BIRDS OF PASSAGEFLIGHT THE FOURTHCHARLES SUMNERGarlands upon his grave,And flowers upon his hearse,And to the tender heart and braveThe tribute of this verse.His was the troubled life,The conflict and the pain,The grief, the bitterness of strife,The honor without stain.Like Winkelried, he tookInto his manly breastThe sheaf of hostile spears, and brokeA path for the oppressed.Then from the fatal fieldUpon a nation's heartBorne like a warrior on his shield!—So should the brave depart.Death takes us by surprise,And stays our hurrying feet;The great design unfinished lies,Our lives are incomplete.But in the dark unknownPerfect their circles seem,Even as a bridge's arch of stoneIs rounded in the stream.Alike are life and death,When life in death survives,And the uninterrupted breathInspires a thousand lives.Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight.So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDEThe ceaseless rain is falling fast,And yonder gilded vane,Immovable for three days past,Points to the misty main,It drives me in upon myselfAnd to the fireside gleams,To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,And still more pleasant dreams,I read whatever bards have sungOf lands beyond the sea,And the bright days when I was youngCome thronging back to me.In fancy I can hear againThe Alpine torrent's roar,The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,The sea at Elsinore.I see the convent's gleaming wallRise from its groves of pine,And towers of old cathedrals tall,And castles by the Rhine.I journey on by park and spire,Beneath centennial trees,Through fields with poppies all on fire,And gleams of distant seas.I fear no more the dust and heat,No more I feel fatigue,While journeying with another's feetO'er many a lengthening league.Let others traverse sea and land,And toil through various climes,I turn the world round with my handReading these poets' rhymes.From them I learn whatever liesBeneath each changing zone,And see, when looking with their eyes,Better than with mine own.CADENABBIALAKE OF COMONo sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaksThe silence of the summer day,As by the loveliest of all lakesI while the idle hours away.I pace the leafy colonnadeWhere level branches of the planeAbove me weave a roof of shadeImpervious to the sun and rain.At times a sudden rush of airFlutters the lazy leaves o'erhead,And gleams of sunshine toss and flareLike torches down the path I tread.By Somariva's garden gateI make the marble stairs my seat,And hear the water, as I wait,Lapping the steps beneath my feet.The undulation sinks and swellsAlong the stony parapets,And far away the floating bellsTinkle upon the fisher's nets.Silent and slow, by tower and townThe freighted barges come and go,Their pendent shadows gliding downBy town and tower submerged below.The hills sweep upward from the shore,With villas scattered one by oneUpon their wooded spurs, and lowerBellaggio blazing in the sun.And dimly seen, a tangled massOf walls and woods, of light and shade,Stands beckoning up the Stelvio PassVarenna with its white cascade.I ask myself, Is this a dream?Will it all vanish into air?Is there a land of such supremeAnd perfect beauty anywhere?Sweet vision! Do not fade away;Linger until my heart shall takeInto itself the summer day,And all the beauty of the lake.Linger until upon my brainIs stamped an image of the scene,Then fade into the air again,And be as if thou hadst not been.MONTE CASSINOTERRA DI LAVOROBeautiful valley! through whose verdant meadsUnheard the Garigliano glides along;—The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,The river taciturn of classic song.The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest,Where mediaeval towns are white on allThe hillsides, and where every mountain's crestIs an Etrurian or a Roman wall.There is Alagna, where Pope BonifaceWas dragged with contumely from his throne;Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgraceThe Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?There is Ceprano, where a renegadeWas each Apulian, as great Dante saith,When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayedSpurred on to Benevento and to death.There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town,Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid lightStill hovers o'er his birthplace like the crownOf splendor seen o'er cities in the night.Doubled the splendor is, that in its streetsThe Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played,And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeatsIn ponderous folios for scholastics made.And there, uplifted, like a passing cloudThat pauses on a mountain summit high,Monte Cassino's convent rears its proudAnd venerable walls against the sky.Well I remember how on foot I climbedThe stony pathway leading to its gate;Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed,Below, the darkening town grew desolate.Well I remember the low arch and dark,The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide,From which, far down, the valley like a parkVeiled in the evening mists, was dim descried.The day was dying, and with feeble handsCaressed the mountain-tops; the vales betweenDarkened; the river in the meadowlandsSheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen.The silence of the place was like a sleep,So full of rest it seemed; each passing treadWas a reverberation from the deepRecesses of the ages that are dead.For, more than thirteen centuries ago,Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome,A youth disgusted with its vice and woe,Sought in these mountain solitudes a home.He founded here his Convent and his RuleOf prayer and work, and counted work as prayer;The pen became a clarion, and his schoolFlamed like a beacon in the midnight air.What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way,Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deploresThe illuminated manuscripts, that layTorn and neglected on the dusty floors?Boccaccio was a novelist, a childOf fancy and of fiction at the best!This the urbane librarian said, and smiledIncredulous, as at some idle jest.Upon such themes as these, with one young friarI sat conversing late into the night,Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfireHad burnt its heart out like an anchorite.And then translated, in my convent cell,Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay,And, as a monk who hears the matin bell,Started from sleep; already it was day.From the high window I beheld the sceneOn which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,—The mountains and the valley in the sheenOf the bright sun,—and stood as one amazed.Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing;The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns;Far off the mellow bells began to ringFor matins in the half-awakened towns.The conflict of the Present and the Past,The ideal and the actual in our life,As on a field of battle held me fast,Where this world and the next world were at strife.For, as the valley from its sleep awoke,I saw the iron horses of the steamToss to the morning air their plumes of smoke,And woke, as one awaketh from a dream.AMALFISweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas.In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge.'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he.Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines?Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves!This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom.On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these, From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep!Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCISUp soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire.Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food."O brother birds," St. Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away."Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me."O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown."He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!"With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.BELISARIUSI am poor and old and blind;The sun burns me, and the windBlows through the city gateAnd covers me with dustFrom the wheels of the augustJustinian the Great.It was for him I chasedThe Persians o'er wild and waste,As General of the East;Night after night I layIn their camps of yesterday;Their forage was my feast.For him, with sails of red,And torches at mast-head,Piloting the great fleet,I swept the Afric coastsAnd scattered the Vandal hosts,Like dust in a windy street.For him I won againThe Ausonian realm and reign,Rome and Parthenope;And all the land was mineFrom the summits of ApennineTo the shores of either sea.For him, in my feeble age,I dared the battle's rage,To save Byzantium's state,When the tents of Zabergan,Like snow-drifts overranThe road to the Golden Gate.And for this, for this, behold!Infirm and blind and old,With gray, uncovered head,Beneath the very archOf my triumphal march,I stand and beg my bread!Methinks I still can hear,Sounding distinct and near,The Vandal monarch's cry,As, captive and disgraced,With majestic step he paced,—"All, all is Vanity!"Ah! vainest of all thingsIs the gratitude of kings;The plaudits of the crowdAre but the clatter of feetAt midnight in the street,Hollow and restless and loud.But the bitterest disgraceIs to see forever the faceOf the Monk of Ephesus!The unconquerable willThis, too, can bear;—I stillAm Belisarius!SONGO RIVERNowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake.Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow.Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude.Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about.In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene.Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies.Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown.But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise.Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:—"Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste!"Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul"
Garlands upon his grave,And flowers upon his hearse,And to the tender heart and braveThe tribute of this verse.His was the troubled life,The conflict and the pain,The grief, the bitterness of strife,The honor without stain.Like Winkelried, he tookInto his manly breastThe sheaf of hostile spears, and brokeA path for the oppressed.Then from the fatal fieldUpon a nation's heartBorne like a warrior on his shield!—So should the brave depart.Death takes us by surprise,And stays our hurrying feet;The great design unfinished lies,Our lives are incomplete.But in the dark unknownPerfect their circles seem,Even as a bridge's arch of stoneIs rounded in the stream.Alike are life and death,When life in death survives,And the uninterrupted breathInspires a thousand lives.Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight.So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,And yonder gilded vane,Immovable for three days past,Points to the misty main,
It drives me in upon myselfAnd to the fireside gleams,To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,And still more pleasant dreams,
I read whatever bards have sungOf lands beyond the sea,And the bright days when I was youngCome thronging back to me.
In fancy I can hear againThe Alpine torrent's roar,The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,The sea at Elsinore.
I see the convent's gleaming wallRise from its groves of pine,And towers of old cathedrals tall,And castles by the Rhine.
I journey on by park and spire,Beneath centennial trees,Through fields with poppies all on fire,And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat,No more I feel fatigue,While journeying with another's feetO'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land,And toil through various climes,I turn the world round with my handReading these poets' rhymes.
From them I learn whatever liesBeneath each changing zone,And see, when looking with their eyes,Better than with mine own.
LAKE OF COMO
No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaksThe silence of the summer day,As by the loveliest of all lakesI while the idle hours away.
I pace the leafy colonnadeWhere level branches of the planeAbove me weave a roof of shadeImpervious to the sun and rain.
At times a sudden rush of airFlutters the lazy leaves o'erhead,And gleams of sunshine toss and flareLike torches down the path I tread.
By Somariva's garden gateI make the marble stairs my seat,And hear the water, as I wait,Lapping the steps beneath my feet.
The undulation sinks and swellsAlong the stony parapets,And far away the floating bellsTinkle upon the fisher's nets.
Silent and slow, by tower and townThe freighted barges come and go,Their pendent shadows gliding downBy town and tower submerged below.
The hills sweep upward from the shore,With villas scattered one by oneUpon their wooded spurs, and lowerBellaggio blazing in the sun.
And dimly seen, a tangled massOf walls and woods, of light and shade,Stands beckoning up the Stelvio PassVarenna with its white cascade.
I ask myself, Is this a dream?Will it all vanish into air?Is there a land of such supremeAnd perfect beauty anywhere?
Sweet vision! Do not fade away;Linger until my heart shall takeInto itself the summer day,And all the beauty of the lake.
Linger until upon my brainIs stamped an image of the scene,Then fade into the air again,And be as if thou hadst not been.
TERRA DI LAVORO
Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meadsUnheard the Garigliano glides along;—The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,The river taciturn of classic song.
The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest,Where mediaeval towns are white on allThe hillsides, and where every mountain's crestIs an Etrurian or a Roman wall.
There is Alagna, where Pope BonifaceWas dragged with contumely from his throne;Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgraceThe Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?
There is Ceprano, where a renegadeWas each Apulian, as great Dante saith,When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayedSpurred on to Benevento and to death.
There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town,Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid lightStill hovers o'er his birthplace like the crownOf splendor seen o'er cities in the night.
Doubled the splendor is, that in its streetsThe Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played,And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeatsIn ponderous folios for scholastics made.
And there, uplifted, like a passing cloudThat pauses on a mountain summit high,Monte Cassino's convent rears its proudAnd venerable walls against the sky.
Well I remember how on foot I climbedThe stony pathway leading to its gate;Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed,Below, the darkening town grew desolate.
Well I remember the low arch and dark,The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide,From which, far down, the valley like a parkVeiled in the evening mists, was dim descried.
The day was dying, and with feeble handsCaressed the mountain-tops; the vales betweenDarkened; the river in the meadowlandsSheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen.
The silence of the place was like a sleep,So full of rest it seemed; each passing treadWas a reverberation from the deepRecesses of the ages that are dead.
For, more than thirteen centuries ago,Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome,A youth disgusted with its vice and woe,Sought in these mountain solitudes a home.
He founded here his Convent and his RuleOf prayer and work, and counted work as prayer;The pen became a clarion, and his schoolFlamed like a beacon in the midnight air.
What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way,Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deploresThe illuminated manuscripts, that layTorn and neglected on the dusty floors?
Boccaccio was a novelist, a childOf fancy and of fiction at the best!This the urbane librarian said, and smiledIncredulous, as at some idle jest.
Upon such themes as these, with one young friarI sat conversing late into the night,Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfireHad burnt its heart out like an anchorite.
And then translated, in my convent cell,Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay,And, as a monk who hears the matin bell,Started from sleep; already it was day.
From the high window I beheld the sceneOn which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,—The mountains and the valley in the sheenOf the bright sun,—and stood as one amazed.
Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing;The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns;Far off the mellow bells began to ringFor matins in the half-awakened towns.
The conflict of the Present and the Past,The ideal and the actual in our life,As on a field of battle held me fast,Where this world and the next world were at strife.
For, as the valley from its sleep awoke,I saw the iron horses of the steamToss to the morning air their plumes of smoke,And woke, as one awaketh from a dream.
Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas.
In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge.
'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?
Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he.
Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines?
Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves!
This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom.
On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these, From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep!
Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.
Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food.
"O brother birds," St. Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
"O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!"
With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.
I am poor and old and blind;The sun burns me, and the windBlows through the city gateAnd covers me with dustFrom the wheels of the augustJustinian the Great.
It was for him I chasedThe Persians o'er wild and waste,As General of the East;Night after night I layIn their camps of yesterday;Their forage was my feast.
For him, with sails of red,And torches at mast-head,Piloting the great fleet,I swept the Afric coastsAnd scattered the Vandal hosts,Like dust in a windy street.
For him I won againThe Ausonian realm and reign,Rome and Parthenope;And all the land was mineFrom the summits of ApennineTo the shores of either sea.
For him, in my feeble age,I dared the battle's rage,To save Byzantium's state,When the tents of Zabergan,Like snow-drifts overranThe road to the Golden Gate.
And for this, for this, behold!Infirm and blind and old,With gray, uncovered head,Beneath the very archOf my triumphal march,I stand and beg my bread!
Methinks I still can hear,Sounding distinct and near,The Vandal monarch's cry,As, captive and disgraced,With majestic step he paced,—"All, all is Vanity!"
Ah! vainest of all thingsIs the gratitude of kings;The plaudits of the crowdAre but the clatter of feetAt midnight in the street,Hollow and restless and loud.
But the bitterest disgraceIs to see forever the faceOf the Monk of Ephesus!The unconquerable willThis, too, can bear;—I stillAm Belisarius!
Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake.
Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow.
Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude.
Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about.
In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene.
Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies.
Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown.
But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise.
Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:—
"Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste!
"Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul"