Chapter 150

I"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First,Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without.Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursedInside yon hollow, crusted roundaboutWith copper where the clamp was,—how the burstVindicates flame the stealthy feeder! SpoutThy splendidest—a minute and no more?So soon again all sobered as before?IINay, for I need to see your face! One strokeAdroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed!Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oakPalatial, where he wrought the works concealedBeneath the solid-seeming roof I broke,As redly up and out and off they reeledLike disconcerted imps, those thousand sparksFrom fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!IIIUp, out, and off, see! Were you never used,—You now, in childish days or rather nights,—As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amusedBy that old nurse-taught game which gave the spritesEach one his title and career,—confusedBelief 't was all long over with the flightsFrom earth to heaven of hero, sage, and bard,And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?IVNew long bright life! and happy chance befell—That I know—when some prematurely lostChild of disaster bore away the bellFrom some too-pampered son of fortune, crossedNever before my chimney broke the spell!Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost,While—never mind Who was it cumbered earth—Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.VWell, try a variation of the game!Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk.There 's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame,That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulkWas saturate with—ask the chloride's nameFrom somebody who knows! I shall not sulkIf yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brassIts life, I thought was fed on copperas.VIAnyhow, there they flutter! What may beThe style and prowess of that purple one?Who is the hero other eyes shall seeThan yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun—Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not weBut those unborn are to get warmth by! SonO' the coal,—as Job and Hebrew name a spark,—What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?VIIOh and the lesser lights, the dearer stillThat they elude a vulgar eye, give oursThe glimpse repaying astronomic skillWhich searched sky deeper, passed those patent powersConstellate proudly,—swords, scrolls, harps, that fillThe vulgar eye to surfeit,—found best flowersHid deepest in the dark,—named unplucked graceOf soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!VIIIUp with thee, mouldering ash men never knew,But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold,Calm and columnar as yon flame I view!Oh and I bid thee,—to whom fortune doledScantly all other gifts out—bicker blue,Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolledFlake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown,Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.IXNo! as the first was boy's play, this proves mereStripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave!Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career,Their boldness and their brightness could not save(In some old night of time on some lone drearSea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave)—Save from ignoble exit into smoke,Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!XLaunched by our ship-wood, float we, once adriftIn fancy to that land-strip waters wash,We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shiftLong since to just keep life in, billows dashNigh over folk who shudder at each liftOf the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lashThough they have built the serviceable townTempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.XICroisic, the spit of sandy rock which jutsSpitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrubTo tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shutsBehind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grubThe ground for crystals grown where ocean glutsTheir promontory's breadth with salt: all stubOf rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strifeTo rescue a poor remnant for dear life.XIIAnd what life! Here was, from the world to choose,The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared—Only their women,—'mid the slush and oozeOf yon low islet,—to their sun, reveredIn strange stone guise,—a temple. May-dawn dewsSaw the old structure levelled; when there peeredMay's earliest eve-star, high and wide once moreUp towered the new pile perfect as before:XIIISeeing that priestesses—and all were such—Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May,Each alike helping—well, if not too much!For, 'mid their eagerness to outstrip dayAnd get work done, if any loosed her clutchAnd let a single stone drop, straight a preyHerself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb,By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.XIVAnd still so much remains of that gray cult,That even now, of nights, do women stealTo the sole Menhir standing, and insultThe antagonistic church-spire by appealTo power discrowned in vain, since each adultBelieves the gruesome thing she clasps may healWhatever plague no priestly help can cure:Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!XVNay more: on May-morns, that primeval riteOf temple-building, with its punishmentFor rash precipitation, lingers, spiteOf all remonstrance; vainly are they shent,Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white,Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent:Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughsFrom gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.XVIOh and, for their part, boys from door to doorSing unintelligible words to tunesAs obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore,"Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunesVainly the mumbling to speak plain once more.Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes!They serve my purpose, which is but to showCroisic to-day and Croisic long ago.XVIIWhat have we sailed to see, then, wafted thereBy fancy from the log that ends its daysOf much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair,On waters rough or smooth, in this good blazeWe two crouch round so closely, bidding careKeep outside with the snow-storm? Something says"Fit time for story-telling!" I begin—Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?XVIIIAnywhere serves: for point me out the placeWherever man has made himself a home,And there I find the story of our raceIn little, just at Croisic as at Rome.What matters the degree? the kind I trace.Druids their temple, Christians have their dome:So with mankind; and Croisic, I 'll engage,With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.XIXNo doubt, men vastly differ: and we needSome strange exceptional benevolenceOf nature's sunshine to develop seedSo well, in the less-favored clime, that thenceWe may discern how shrub means tree indeedThough dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence.Man in the ice-house or the hot-house ranksWith beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!XXWhile, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learnI am thankworthy, who propose to slakeHis thirst for tasting how it feels to turnCedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wakeNo memories of what is harsh and sternIn ancient Croisic-nature, much less rakeThe ashes of her last warmth till out leapsLive Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.XXITake these two, see, each outbreak,—spirt and spirtOf fire from our brave billet's either edgeWhich—call maternal Croisic ocean-girt!These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge.One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival—vert,Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege,They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests,Lawyers, physicians—guess what gods or beasts!XXIINone of them all, but—poets, if you please!"What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme,Did two among the aboriginesOf that rough region pass the ungracious timeSuiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's,The songs forbidden a serener clime?Or had they universal audience—that'sTo say, the folk of Croisic, ay, and Batz?"XXIIIOpen your ears! Each poet in his dayHad such a mighty moment of successAs pinnacled him straight, in full display,For the whole world to worship—nothing less!Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray?And did not Paris, for one moment—yes,Worship these poet-flames, our red and green,One at a time, a century between?XXIVAnd yet you never heard their names! Assist,Clio, Historic Muse, while I recordGreat deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mistAnd bid each sun emerge, in turn play lordOf day, one moment! Hear the annalistTell a strange story, true to the least word!At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and tenSince Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.XXVKnow him henceforth as René Gentilhomme—Appropriate appellation! noble birthAnd knightly blazon, the device wherefromWas "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearthWhy prison his career while ChristendomLay open to reward acknowledged worth?He therefore left it at the proper ageAnd got to be the Prince of Condé's page.XXVIWhich Prince of Condé, whom men called "The Duke,"—Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir,(As one might hold hap, would, without rebuke,Since Anne of Austria, all the world was ware,Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could lookFor issue)—failing Louis of so rareA godsend, it was natural the PrinceShould hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.XXVIINow, as this reasonable hope, by growthOf years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almostTo bursting,—would the brothers, childless both,Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost—Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing lothAwaited his appointment to the post,And wiled away the time, as best he might,Till Providence should settle things aright.XXVIIISo, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawnFrom cities where a whisper breeds offence,He sat him down to watch the streak of dawnTestify to first stir of Providence;And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn,There wanted not a poet to dispenseSong's remedy for spleen-fits all and some,Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.XXIXA poet born and bred, his very sireA poet also, author of a piecePrinted and published, "Ladies—their attire:"Therefore the son, just born at his decease,Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire,And kept it, yielding moderate increaseOf songs and sonnets, madrigals, and muchRhyming thought poetry and praised as such.XXXRubbish unutterable (bear in mind!)Rubbish not wholly without value, though,Being to compliment the Duke designedAnd bring the complimenter credit so,—Pleasure with profit happily combined.Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till—lo,This happened, as he sat in an alcoveElaborating rhyme for "love"—not"dove."XXXIHe was alone: silence and solitudeBefit the votary of the Muse. Around,Nature—not our new picturesque and rude,But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground—Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbuedWith these, he sat absorbed in one profoundExcogitation, "Were it best to hintOr boldly boast 'She loves me—Araminte'?"XXXIIWhen suddenly flashed lightning, searing sightAlmost, so close to eyes; then, quick on flash,Followed the thunder, splitting earth downrightWhere René sat a-rhyming: with huge crashOf marble into atoms infinite—Marble which, stately, dared the world to dashThe stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place:One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.XXXIIISo, when the horrible confusion loosedIts wrappage round his senses, and, with breath,Seeing and hearing by degrees inducedConviction what he felt was life, not death—His fluttered faculties came back to roostOne after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath,About his very feet there, lay in dustEarthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.XXXIVFor, what might be the thunder-smitten thingBut, pillared high and proud, in marble guise,A ducal crown—which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"?Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyesAlone, but all the world's. Pebble from slingProstrates a giant; so can pulverizeMarble pretension—how much more, make moultA peacock-prince his plume—God's thunderbolt!XXXVThat was enough, for René, that first factThus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blueAnd bright the sky above; earth firm, compactBeneath his footing, lay apparent too;Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lackedThere, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strewThe earth,—about his feet lie atoms fineWhere he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!XXXVISo, for the moment, all the universeBeing abolished, all 'twist God and him,—Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse.Of one and the same value,—to the brimFlooded with truth, for better or for worse,—He pounces on the writing-paper, primKeeping its place on table: not a dintNor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."XXXVIIAnd over the neat crowquill calligraphHis pen goes blotting, blurring, as an oxTramples a flower-bed in a garden,—laughYou may!—so does not he, whose quick heart knocksAudibly at his breast: an epitaphOn earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks,He might be penning in a wild dismay,Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.XXXVIIIAnd what is it so terribly he pens,Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile,Hearts, darts," and all his day'sdivinior mensJudged necessary to a perfect style?Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse,Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile:Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince(Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt—the Prince.XXXIX"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more,To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be?Ay, when this bauble, as it decked beforeThy pillar, shall again, for France to see,Take its proud station there! Let France adoreNo longer an illusive mock-sun—thee—But keep her homage for Sol's self, aboutTo rise and put pretenders to the rout!XL"What? France so God-abandoned that her rootRegal, though many a Spring it gave no sign,Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shootGreenly as ever? Nature, though benign,Thwarts ever the ambitious and astute.In store for such is punishment condign:Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled,So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"XLIWhich penned—some forty lines to this effect—Our René folds his paper, marches braveBack to the mansion, luminous, erect,Triumphant, an emancipated slave.There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's-crown wrecked?What may this mean?" The answer René gaveWas—handing him the verses, with the dueIncline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"XLIIThe Prince read, paled, was silent; all around,The courtier-company, to whom he passedThe paper, read, in equal silence bound.René grew also by degrees aghastAt his own fit of courage—palely foundWay of retreat from that pale presence: classedOnce more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son,It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.XLIIIVainly he apprehended evil: since,When, at the year's end, even as foretold,Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the PrinceOf that long-craved mere visionary gold,'T was no fit time for envy to evinceMalice, be sure! The timidest grew bold:Of all that courtier-company not oneBut left the semblance for the actual sun.XLIVAnd all sorts and conditions that stood byAt René's burning moment, bright escapeOf soul, bore witness to the prophecy.Which witness took the customary shapeOf verse; a score of poets in full cryHailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape,Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength,How could it fail to reach the Court at length?XLV"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides,O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced,My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chidesHenceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trouncedFor irreligion: since the fool deridesPlain miracle by which this prophet pouncedExactly on the moment I should liftLike Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'XLVI"So call the boy! and call this bard and seerBy a new title! him I raise to rankOf 'Royal Poet:' poet without peer!Whose fellows only have themselves to thankIf humbly they must follow in the rearMy René. He 's the master: they must clankTheir chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why?They poetize, while he can prophesy!"XLVIISo said, so done; our René rose august,"The Royal Poet;" straightway put in typeHis poem-prophecy, and (fair and justProcedure) added,—now that time was ripeFor proving friends did well his word to trust,—Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe,Which friends broke out with when he dared foretellThe Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.XLVIIIMoreover he got painted by Du Pré,Engraved by Daret also; and prefixedThe portrait to his book: a crown of bayCircled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed;And Latin verses, lovely in their way,Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt:Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump,Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."XLIXWhereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long—The red fire? That 's the reason must excuseMy letting flicker René's prophet-songNo longer; for its pertinacious huesMust fade before its fellow joins the throngOf sparks departed up the chimney, duesTo dark oblivion. At the word, it winks,Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks.LSo does our poet. All this burst of fame,Fury of favor, Royal Poetship,Prophetship, book, verse, picture—thereof came—Nothing! That 's why I would not let outstripRed his green rival flamelet: just the sameEnding in smoke waits both! In vain we ripThe past, no further faintest trace remainsOf René to reward our pious pains.LISomebody saw a portrait framed and glazedAt Croisic. "Who may be this glorifiedMortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazedThat person asked the owner by his side,Who proved as ignorant. The question raisedProvoked inquiry; key by key was triedOn Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flewThe wards at one key's touch, which key was—Who?LIIThe other famous poet! Wait thy turn,Thou green, our red's competitor! EnoughJust now to note 't was he that itched to learn(A hundred years ago) how fate could puffHeaven-high (a hundred years before), then spurnTo suds so big a bubble in some huff:Since green too found red's portrait,—having heardHitherto of red's rare self not one word.LIIIAnd he with zeal addressed him to the taskOf hunting out, by all and any means,—Who might the brilliant bard be, born to baskButterfly-like in shine which kings and queensAnd baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask!Is fame so fickle that what perks and preensThe eyed wing, one imperial minute, dipsNext sudden moment into blind eclipse?LIVAfter a vast expenditure of pains,Our second poet found the prize he sought:Urged in his search by something that restrainsFrom undue triumph famed ones who have fought,Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains:Something that tells such—dear is triumph boughtIf it means only basking in the midstOf fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst.LVFor, what did searching find at last but this?Quoth somebody, "I somehow somewhere seemTo think I heard one old De Chevaye isOr was possessed of René's works!" which gleamOf light from out the dark proved not amissTo track, by correspondence on the theme;And soon the twilight broadened into day,For thus to question answered De Chevaye.LVI"True it is, I did once possess the worksYou want account of—works—to call them so,—Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks(Some fifty leavesin duodecimo)'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irksStill to remember, because long agoThat and my other rare shelf-occupantsPerished by burning of my house at Nantes.LVII"Yet of that book one strange particularStill stays in mind with me"—and thereuponFollowed the story. "Few the poems are;The book was two-thirds filled up with this one,And sundry witnesses from near and farThat here at least was prophesying doneBy prophet, so as to preclude all doubt,Before the thing he prophesied about."LVIIIThat 's all he knew, and all the poet learned,And all that you and I are like to hearOf René; since not only book is burnedBut memory extinguished,—nay, I fear,Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discernedA trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tearNeeds fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune faresWith such a mediocrity, who cares?"LIXWell, I care—intimately care to haveExperience how a human creature feltIn after-life, who bore the burden graveOf certainly believing God had dealtFor once directly with him: did not rave—A maniac, did not find his reason melt—An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife,The world's way, lived an ordinary life.LXHow many problems that one fact would solve!An ordinary soul, no more, no less,About whose life earth's common sights revolve,On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress,This fact—God tasks him, and will not absolveTask's negligent performer! Can you guessHow such a soul—the task performed to point—Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?LXIDoes he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceedDizzily, yet with course straightforward still,Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?—as the reedIs crushed beneath its tramp when that blind willHatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speedWhere the sun wants brute-presence to fulfilLife's purpose in a new far zone, ere iceEnwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.LXIII think no such direct plain truth consistsWith actual sense and thought and what they takeTo be the solid walls of life: mere mists—How such would, at that truth's first piercing, breakInto the nullity they are!—slight listsWherein the puppet-champions wage, for sakeOf some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid lowAt trumpet-blast, there 's shown the world, one foe!LXIIINo, we must play the pageant out, observeThe tourney-regulations, and regardSuccess—to meet the blunted spear nor swerve,Failure—to break no bones yet fall on sward;Must prove we have—not courage? well then—nerve!And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award—Be warranted as promising to wieldWeapons, no sham, in a true battlefield.LXIVMeantime, our simulated thunderclapsWhich tell us counterfeited truths—these sameAre—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps?—Sight, beauty, every dart of every aimThat touches just, then seems, by strange relapse,To fall effectless from the soul it cameAs if to fix its own, but simply smoteAnd startled to vague beauty more remote?LXVSo do we gain enough—yet not too much—Acquaintance with that outer elementWherein there 's operation (call it such!)Quite of another kind than we the pentOn earth are proper to receive. Our hutchLights up at the least chink: let roof be rent—How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm,Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!LXVITherefore, who knows if this our René's quickSubsidence from as sudden noise and glareInto oblivion was impolitic?No doubt his soul became at once awareThat, after prophecy, the rhyming-trickIs poor employment: human praises scareRather than soothe ears all a-tingle yetWith tones few hear and live, but none forget.LXVIIThere 's our first famous poet! Step thou forthSecond consummate songster! See, the tongueOf fire that typifies thee, owns thy worthIn yellow, purple mixed its green among,No pure and simple resin from the North,But composite with virtues that belongTo Southern culture! Love not more than hateHelped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.LXVIIIPrepare to witness a combustion richAnd riotously splendid, far beyondPoor René's lambent little streamer whichOnly played candle to a Court grown fondBy baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch,Alternately such colors doffed and donned,That when I say it dazzled Paris—pleaseKnow that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!LXIXWho did it, was a dapper gentleman,Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth,Whose birth that century ended which beganBy similar bestowment on our earthOf the aforesaid René. Cease to scanThe ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth—Not Paris in its plenitude—sufficeTo furnish France with her best poet twice!

"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First,Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without.Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursedInside yon hollow, crusted roundaboutWith copper where the clamp was,—how the burstVindicates flame the stealthy feeder! SpoutThy splendidest—a minute and no more?So soon again all sobered as before?

"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First,

Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without.

Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursed

Inside yon hollow, crusted roundabout

With copper where the clamp was,—how the burst

Vindicates flame the stealthy feeder! Spout

Thy splendidest—a minute and no more?

So soon again all sobered as before?

Nay, for I need to see your face! One strokeAdroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed!Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oakPalatial, where he wrought the works concealedBeneath the solid-seeming roof I broke,As redly up and out and off they reeledLike disconcerted imps, those thousand sparksFrom fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!

Nay, for I need to see your face! One stroke

Adroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed!

Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oak

Palatial, where he wrought the works concealed

Beneath the solid-seeming roof I broke,

As redly up and out and off they reeled

Like disconcerted imps, those thousand sparks

From fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!

III

Up, out, and off, see! Were you never used,—You now, in childish days or rather nights,—As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amusedBy that old nurse-taught game which gave the spritesEach one his title and career,—confusedBelief 't was all long over with the flightsFrom earth to heaven of hero, sage, and bard,And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?

Up, out, and off, see! Were you never used,—

You now, in childish days or rather nights,—

As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amused

By that old nurse-taught game which gave the sprites

Each one his title and career,—confused

Belief 't was all long over with the flights

From earth to heaven of hero, sage, and bard,

And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?

New long bright life! and happy chance befell—That I know—when some prematurely lostChild of disaster bore away the bellFrom some too-pampered son of fortune, crossedNever before my chimney broke the spell!Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost,While—never mind Who was it cumbered earth—Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.

New long bright life! and happy chance befell—

That I know—when some prematurely lost

Child of disaster bore away the bell

From some too-pampered son of fortune, crossed

Never before my chimney broke the spell!

Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost,

While—never mind Who was it cumbered earth—

Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.

Well, try a variation of the game!Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk.There 's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame,That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulkWas saturate with—ask the chloride's nameFrom somebody who knows! I shall not sulkIf yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brassIts life, I thought was fed on copperas.

Well, try a variation of the game!

Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk.

There 's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame,

That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulk

Was saturate with—ask the chloride's name

From somebody who knows! I shall not sulk

If yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brass

Its life, I thought was fed on copperas.

Anyhow, there they flutter! What may beThe style and prowess of that purple one?Who is the hero other eyes shall seeThan yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun—Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not weBut those unborn are to get warmth by! SonO' the coal,—as Job and Hebrew name a spark,—What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?

Anyhow, there they flutter! What may be

The style and prowess of that purple one?

Who is the hero other eyes shall see

Than yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun—

Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not we

But those unborn are to get warmth by! Son

O' the coal,—as Job and Hebrew name a spark,—

What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?

VII

Oh and the lesser lights, the dearer stillThat they elude a vulgar eye, give oursThe glimpse repaying astronomic skillWhich searched sky deeper, passed those patent powersConstellate proudly,—swords, scrolls, harps, that fillThe vulgar eye to surfeit,—found best flowersHid deepest in the dark,—named unplucked graceOf soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!

Oh and the lesser lights, the dearer still

That they elude a vulgar eye, give ours

The glimpse repaying astronomic skill

Which searched sky deeper, passed those patent powers

Constellate proudly,—swords, scrolls, harps, that fill

The vulgar eye to surfeit,—found best flowers

Hid deepest in the dark,—named unplucked grace

Of soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!

VIII

Up with thee, mouldering ash men never knew,But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold,Calm and columnar as yon flame I view!Oh and I bid thee,—to whom fortune doledScantly all other gifts out—bicker blue,Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolledFlake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown,Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.

Up with thee, mouldering ash men never knew,

But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold,

Calm and columnar as yon flame I view!

Oh and I bid thee,—to whom fortune doled

Scantly all other gifts out—bicker blue,

Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolled

Flake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown,

Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.

No! as the first was boy's play, this proves mereStripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave!Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career,Their boldness and their brightness could not save(In some old night of time on some lone drearSea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave)—Save from ignoble exit into smoke,Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!

No! as the first was boy's play, this proves mere

Stripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave!

Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career,

Their boldness and their brightness could not save

(In some old night of time on some lone drear

Sea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave)

—Save from ignoble exit into smoke,

Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!

Launched by our ship-wood, float we, once adriftIn fancy to that land-strip waters wash,We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shiftLong since to just keep life in, billows dashNigh over folk who shudder at each liftOf the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lashThough they have built the serviceable townTempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.

Launched by our ship-wood, float we, once adrift

In fancy to that land-strip waters wash,

We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shift

Long since to just keep life in, billows dash

Nigh over folk who shudder at each lift

Of the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lash

Though they have built the serviceable town

Tempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.

Croisic, the spit of sandy rock which jutsSpitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrubTo tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shutsBehind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grubThe ground for crystals grown where ocean glutsTheir promontory's breadth with salt: all stubOf rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strifeTo rescue a poor remnant for dear life.

Croisic, the spit of sandy rock which juts

Spitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrub

To tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shuts

Behind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grub

The ground for crystals grown where ocean gluts

Their promontory's breadth with salt: all stub

Of rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strife

To rescue a poor remnant for dear life.

XII

And what life! Here was, from the world to choose,The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared—Only their women,—'mid the slush and oozeOf yon low islet,—to their sun, reveredIn strange stone guise,—a temple. May-dawn dewsSaw the old structure levelled; when there peeredMay's earliest eve-star, high and wide once moreUp towered the new pile perfect as before:

And what life! Here was, from the world to choose,

The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared

—Only their women,—'mid the slush and ooze

Of yon low islet,—to their sun, revered

In strange stone guise,—a temple. May-dawn dews

Saw the old structure levelled; when there peered

May's earliest eve-star, high and wide once more

Up towered the new pile perfect as before:

XIII

Seeing that priestesses—and all were such—Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May,Each alike helping—well, if not too much!For, 'mid their eagerness to outstrip dayAnd get work done, if any loosed her clutchAnd let a single stone drop, straight a preyHerself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb,By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.

Seeing that priestesses—and all were such—

Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May,

Each alike helping—well, if not too much!

For, 'mid their eagerness to outstrip day

And get work done, if any loosed her clutch

And let a single stone drop, straight a prey

Herself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb,

By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.

XIV

And still so much remains of that gray cult,That even now, of nights, do women stealTo the sole Menhir standing, and insultThe antagonistic church-spire by appealTo power discrowned in vain, since each adultBelieves the gruesome thing she clasps may healWhatever plague no priestly help can cure:Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!

And still so much remains of that gray cult,

That even now, of nights, do women steal

To the sole Menhir standing, and insult

The antagonistic church-spire by appeal

To power discrowned in vain, since each adult

Believes the gruesome thing she clasps may heal

Whatever plague no priestly help can cure:

Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!

Nay more: on May-morns, that primeval riteOf temple-building, with its punishmentFor rash precipitation, lingers, spiteOf all remonstrance; vainly are they shent,Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white,Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent:Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughsFrom gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.

Nay more: on May-morns, that primeval rite

Of temple-building, with its punishment

For rash precipitation, lingers, spite

Of all remonstrance; vainly are they shent,

Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white,

Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent:

Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughs

From gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.

XVI

Oh and, for their part, boys from door to doorSing unintelligible words to tunesAs obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore,"Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunesVainly the mumbling to speak plain once more.Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes!They serve my purpose, which is but to showCroisic to-day and Croisic long ago.

Oh and, for their part, boys from door to door

Sing unintelligible words to tunes

As obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore,"

Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunes

Vainly the mumbling to speak plain once more.

Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes!

They serve my purpose, which is but to show

Croisic to-day and Croisic long ago.

XVII

What have we sailed to see, then, wafted thereBy fancy from the log that ends its daysOf much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair,On waters rough or smooth, in this good blazeWe two crouch round so closely, bidding careKeep outside with the snow-storm? Something says"Fit time for story-telling!" I begin—Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?

What have we sailed to see, then, wafted there

By fancy from the log that ends its days

Of much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair,

On waters rough or smooth, in this good blaze

We two crouch round so closely, bidding care

Keep outside with the snow-storm? Something says

"Fit time for story-telling!" I begin—

Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?

XVIII

Anywhere serves: for point me out the placeWherever man has made himself a home,And there I find the story of our raceIn little, just at Croisic as at Rome.What matters the degree? the kind I trace.Druids their temple, Christians have their dome:So with mankind; and Croisic, I 'll engage,With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.

Anywhere serves: for point me out the place

Wherever man has made himself a home,

And there I find the story of our race

In little, just at Croisic as at Rome.

What matters the degree? the kind I trace.

Druids their temple, Christians have their dome:

So with mankind; and Croisic, I 'll engage,

With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.

XIX

No doubt, men vastly differ: and we needSome strange exceptional benevolenceOf nature's sunshine to develop seedSo well, in the less-favored clime, that thenceWe may discern how shrub means tree indeedThough dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence.Man in the ice-house or the hot-house ranksWith beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

No doubt, men vastly differ: and we need

Some strange exceptional benevolence

Of nature's sunshine to develop seed

So well, in the less-favored clime, that thence

We may discern how shrub means tree indeed

Though dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence.

Man in the ice-house or the hot-house ranks

With beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

While, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learnI am thankworthy, who propose to slakeHis thirst for tasting how it feels to turnCedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wakeNo memories of what is harsh and sternIn ancient Croisic-nature, much less rakeThe ashes of her last warmth till out leapsLive Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.

While, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learn

I am thankworthy, who propose to slake

His thirst for tasting how it feels to turn

Cedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wake

No memories of what is harsh and stern

In ancient Croisic-nature, much less rake

The ashes of her last warmth till out leaps

Live Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.

XXI

Take these two, see, each outbreak,—spirt and spirtOf fire from our brave billet's either edgeWhich—call maternal Croisic ocean-girt!These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge.One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival—vert,Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege,They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests,Lawyers, physicians—guess what gods or beasts!

Take these two, see, each outbreak,—spirt and spirt

Of fire from our brave billet's either edge

Which—call maternal Croisic ocean-girt!

These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge.

One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival—vert,

Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege,

They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests,

Lawyers, physicians—guess what gods or beasts!

XXII

None of them all, but—poets, if you please!"What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme,Did two among the aboriginesOf that rough region pass the ungracious timeSuiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's,The songs forbidden a serener clime?Or had they universal audience—that'sTo say, the folk of Croisic, ay, and Batz?"

None of them all, but—poets, if you please!

"What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme,

Did two among the aborigines

Of that rough region pass the ungracious time

Suiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's,

The songs forbidden a serener clime?

Or had they universal audience—that's

To say, the folk of Croisic, ay, and Batz?"

XXIII

Open your ears! Each poet in his dayHad such a mighty moment of successAs pinnacled him straight, in full display,For the whole world to worship—nothing less!Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray?And did not Paris, for one moment—yes,Worship these poet-flames, our red and green,One at a time, a century between?

Open your ears! Each poet in his day

Had such a mighty moment of success

As pinnacled him straight, in full display,

For the whole world to worship—nothing less!

Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray?

And did not Paris, for one moment—yes,

Worship these poet-flames, our red and green,

One at a time, a century between?

XXIV

And yet you never heard their names! Assist,Clio, Historic Muse, while I recordGreat deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mistAnd bid each sun emerge, in turn play lordOf day, one moment! Hear the annalistTell a strange story, true to the least word!At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and tenSince Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.

And yet you never heard their names! Assist,

Clio, Historic Muse, while I record

Great deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mist

And bid each sun emerge, in turn play lord

Of day, one moment! Hear the annalist

Tell a strange story, true to the least word!

At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and ten

Since Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.

XXV

Know him henceforth as René Gentilhomme—Appropriate appellation! noble birthAnd knightly blazon, the device wherefromWas "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearthWhy prison his career while ChristendomLay open to reward acknowledged worth?He therefore left it at the proper ageAnd got to be the Prince of Condé's page.

Know him henceforth as René Gentilhomme

—Appropriate appellation! noble birth

And knightly blazon, the device wherefrom

Was "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearth

Why prison his career while Christendom

Lay open to reward acknowledged worth?

He therefore left it at the proper age

And got to be the Prince of Condé's page.

XXVI

Which Prince of Condé, whom men called "The Duke,"—Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir,(As one might hold hap, would, without rebuke,Since Anne of Austria, all the world was ware,Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could lookFor issue)—failing Louis of so rareA godsend, it was natural the PrinceShould hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.

Which Prince of Condé, whom men called "The Duke,"

—Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir,

(As one might hold hap, would, without rebuke,

Since Anne of Austria, all the world was ware,

Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could look

For issue)—failing Louis of so rare

A godsend, it was natural the Prince

Should hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.

XXVII

Now, as this reasonable hope, by growthOf years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almostTo bursting,—would the brothers, childless both,Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost—Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing lothAwaited his appointment to the post,And wiled away the time, as best he might,Till Providence should settle things aright.

Now, as this reasonable hope, by growth

Of years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almost

To bursting,—would the brothers, childless both,

Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost—

Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing loth

Awaited his appointment to the post,

And wiled away the time, as best he might,

Till Providence should settle things aright.

XXVIII

So, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawnFrom cities where a whisper breeds offence,He sat him down to watch the streak of dawnTestify to first stir of Providence;And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn,There wanted not a poet to dispenseSong's remedy for spleen-fits all and some,Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.

So, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawn

From cities where a whisper breeds offence,

He sat him down to watch the streak of dawn

Testify to first stir of Providence;

And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn,

There wanted not a poet to dispense

Song's remedy for spleen-fits all and some,

Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.

XXIX

A poet born and bred, his very sireA poet also, author of a piecePrinted and published, "Ladies—their attire:"Therefore the son, just born at his decease,Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire,And kept it, yielding moderate increaseOf songs and sonnets, madrigals, and muchRhyming thought poetry and praised as such.

A poet born and bred, his very sire

A poet also, author of a piece

Printed and published, "Ladies—their attire:"

Therefore the son, just born at his decease,

Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire,

And kept it, yielding moderate increase

Of songs and sonnets, madrigals, and much

Rhyming thought poetry and praised as such.

XXX

Rubbish unutterable (bear in mind!)Rubbish not wholly without value, though,Being to compliment the Duke designedAnd bring the complimenter credit so,—Pleasure with profit happily combined.Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till—lo,This happened, as he sat in an alcoveElaborating rhyme for "love"—not"dove."

Rubbish unutterable (bear in mind!)

Rubbish not wholly without value, though,

Being to compliment the Duke designed

And bring the complimenter credit so,—

Pleasure with profit happily combined.

Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till—lo,

This happened, as he sat in an alcove

Elaborating rhyme for "love"—not"dove."

XXXI

He was alone: silence and solitudeBefit the votary of the Muse. Around,Nature—not our new picturesque and rude,But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground—Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbuedWith these, he sat absorbed in one profoundExcogitation, "Were it best to hintOr boldly boast 'She loves me—Araminte'?"

He was alone: silence and solitude

Befit the votary of the Muse. Around,

Nature—not our new picturesque and rude,

But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground—

Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbued

With these, he sat absorbed in one profound

Excogitation, "Were it best to hint

Or boldly boast 'She loves me—Araminte'?"

XXXII

When suddenly flashed lightning, searing sightAlmost, so close to eyes; then, quick on flash,Followed the thunder, splitting earth downrightWhere René sat a-rhyming: with huge crashOf marble into atoms infinite—Marble which, stately, dared the world to dashThe stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place:One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.

When suddenly flashed lightning, searing sight

Almost, so close to eyes; then, quick on flash,

Followed the thunder, splitting earth downright

Where René sat a-rhyming: with huge crash

Of marble into atoms infinite—

Marble which, stately, dared the world to dash

The stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place:

One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.

XXXIII

So, when the horrible confusion loosedIts wrappage round his senses, and, with breath,Seeing and hearing by degrees inducedConviction what he felt was life, not death—His fluttered faculties came back to roostOne after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath,About his very feet there, lay in dustEarthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.

So, when the horrible confusion loosed

Its wrappage round his senses, and, with breath,

Seeing and hearing by degrees induced

Conviction what he felt was life, not death—

His fluttered faculties came back to roost

One after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath,

About his very feet there, lay in dust

Earthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.

XXXIV

For, what might be the thunder-smitten thingBut, pillared high and proud, in marble guise,A ducal crown—which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"?Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyesAlone, but all the world's. Pebble from slingProstrates a giant; so can pulverizeMarble pretension—how much more, make moultA peacock-prince his plume—God's thunderbolt!

For, what might be the thunder-smitten thing

But, pillared high and proud, in marble guise,

A ducal crown—which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"?

Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyes

Alone, but all the world's. Pebble from sling

Prostrates a giant; so can pulverize

Marble pretension—how much more, make moult

A peacock-prince his plume—God's thunderbolt!

XXXV

That was enough, for René, that first factThus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blueAnd bright the sky above; earth firm, compactBeneath his footing, lay apparent too;Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lackedThere, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strewThe earth,—about his feet lie atoms fineWhere he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!

That was enough, for René, that first fact

Thus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blue

And bright the sky above; earth firm, compact

Beneath his footing, lay apparent too;

Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lacked

There, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strew

The earth,—about his feet lie atoms fine

Where he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!

XXXVI

So, for the moment, all the universeBeing abolished, all 'twist God and him,—Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse.Of one and the same value,—to the brimFlooded with truth, for better or for worse,—He pounces on the writing-paper, primKeeping its place on table: not a dintNor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."

So, for the moment, all the universe

Being abolished, all 'twist God and him,—

Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse.

Of one and the same value,—to the brim

Flooded with truth, for better or for worse,—

He pounces on the writing-paper, prim

Keeping its place on table: not a dint

Nor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."

XXXVII

And over the neat crowquill calligraphHis pen goes blotting, blurring, as an oxTramples a flower-bed in a garden,—laughYou may!—so does not he, whose quick heart knocksAudibly at his breast: an epitaphOn earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks,He might be penning in a wild dismay,Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.

And over the neat crowquill calligraph

His pen goes blotting, blurring, as an ox

Tramples a flower-bed in a garden,—laugh

You may!—so does not he, whose quick heart knocks

Audibly at his breast: an epitaph

On earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks,

He might be penning in a wild dismay,

Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.

XXXVIII

And what is it so terribly he pens,Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile,Hearts, darts," and all his day'sdivinior mensJudged necessary to a perfect style?Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse,Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile:Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince(Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt—the Prince.

And what is it so terribly he pens,

Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile,

Hearts, darts," and all his day'sdivinior mens

Judged necessary to a perfect style?

Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse,

Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile:

Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince

(Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt—the Prince.

XXXIX

"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more,To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be?Ay, when this bauble, as it decked beforeThy pillar, shall again, for France to see,Take its proud station there! Let France adoreNo longer an illusive mock-sun—thee—But keep her homage for Sol's self, aboutTo rise and put pretenders to the rout!

"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more,

To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be?

Ay, when this bauble, as it decked before

Thy pillar, shall again, for France to see,

Take its proud station there! Let France adore

No longer an illusive mock-sun—thee—

But keep her homage for Sol's self, about

To rise and put pretenders to the rout!

"What? France so God-abandoned that her rootRegal, though many a Spring it gave no sign,Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shootGreenly as ever? Nature, though benign,Thwarts ever the ambitious and astute.In store for such is punishment condign:Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled,So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"

"What? France so God-abandoned that her root

Regal, though many a Spring it gave no sign,

Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shoot

Greenly as ever? Nature, though benign,

Thwarts ever the ambitious and astute.

In store for such is punishment condign:

Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled,

So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"

XLI

Which penned—some forty lines to this effect—Our René folds his paper, marches braveBack to the mansion, luminous, erect,Triumphant, an emancipated slave.There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's-crown wrecked?What may this mean?" The answer René gaveWas—handing him the verses, with the dueIncline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"

Which penned—some forty lines to this effect—

Our René folds his paper, marches brave

Back to the mansion, luminous, erect,

Triumphant, an emancipated slave.

There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's-crown wrecked?

What may this mean?" The answer René gave

Was—handing him the verses, with the due

Incline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"

XLII

The Prince read, paled, was silent; all around,The courtier-company, to whom he passedThe paper, read, in equal silence bound.René grew also by degrees aghastAt his own fit of courage—palely foundWay of retreat from that pale presence: classedOnce more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son,It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.

The Prince read, paled, was silent; all around,

The courtier-company, to whom he passed

The paper, read, in equal silence bound.

René grew also by degrees aghast

At his own fit of courage—palely found

Way of retreat from that pale presence: classed

Once more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son,

It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.

XLIII

Vainly he apprehended evil: since,When, at the year's end, even as foretold,Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the PrinceOf that long-craved mere visionary gold,'T was no fit time for envy to evinceMalice, be sure! The timidest grew bold:Of all that courtier-company not oneBut left the semblance for the actual sun.

Vainly he apprehended evil: since,

When, at the year's end, even as foretold,

Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the Prince

Of that long-craved mere visionary gold,

'T was no fit time for envy to evince

Malice, be sure! The timidest grew bold:

Of all that courtier-company not one

But left the semblance for the actual sun.

XLIV

And all sorts and conditions that stood byAt René's burning moment, bright escapeOf soul, bore witness to the prophecy.Which witness took the customary shapeOf verse; a score of poets in full cryHailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape,Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength,How could it fail to reach the Court at length?

And all sorts and conditions that stood by

At René's burning moment, bright escape

Of soul, bore witness to the prophecy.

Which witness took the customary shape

Of verse; a score of poets in full cry

Hailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape,

Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength,

How could it fail to reach the Court at length?

XLV

"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides,O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced,My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chidesHenceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trouncedFor irreligion: since the fool deridesPlain miracle by which this prophet pouncedExactly on the moment I should liftLike Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'

"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides,

O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced,

My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chides

Henceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trounced

For irreligion: since the fool derides

Plain miracle by which this prophet pounced

Exactly on the moment I should lift

Like Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'

XLVI

"So call the boy! and call this bard and seerBy a new title! him I raise to rankOf 'Royal Poet:' poet without peer!Whose fellows only have themselves to thankIf humbly they must follow in the rearMy René. He 's the master: they must clankTheir chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why?They poetize, while he can prophesy!"

"So call the boy! and call this bard and seer

By a new title! him I raise to rank

Of 'Royal Poet:' poet without peer!

Whose fellows only have themselves to thank

If humbly they must follow in the rear

My René. He 's the master: they must clank

Their chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why?

They poetize, while he can prophesy!"

XLVII

So said, so done; our René rose august,"The Royal Poet;" straightway put in typeHis poem-prophecy, and (fair and justProcedure) added,—now that time was ripeFor proving friends did well his word to trust,—Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe,Which friends broke out with when he dared foretellThe Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.

So said, so done; our René rose august,

"The Royal Poet;" straightway put in type

His poem-prophecy, and (fair and just

Procedure) added,—now that time was ripe

For proving friends did well his word to trust,—

Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe,

Which friends broke out with when he dared foretell

The Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.

XLVIII

Moreover he got painted by Du Pré,Engraved by Daret also; and prefixedThe portrait to his book: a crown of bayCircled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed;And Latin verses, lovely in their way,Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt:Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump,Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."

Moreover he got painted by Du Pré,

Engraved by Daret also; and prefixed

The portrait to his book: a crown of bay

Circled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed;

And Latin verses, lovely in their way,

Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt:

Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump,

Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."

XLIX

Whereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long—The red fire? That 's the reason must excuseMy letting flicker René's prophet-songNo longer; for its pertinacious huesMust fade before its fellow joins the throngOf sparks departed up the chimney, duesTo dark oblivion. At the word, it winks,Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks.

Whereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long

—The red fire? That 's the reason must excuse

My letting flicker René's prophet-song

No longer; for its pertinacious hues

Must fade before its fellow joins the throng

Of sparks departed up the chimney, dues

To dark oblivion. At the word, it winks,

Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks.

So does our poet. All this burst of fame,Fury of favor, Royal Poetship,Prophetship, book, verse, picture—thereof came—Nothing! That 's why I would not let outstripRed his green rival flamelet: just the sameEnding in smoke waits both! In vain we ripThe past, no further faintest trace remainsOf René to reward our pious pains.

So does our poet. All this burst of fame,

Fury of favor, Royal Poetship,

Prophetship, book, verse, picture—thereof came

—Nothing! That 's why I would not let outstrip

Red his green rival flamelet: just the same

Ending in smoke waits both! In vain we rip

The past, no further faintest trace remains

Of René to reward our pious pains.

Somebody saw a portrait framed and glazedAt Croisic. "Who may be this glorifiedMortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazedThat person asked the owner by his side,Who proved as ignorant. The question raisedProvoked inquiry; key by key was triedOn Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flewThe wards at one key's touch, which key was—Who?

Somebody saw a portrait framed and glazed

At Croisic. "Who may be this glorified

Mortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazed

That person asked the owner by his side,

Who proved as ignorant. The question raised

Provoked inquiry; key by key was tried

On Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flew

The wards at one key's touch, which key was—Who?

LII

The other famous poet! Wait thy turn,Thou green, our red's competitor! EnoughJust now to note 't was he that itched to learn(A hundred years ago) how fate could puffHeaven-high (a hundred years before), then spurnTo suds so big a bubble in some huff:Since green too found red's portrait,—having heardHitherto of red's rare self not one word.

The other famous poet! Wait thy turn,

Thou green, our red's competitor! Enough

Just now to note 't was he that itched to learn

(A hundred years ago) how fate could puff

Heaven-high (a hundred years before), then spurn

To suds so big a bubble in some huff:

Since green too found red's portrait,—having heard

Hitherto of red's rare self not one word.

LIII

And he with zeal addressed him to the taskOf hunting out, by all and any means,—Who might the brilliant bard be, born to baskButterfly-like in shine which kings and queensAnd baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask!Is fame so fickle that what perks and preensThe eyed wing, one imperial minute, dipsNext sudden moment into blind eclipse?

And he with zeal addressed him to the task

Of hunting out, by all and any means,

—Who might the brilliant bard be, born to bask

Butterfly-like in shine which kings and queens

And baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask!

Is fame so fickle that what perks and preens

The eyed wing, one imperial minute, dips

Next sudden moment into blind eclipse?

LIV

After a vast expenditure of pains,Our second poet found the prize he sought:Urged in his search by something that restrainsFrom undue triumph famed ones who have fought,Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains:Something that tells such—dear is triumph boughtIf it means only basking in the midstOf fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst.

After a vast expenditure of pains,

Our second poet found the prize he sought:

Urged in his search by something that restrains

From undue triumph famed ones who have fought,

Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains:

Something that tells such—dear is triumph bought

If it means only basking in the midst

Of fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst.

For, what did searching find at last but this?Quoth somebody, "I somehow somewhere seemTo think I heard one old De Chevaye isOr was possessed of René's works!" which gleamOf light from out the dark proved not amissTo track, by correspondence on the theme;And soon the twilight broadened into day,For thus to question answered De Chevaye.

For, what did searching find at last but this?

Quoth somebody, "I somehow somewhere seem

To think I heard one old De Chevaye is

Or was possessed of René's works!" which gleam

Of light from out the dark proved not amiss

To track, by correspondence on the theme;

And soon the twilight broadened into day,

For thus to question answered De Chevaye.

LVI

"True it is, I did once possess the worksYou want account of—works—to call them so,—Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks(Some fifty leavesin duodecimo)'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irksStill to remember, because long agoThat and my other rare shelf-occupantsPerished by burning of my house at Nantes.

"True it is, I did once possess the works

You want account of—works—to call them so,—

Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks

(Some fifty leavesin duodecimo)

'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irks

Still to remember, because long ago

That and my other rare shelf-occupants

Perished by burning of my house at Nantes.

LVII

"Yet of that book one strange particularStill stays in mind with me"—and thereuponFollowed the story. "Few the poems are;The book was two-thirds filled up with this one,And sundry witnesses from near and farThat here at least was prophesying doneBy prophet, so as to preclude all doubt,Before the thing he prophesied about."

"Yet of that book one strange particular

Still stays in mind with me"—and thereupon

Followed the story. "Few the poems are;

The book was two-thirds filled up with this one,

And sundry witnesses from near and far

That here at least was prophesying done

By prophet, so as to preclude all doubt,

Before the thing he prophesied about."

LVIII

That 's all he knew, and all the poet learned,And all that you and I are like to hearOf René; since not only book is burnedBut memory extinguished,—nay, I fear,Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discernedA trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tearNeeds fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune faresWith such a mediocrity, who cares?"

That 's all he knew, and all the poet learned,

And all that you and I are like to hear

Of René; since not only book is burned

But memory extinguished,—nay, I fear,

Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discerned

A trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tear

Needs fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune fares

With such a mediocrity, who cares?"

LIX

Well, I care—intimately care to haveExperience how a human creature feltIn after-life, who bore the burden graveOf certainly believing God had dealtFor once directly with him: did not rave—A maniac, did not find his reason melt—An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife,The world's way, lived an ordinary life.

Well, I care—intimately care to have

Experience how a human creature felt

In after-life, who bore the burden grave

Of certainly believing God had dealt

For once directly with him: did not rave

—A maniac, did not find his reason melt

—An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife,

The world's way, lived an ordinary life.

How many problems that one fact would solve!An ordinary soul, no more, no less,About whose life earth's common sights revolve,On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress,This fact—God tasks him, and will not absolveTask's negligent performer! Can you guessHow such a soul—the task performed to point—Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?

How many problems that one fact would solve!

An ordinary soul, no more, no less,

About whose life earth's common sights revolve,

On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress,

This fact—God tasks him, and will not absolve

Task's negligent performer! Can you guess

How such a soul—the task performed to point—

Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?

LXI

Does he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceedDizzily, yet with course straightforward still,Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?—as the reedIs crushed beneath its tramp when that blind willHatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speedWhere the sun wants brute-presence to fulfilLife's purpose in a new far zone, ere iceEnwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.

Does he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceed

Dizzily, yet with course straightforward still,

Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?—as the reed

Is crushed beneath its tramp when that blind will

Hatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speed

Where the sun wants brute-presence to fulfil

Life's purpose in a new far zone, ere ice

Enwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.

LXII

I think no such direct plain truth consistsWith actual sense and thought and what they takeTo be the solid walls of life: mere mists—How such would, at that truth's first piercing, breakInto the nullity they are!—slight listsWherein the puppet-champions wage, for sakeOf some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid lowAt trumpet-blast, there 's shown the world, one foe!

I think no such direct plain truth consists

With actual sense and thought and what they take

To be the solid walls of life: mere mists—

How such would, at that truth's first piercing, break

Into the nullity they are!—slight lists

Wherein the puppet-champions wage, for sake

Of some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid low

At trumpet-blast, there 's shown the world, one foe!

LXIII

No, we must play the pageant out, observeThe tourney-regulations, and regardSuccess—to meet the blunted spear nor swerve,Failure—to break no bones yet fall on sward;Must prove we have—not courage? well then—nerve!And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award—Be warranted as promising to wieldWeapons, no sham, in a true battlefield.

No, we must play the pageant out, observe

The tourney-regulations, and regard

Success—to meet the blunted spear nor swerve,

Failure—to break no bones yet fall on sward;

Must prove we have—not courage? well then—nerve!

And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award—

Be warranted as promising to wield

Weapons, no sham, in a true battlefield.

LXIV

Meantime, our simulated thunderclapsWhich tell us counterfeited truths—these sameAre—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps?—Sight, beauty, every dart of every aimThat touches just, then seems, by strange relapse,To fall effectless from the soul it cameAs if to fix its own, but simply smoteAnd startled to vague beauty more remote?

Meantime, our simulated thunderclaps

Which tell us counterfeited truths—these same

Are—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps?

—Sight, beauty, every dart of every aim

That touches just, then seems, by strange relapse,

To fall effectless from the soul it came

As if to fix its own, but simply smote

And startled to vague beauty more remote?

LXV

So do we gain enough—yet not too much—Acquaintance with that outer elementWherein there 's operation (call it such!)Quite of another kind than we the pentOn earth are proper to receive. Our hutchLights up at the least chink: let roof be rent—How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm,Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!

So do we gain enough—yet not too much—

Acquaintance with that outer element

Wherein there 's operation (call it such!)

Quite of another kind than we the pent

On earth are proper to receive. Our hutch

Lights up at the least chink: let roof be rent—

How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm,

Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!

LXVI

Therefore, who knows if this our René's quickSubsidence from as sudden noise and glareInto oblivion was impolitic?No doubt his soul became at once awareThat, after prophecy, the rhyming-trickIs poor employment: human praises scareRather than soothe ears all a-tingle yetWith tones few hear and live, but none forget.

Therefore, who knows if this our René's quick

Subsidence from as sudden noise and glare

Into oblivion was impolitic?

No doubt his soul became at once aware

That, after prophecy, the rhyming-trick

Is poor employment: human praises scare

Rather than soothe ears all a-tingle yet

With tones few hear and live, but none forget.

LXVII

There 's our first famous poet! Step thou forthSecond consummate songster! See, the tongueOf fire that typifies thee, owns thy worthIn yellow, purple mixed its green among,No pure and simple resin from the North,But composite with virtues that belongTo Southern culture! Love not more than hateHelped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.

There 's our first famous poet! Step thou forth

Second consummate songster! See, the tongue

Of fire that typifies thee, owns thy worth

In yellow, purple mixed its green among,

No pure and simple resin from the North,

But composite with virtues that belong

To Southern culture! Love not more than hate

Helped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.

LXVIII

Prepare to witness a combustion richAnd riotously splendid, far beyondPoor René's lambent little streamer whichOnly played candle to a Court grown fondBy baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch,Alternately such colors doffed and donned,That when I say it dazzled Paris—pleaseKnow that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!

Prepare to witness a combustion rich

And riotously splendid, far beyond

Poor René's lambent little streamer which

Only played candle to a Court grown fond

By baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch,

Alternately such colors doffed and donned,

That when I say it dazzled Paris—please

Know that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!

LXIX

Who did it, was a dapper gentleman,Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth,Whose birth that century ended which beganBy similar bestowment on our earthOf the aforesaid René. Cease to scanThe ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth—Not Paris in its plenitude—sufficeTo furnish France with her best poet twice!

Who did it, was a dapper gentleman,

Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth,

Whose birth that century ended which began

By similar bestowment on our earth

Of the aforesaid René. Cease to scan

The ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth—

Not Paris in its plenitude—suffice

To furnish France with her best poet twice!

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