,"No man shall look upon my face and live."And as he read, he prayed that God would giveHis faithful servant grace with mortal eyeTo look upon His face and yet not die.Then fell a sudden shadow on the pageAnd, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age,He saw the Angel of Death before him stand,Holding a naked sword in his right hand.Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man,Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran.With trembling voice he said, "What wilt thou here?"The angel answered, "Lo! the time draws nearWhen thou must die; yet first, by God's decree,Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee."Replied the Rabbi, "Let these living eyesFirst look upon my place in Paradise."Then said the Angel, "Come with me and look."Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book,And rising, and uplifting his gray head,"Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said,"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way."The Angel smiled and hastened to obey,Then led him forth to the Celestial Town,And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes,Might look upon his place in Paradise.Then straight into the city of the LordThe Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword,And through the streets there swept a sudden breathOf something there unknown, which men call death.Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried,"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied,"No! in the name of God, whom I adore,I swear that hence I will depart no more!"Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One,See what the son of Levi here has done!The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,And in Thy name refuses to go hence!"The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth;Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath?Let him remain; for he with mortal eyeShall look upon my face and yet not die."Beyond the outer wall the Angel of DeathHeard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,"Give back the sword, and let me go my way."Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay!Anguish enough already has it causedAmong the sons of men." And while he pausedHe heard the awful mandate of the LordResounding through the air, "Give back the sword!"The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer;Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear,No human eye shall look on it again;But when thou takest away the souls of men,Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword,Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord."The Angel took the sword again, and swore,And walks on earth unseen forevermore.
Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, readA volume of the Law, in which it said,"No man shall look upon my face and live."And as he read, he prayed that God would giveHis faithful servant grace with mortal eyeTo look upon His face and yet not die.
Then fell a sudden shadow on the pageAnd, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age,He saw the Angel of Death before him stand,Holding a naked sword in his right hand.Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man,Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran.
With trembling voice he said, "What wilt thou here?"The angel answered, "Lo! the time draws nearWhen thou must die; yet first, by God's decree,Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee."Replied the Rabbi, "Let these living eyesFirst look upon my place in Paradise."
Then said the Angel, "Come with me and look."Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book,And rising, and uplifting his gray head,"Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said,"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way."The Angel smiled and hastened to obey,Then led him forth to the Celestial Town,And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes,Might look upon his place in Paradise.
Then straight into the city of the LordThe Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword,And through the streets there swept a sudden breathOf something there unknown, which men call death.Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried,"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied,"No! in the name of God, whom I adore,I swear that hence I will depart no more!"
Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One,See what the son of Levi here has done!The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,And in Thy name refuses to go hence!"The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth;Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath?Let him remain; for he with mortal eyeShall look upon my face and yet not die."
Beyond the outer wall the Angel of DeathHeard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,"Give back the sword, and let me go my way."Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay!Anguish enough already has it causedAmong the sons of men." And while he pausedHe heard the awful mandate of the LordResounding through the air, "Give back the sword!"
The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer;Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear,No human eye shall look on it again;But when thou takest away the souls of men,Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword,Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord."
The Angel took the sword again, and swore,And walks on earth unseen forevermore.
He ended: and a kind of spellUpon the silent listeners fell.His solemn manner and his wordsHad touched the deep, mysterious chords,That vibrate in each human breastAlike, but not alike confessed.The spiritual world seemed near;And close above them, full of fear,Its awful adumbration passed,A luminous shadow, vague and vast.They almost feared to look, lest there,Embodied from the impalpable air,They might behold the Angel stand,Holding the sword in his right hand.At last, but in a voice subdued,Not to disturb their dreamy mood,Said the Sicilian: "While you spoke,Telling your legend marvellous,Suddenly in my memory wokeThe thought of one, now gone from us,—An old Abate, meek and mild,My friend and teacher, when a child,Who sometimes in those days of oldThe legend of an Angel told,Which ran, if I remember, thus."
He ended: and a kind of spellUpon the silent listeners fell.His solemn manner and his wordsHad touched the deep, mysterious chords,That vibrate in each human breastAlike, but not alike confessed.The spiritual world seemed near;And close above them, full of fear,Its awful adumbration passed,A luminous shadow, vague and vast.They almost feared to look, lest there,Embodied from the impalpable air,They might behold the Angel stand,Holding the sword in his right hand.
At last, but in a voice subdued,Not to disturb their dreamy mood,Said the Sicilian: "While you spoke,Telling your legend marvellous,Suddenly in my memory wokeThe thought of one, now gone from us,—An old Abate, meek and mild,My friend and teacher, when a child,Who sometimes in those days of oldThe legend of an Angel told,Which ran, if I remember, thus."
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Apparelled in magnificent attire,With retinue of many a knight and squire,On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly satAnd heard the priests chant the Magnificat.And as he listened, o'er and o'er againRepeated, like a burden or refrain,He caught the words, "Deposuit potentesDe sede, et exaltavit humiles";And slowly lifting up his kingly headHe to a learned clerk beside him said,"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree."Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,"'Tis well that such seditious words are sungOnly by priests and in the Latin tongue;For unto priests and people be it known,There is no power can push me from my throne!"And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.When he awoke, it was already night;The church was empty, and there was no light,Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,Lighted a little space before some saint.He started from his seat and gazed around,But saw no living thing and heard no sound.He groped towards the door, but it was locked;He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,And imprecations upon men and saints.The sounds re-echoed from the roof and wallsAs if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!At length the sexton, hearing from withoutThe tumult of the knocking and the shout,And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;A man rushed by him at a single stride,Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,But leaped into the blackness of the night,And vanished like a spectre from his sight.Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Despoiled of his magnificent attire,Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rageTo right and left each seneschal and page,And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,Until at last he reached the banquet-room,Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.There on the dais sat another king,Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,King Robert's self in features, form, and height,But all transfigured with angelic light!It was an Angel; and his presence thereWith a divine effulgence filled the air,An exaltation, piercing the disguise,Though none the hidden Angel recognize.A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,Who met his looks of anger and surpriseWith the divine compassion of his eyes;Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,"I am the King, and come to claim my ownFrom an impostor, who usurps my throne!"And suddenly, at these audacious words,Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thouHenceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape;Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;A group of tittering pages ran before,And as they opened wide the folding-door,His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,And all the vaulted chamber roar and ringWith the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,He said within himself, "It was a dream!"But the straw rustled as he turned his head,There were the cap and bells beside his bed,Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,And in the corner, a revolting shape,Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.It was no dream; the world he loved so muchHad turned to dust and ashes at his touch!Days came and went; and now returned againTo Sicily the old Saturnian reign;Under the Angel's governance benignThe happy island danced with corn and wine,And deep within the mountain's burning breastEnceladus, the giant, was at rest.Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,Sullen and silent and disconsolate.Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,His only friend the ape, his only foodWhat others left,—he still was unsubdued.And when the Angel met him on his way,And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feelThe velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woeBurst from him in resistless overflow,And, lifting high his forehead, he would flingThe haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!"Almost three years were ended; when there cameAmbassadors of great repute and nameFrom Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Unto King Robert, saying that Pope UrbaneBy letter summoned them forthwith to comeOn Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.The Angel with great joy received his guests,And gave them presents of embroidered vests,And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.Then he departed with them o'er the seaInto the lovely land of Italy,Whose loveliness was more resplendent madeBy the mere passing of that cavalcade,With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stirOf jewelled bridle and of golden spur.And lo! among the menials, in mock state,Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,The solemn ape demurely perched behind,King Robert rode, making huge merrimentIn all the country towns through which they went.The Pope received them with great pomp, and blareOf bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,Giving his benediction and embrace,Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.While with congratulations and with prayersHe entertained the Angel unawares,Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,"I am the King! Look, and behold in meRobert, your brother, King of Sicily!This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,Is an impostor in a king's disguise.Do you not know me? does no voice withinAnswer my cry, and say we are akin?"The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sportTo keep a madman for thy Fool at court!"And the poor, baffled Jester in disgraceWas hustled back among the populace.In solemn state the Holy Week went by,And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;The presence of the Angel, with its light,Before the sun rose, made the city bright,And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,He felt within a power unfelt before,And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,He heard the rushing garments of the LordSweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.And now the visit ending, and once moreValmond returning to the Danube's shore,Homeward the Angel journeyed, and againThe land was made resplendent with his train,Flashing along the towns of ItalyUnto Salerno, and from there by sea.And when once more within Palermo's wall,And, seated on the throne in his great hall,He heard the Angelus from convent towers,As if the better world conversed with ours,He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,And with a gesture bade the rest retire;And when they were alone, the Angel said,"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head,King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,And in some cloister's school of penitence,Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!"The Angel smiled, and from his radiant faceA holy light illumined all the place,And through the open window, loud and clear,They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,Above the stir and tumult of the street:"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree!"And through the chant a second melodyRose like the throbbing of a single string:"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"King Robert, who was standing near the throne,Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!But all apparelled as in days of old,With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;And when his courtiers came, they found him thereKneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Apparelled in magnificent attire,With retinue of many a knight and squire,On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly satAnd heard the priests chant the Magnificat.And as he listened, o'er and o'er againRepeated, like a burden or refrain,He caught the words, "Deposuit potentesDe sede, et exaltavit humiles";And slowly lifting up his kingly headHe to a learned clerk beside him said,"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree."Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,"'Tis well that such seditious words are sungOnly by priests and in the Latin tongue;For unto priests and people be it known,There is no power can push me from my throne!"And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke, it was already night;The church was empty, and there was no light,Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,Lighted a little space before some saint.He started from his seat and gazed around,But saw no living thing and heard no sound.He groped towards the door, but it was locked;He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,And imprecations upon men and saints.The sounds re-echoed from the roof and wallsAs if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!
At length the sexton, hearing from withoutThe tumult of the knocking and the shout,And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;A man rushed by him at a single stride,Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,But leaped into the blackness of the night,And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Despoiled of his magnificent attire,Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rageTo right and left each seneschal and page,And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,Until at last he reached the banquet-room,Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,King Robert's self in features, form, and height,But all transfigured with angelic light!It was an Angel; and his presence thereWith a divine effulgence filled the air,An exaltation, piercing the disguise,Though none the hidden Angel recognize.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,Who met his looks of anger and surpriseWith the divine compassion of his eyes;Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,"I am the King, and come to claim my ownFrom an impostor, who usurps my throne!"And suddenly, at these audacious words,Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thouHenceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape;Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"
Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;A group of tittering pages ran before,And as they opened wide the folding-door,His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,And all the vaulted chamber roar and ringWith the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,He said within himself, "It was a dream!"But the straw rustled as he turned his head,There were the cap and bells beside his bed,Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,And in the corner, a revolting shape,Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.It was no dream; the world he loved so muchHad turned to dust and ashes at his touch!
Days came and went; and now returned againTo Sicily the old Saturnian reign;Under the Angel's governance benignThe happy island danced with corn and wine,And deep within the mountain's burning breastEnceladus, the giant, was at rest.
Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,Sullen and silent and disconsolate.Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,His only friend the ape, his only foodWhat others left,—he still was unsubdued.And when the Angel met him on his way,And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feelThe velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woeBurst from him in resistless overflow,And, lifting high his forehead, he would flingThe haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!"
Almost three years were ended; when there cameAmbassadors of great repute and nameFrom Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Unto King Robert, saying that Pope UrbaneBy letter summoned them forthwith to comeOn Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.The Angel with great joy received his guests,And gave them presents of embroidered vests,And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.Then he departed with them o'er the seaInto the lovely land of Italy,Whose loveliness was more resplendent madeBy the mere passing of that cavalcade,With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stirOf jewelled bridle and of golden spur.
And lo! among the menials, in mock state,Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,The solemn ape demurely perched behind,King Robert rode, making huge merrimentIn all the country towns through which they went.
The Pope received them with great pomp, and blareOf bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,Giving his benediction and embrace,Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.While with congratulations and with prayersHe entertained the Angel unawares,Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,"I am the King! Look, and behold in meRobert, your brother, King of Sicily!This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,Is an impostor in a king's disguise.Do you not know me? does no voice withinAnswer my cry, and say we are akin?"The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sportTo keep a madman for thy Fool at court!"And the poor, baffled Jester in disgraceWas hustled back among the populace.
In solemn state the Holy Week went by,And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;The presence of the Angel, with its light,Before the sun rose, made the city bright,And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,He felt within a power unfelt before,And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,He heard the rushing garments of the LordSweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.
And now the visit ending, and once moreValmond returning to the Danube's shore,Homeward the Angel journeyed, and againThe land was made resplendent with his train,Flashing along the towns of ItalyUnto Salerno, and from there by sea.And when once more within Palermo's wall,And, seated on the throne in his great hall,He heard the Angelus from convent towers,As if the better world conversed with ours,He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,And with a gesture bade the rest retire;And when they were alone, the Angel said,"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head,King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,And in some cloister's school of penitence,Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!"The Angel smiled, and from his radiant faceA holy light illumined all the place,And through the open window, loud and clear,They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,Above the stir and tumult of the street:"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree!"And through the chant a second melodyRose like the throbbing of a single string:"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!But all apparelled as in days of old,With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;And when his courtiers came, they found him thereKneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.