Vanished like the wind that blows,Whither shall we seek their traceOn earth's face?The gigantic wheel of fate,Crushing all things soon or late,Now a race,Now a single life o'erruns,Now a universe of suns,Now a rose.
Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,And let the sun shine on him as it didHow many thousand years agone! BeneathThis worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.
We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yetTheir ancient majesty; these sightless rimsWhose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tellOf earth's morning-tide when gods did dwellAmidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who wonThe secret soul of Beauty for their own,While all our art but crudely apes their grace.
We gather all the precious relics up,The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft,The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup,The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft.Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from theseUnnumbered long-forgotten histories,The deeds heroic of this mighty man,On whom once more the living daylight beams,To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams,And the abyss of centuries to span.
Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose,How might we meet his searching questionings,Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes,Since his great day whom men call King of Kings,Victorious Agamemnon? How might weThose large, clear eyes confront, which scornfullyWould view us as a poor, degenerate race,Base-souled and mean-proportioned? What replyGive to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry,Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?
What should he find within a world grown cold,Save doubt and trouble? To his sunny creedA thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed.How of the Prince of Peace might he be told,When over half the world the war-cloud lowers?How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours,Who knows the secret now of death and fate!Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame,And mutely we accept the mortal shame,Of men degraded from a high estate.
March 13, 1881.As one who feels the breathless nightmare gripHis heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares,Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip,Now on a tottering pinnacle that dareThe front of heaven, while always unawaresWeird monsters start above, around, beneath,Each glaring from some uglier mask of death,
So the White Czar imperial progress madeThrough terror-haunted days. A shock, a cryWhose echoes ring the globe—the spectre's laid.Hurled o'er the abyss, see the crowned martyr lieResting in peace—fear, change, and death gone by.Fit end for nightmare—mist of blood and tears,Red climax to the slow, abortive years.
The world draws breath—one long, deep-shuddering sigh,At that which dullest brain prefigured clearAs swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky.How heaven-anointed humblest lots appearBeside his glittering eminence of fear;His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates,His golden palace honey-combed with hates.
Well is it done! A most heroic plan,Which after myriad plots succeeds at lastIn robbing of his life this poor old man,Whose sole offense—his birthright—has but passedTo fresher blood, with younger strength recast.What men are these, who, clamoring to be free,Would bestialize the world to what they be?
Whose sons are they who made the snow-wreathed headTheir frenzy's target? In their Russian veins,What alien current urged on to smite him dead,Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains?What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains,So royally endured, no human thrillAwoke, in hearts drunk with the lust to kill?
Not brutes! No tiger of the wilderness,No jackal of the jungle, bears such brandAs man's black heart, who shrinks not to confessThe desperate deed of his deliberate hand.Our kind, our kin, have done this thing. We standBowed earthward, red with shame, to see such wrongProrogue Love's cause and Truth's—God knows how long!
"I would not have," he said,"Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave,Grief's hideous panoply I would not haveRound me when I am dead.
"Music and flowers and light,And choric dances to guitar and flute,Be these around me when my lips are mute,Mine eyes are sealed from sight.
"So let me lie one day,One long, eternal day, in sunshine bathed,In cerements of silken tissue swathed,Smothered 'neath flowers of May."One perfect day of peace,Or ere clean flame consume my fleshly veil,My life—a gilded vapor—shall exhale,Brief as a sigh—and cease.
"But ere the torch be laidTo my unshrinking limbs by some true hand,Athwart the orange-fragrant laughing land,Bring many a dark-eyed maid
"From the bright, sea-kissed town;My beautiful, beloved enemies,Gemmed as the dew, voluptuous as the breeze,Each in her festal gown.
"All those through whom I learnedThe sweet of folly and the pains of love,My Rose, my Star, my Comforter, my Dove,For whom, poor moth, I burned.
"Loves of a day, and hour,Or passions (vowed eternal) of a year,Though each be strange to each, to me all dearAs to the bee the flower.
"Around me they shall moveIn languid contra dances, and shall shedTheir smiling eyebeams as I were not dead,But quick to flash back love.
"Something not alien quiteTo tender ruth, perchance their breast shall fill,Seeing him that was so mobile grown so still,The fiery-veined so white.
"And when the dance is o'er,The pinched guitar, the smitten tambourine,Have ceased their rhythmic beat,—oh, friends of mine,On my rich bier, then pour
"The garlands that ye wear,The happy rose that on your bosom breathes,The fresh-culled clusters and the dewy wreathsThat crown your fragrant hair.
"Though blind, I still shall see,Though dead, shall feel your presence and shall know,I who was beauty's life-long slave, shall soWin her in death to me.
"Thanks, sisters, and farewell!Back to your joys. My brother shall make roomFor my tried sword upon the high-piled bloom,And fire the pinnacle.
"My soul, pure flame, shall leapTo meet its parent essence once againMy body dust and ashes shall remain,Tired heart and brain shall sleep.
"Life has one gate alone,Obscure, beset with peril and fierce pain.Large death has many portals to his fane,Why choose we to make moan?
"Why dwell with worms and clayWhen we may soar through air on wings of flame,Dissolve to small, white dust our perfect frame,And never know decay?
"A brother's pious handThe pure, fire-winnowed ashes shall inurn,And lay them in the orange grove where burnGlobed suns that scent the land.
"The leaf shall be more green,Even for my dust—more snowy-soft the flower,More juicy-sweet the fruit's live pulp—the bowerRicher that I have been.
"For I would not," he said,"Tears and the black pall and the wormy grave,Grief's hideous panoply I would not haveRound me when I am dead."
We sat at twilight nigh the sea,The fog hung gray and weird.Through the thick film uncannilyThe broken moon appeared.
We heard the billows crack and plunge,We saw nor waves nor ships.Earth sucked the vapors like a sponge,The salt spray wet our lips.
Closer the woof of white mist drew,Before, behind, beside.How could that phantom moon break through,Above that shrouded tide?
The roaring waters filled the ear,A white blank foiled the sight.Close-gathering shadows near, more near,Brought the blind, awful night.
O friends who passed unseen, unknown!O dashing, troubled sea!Still stand we on a rock alone,Walled round by mystery.
Down the goldenest of streams,Tide of dreams,The fair cradled man-child drifts;Sways with cadenced motion slow,To and fro,As the mother-foot poised lightly, falls and lifts.
He, the firstling,—he, the lightOf her sight,—He, the breathing pledge of love,'Neath the holy passion lies,Of her eyes,—Smiles to feel the warm, life-giving ray above.
She believes that in his vision,Skies elysianO'er an angel-people shine.Back to gardens of delight,Taking flight,His auroral spirit basks in dreams divine.
But she smiles through anxious tears;Unborn yearsPressing forward, she perceives.Shadowy muffled shapes, they comeDeaf and dumb,Bringing what? dry chaff and tares, or full-eared sheaves?
What for him shall she invoke?Shall the oakBind the man's triumphant brow?Shall his daring foot alightOn the height?Shall he dwell amidst the humble and the low?
Through what tears and sweat and pain,Must he gainFruitage from the tree of life?Shall it yield him bitter flavor?Shall its savorBe as manna midst the turmoil and the strife?
In his cradle slept and smiledThus the childWho as Prince of Peace was hailed.Thus anigh the mother breast,Lulled to rest,Child-Napoleon down the lilied river sailed.
Crowned or crucified—the sameGlows the flameOf her deathless love divine.Still the blessed mother stands,In all lands,As she watched beside thy cradle and by mine.
Whatso gifts the years bestow,Still men know,While she breathes, lives one who sees(Stand they pure or sin-defiled)But the childWhom she crooned to sleep and rocked upon her knee.
Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,Dreamlike before me floating! what abidesBehind thy pearly veil'sOpaque, mysterious woof?
Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-longThick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,Nigh me I still can markCool fields of beaded grass.
No more; for on the rim of the globed worldI seem to stand and stare at nothingness.But songs of unseen birdsAnd tranquil roll of waves
Bring sweet assurance of continuous lifeBeyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams,Of tissue subtler stillThan the wreathed fog, arise,
And cheat my brain with airy vanishingsAnd mystic glories of the world beyond.A whole enchanted townThy baffling folds conceal—
An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,Fretted with burning stones,And trellised with red gold.
Through spacious streets, where running waters flow,Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the broad-leaved palm,Past the gay-decked bazaars,Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.
Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.The sultry air is spicedWith fragrance of rich gums,
And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,Flushed like a musky peach,Peers down upon the mart!
From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised headShe hath cast back the milk-white silken veil:'Midst the blank blackness thereShe blossoms like a rose.
Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes,And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam?Behold her smile on meWith honeyed, scarlet lips!
Divine Scheherazade! I am thine.I come! I come!—Hark! from some far-off mosqueThe shrill muezzin callsThe hour of silent prayer,
And from the lattice he hath scared my love.The lattice vanisheth itself—the street,The mart, the Orient town;Only through still, soft air
That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hearThe distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyesStands the white wall of mist,Blending with vaporous skies.
Elusive gossamer, imperviousEven to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts!With what a jealous artThy secret thou dost guard!
Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds,Within an opal hollow, there abidesThe lady of the mist,The Undine of the air—
A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form,Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair,In waving raiment swathedOf changing, irised hues.
Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazedThe freshened grass, a richer emerald glows:Into each flower-cupHer cool dews she distills.
She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks,She knows the green soft hollows of their sides,And unafraid she floatsO'er the vast-circled seas.
She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams,Lying, night-long upon the moist, dark earth,And leave her seeded pearlsWith morning on the grass.
Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courtsOf her fantastic palace I might pass,And reach the inmost shrineOf her chaste solitude,
And feel her cool and dewy fingers pressMy mortal-fevered brow, while in my heartShe poured with tender loveHer healing Lethe-balm!
See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves!Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streamsUpon a newborn worldAnd laughing summer seas.
Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glanceThrough crystal air. On the horizon's marge,Like a huge purple wraith,The dusky fog retreats.
"Oh brew me a potion strong and good!One golden drop in his wineShall charm his sense and fire his blood,And bend his will to mine."
Poor child of passion! ask of meElixir of death or sleep,Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,And woman must wait and weep.
Venus.Frosty lies the winter-landscape,In the twilight golden-green.Down the Park's deserted alleys,Naked elms stand stark and lean.
Dumb the murmur of the fountain,Birds have flown from lawn and hill.But while yonder star's ascendant,Love triumphal reigneth still.
See the keen flame throb and tremble,Brightening in the darkening night,Breathing like a thing of passion,In the sky's smooth chrysolite.
Not beneath the moon, oh lover,Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire.Speak to-night! The gods are with theeBurning with a kindred fire.
What art thou doing here, O Imagination? Goaway I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didstcome, for I want thee not. But thou art comeaccording to thy old fashion. I am not angrywith thee—only go away.—Marcus AntoninusLilac hazes veil the skies.Languid sighsBreathes the mild, caressing air.Pink as coral's branching sprays,Orchard waysWith the blossomed peach are fair.
Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,Poureth blissIn this craving soul of mine,And my heart her flower-cupLifteth up,Thirsting for the draught divine.
Swift the liquid golden flameThrough my frameSets my throbbing veins afire.Bright, alluring dreams arise,Brim mine eyesWith the tears of strong desire.
All familiar scenes anearDisappear—Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.Moorish spires and turrets fairCleave the air,Arabesqued on skies of gold.
Low, my spirit, this May morn,Outward borne,Over seas hath taken wing:Where the mediaeval town,Like a crown,Wears the garland of the Spring.
Light and sound and odors sweetFill the street;Gypsy girls are selling flowers.Lean hidalgos turn aside,Amorous-eyed,'Neath the grim cathedral towers.
Oh, to be in Spain to-day,Where the MayRecks no whit of good or evil,Love and only love breathes she!Oh, to be'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!
Or on such a day to glideWith the tideOf the berylline lagoon,Through the streets that mirror heaven,Crystal paven,In the warm Venetian noon.
At the prow the gondolierMay not hear,May not see our furtive kiss;But he lends with cadenced strainThe refrainTo our ripe and silent bliss.
Golden shadows, silver light,Burnish brightAir and water, domes and skies;As in some ambrosial dream,On the streamFloats our bark in magic wise.
Oh, to float day long just so!Naught to knowOf the trouble, toil, and fret!This is love, and this is May:YesterdayAnd to-morrow to forget!
Whither hast thou, Fancy free,Guided me,Wild Bohemian sister dear?All thy gypsy soul is stirredSince yon birdWarbled that the Spring was here.
Tempt no more! I may not follow,Like the swallow,Gayly on the track of Spring.Bounden by an iron fate,I must wait,Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.
Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skiesBehold the Spirit of the musky South,A creole with still-burning, languid eyes,Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:Swathed in spun gauze is she,From fibres of her own anana tree.
Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees,Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest,Her airy hammock swings,And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.
How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreathTwines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,While movelessly she liesWith lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.
Full well knows she how wide and fair extendHer groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades,Majestic streams that indolently wendThrough lush savanna or dense forest shades,Where the brown buzzard fliesTo broad bayou 'neath hazy-golden skies.
Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom,Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom—Where from stale waters deadOft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.
Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,—Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;And ever midst those verdant solitudesThe soldier's wooden cross,O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.
Was her a dream of empire? was it sin?And is it well that all was borne in vain?She knows no more than one who slow doth win,After fierce fever, conscious life again,Too tired, too weak, too sad,By the new light to be stirred or glad.
From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,From broad plantations where swart freemen bendBronzed backs in willing labor, from her storeOf golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascendLife-currents of pure health:Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.
Yet now how listless and how still she lies,Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,Rocked in her hammock 'neath her native skies,With the pathetic, passive, broken mienOf one who, sorely proved,Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!
But look! along the wide-branched, dewy gladeGlimmers the dawn: the light palmetto-treesAnd cypresses reissue from the shade,And SHE hath wakened. Through clear air she seesThe pledge, the brightening ray,And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.
I.
Over the lamp-lit street,Trodden by hurrying feet,Where mostly pulse and beatLife's throbbing veins,See where the April star,Blue-bright as sapphires are,Hangs in deep heavens far,Waxes and wanes.
Strangely alive it seems,Darting keen, dazzling gleams,Veiling anon its beams,Large, clear, and pure.In the broad western skyNo orb may shine anigh,No lesser radiancyMay there endure.
Spring airs are blowing sweet:Low in the dusky streetStar-beams and eye-beams meet.Rapt in his dreams,All through the crowded martPoet with swift-stirred heart,Passing beneath, must start,Thrilled by those gleams.
Naught doth he note anear,Fain through Night's veil to peer,Reach that resplendent sphere,Reading her sign.Where point those sharp, thin rays,Guiding his weary maze,Blesseth she or betrays,Who may divine?
"Guard me, celestial light,Lofty, serenely bright:Lead my halt feet aright,"Prayerful he speaks."For a new ray hath shoneOver my spirit lone.Be this new soul the onewhom my soul seeks."
II.
Beside her casement oped the maiden sits,Where the mild evening spirit of the SpringGently between the city's homesteads flitsTo kiss her brows, and floats on languid wing,Vague longings in her breast awakening.While her heart trembles 'neath those dim, deep skies,As the quick sea that 'neath the globed moon lies.
Where her eyes rest the full-orbed evening starBurns with white flame: it beckons, shrinks, dilates.She, dazzled by that shining world afar,May not withdraw her gaze: breathless she waits.Some promised joy from Heaven's very gatesUnto her soul seems proffered. When shall beThe bright fulfilment of that star's decree?
Nor glad nor sad is she: she doth not knowThat through the city's throng one threads his way,Thrilled likewise by that planet's mystic glow,And hastes to seek her. What sweet change shall swayHer spirit at his coming? What new rayUpon his shadowy life from her shall fall?The silent star burns on, and knoweth all.
Ten o'clock: the broken moonHangs not yet a half hour high,Yellow as a shield of brass,In the dewy air of June,Poised between the vaulted skyAnd the ocean's liquid glass.
Earth lies in the shadow still;Low black bushes, trees, and lawnNight's ambrosial dews absorb;Through the foliage creeps a thrill,Whispering of yon spectral dawnAnd the hidden climbing orb.
Higher, higher, gathering light,Veiling with a golden gauzeAll the trembling atmosphere,See, the rayless disk grows white!Hark, the glittering billows pause!Faint, far sounds possess the ear.
Elves on such a night as thisSpin their rings upon the grass;On the beach the water-fayGreets her lover with a kiss;Through the air swift spirits pass,Laugh, caress, and float away.
Shut thy lids and thou shalt seeAngel faces wreathed with light,Mystic forms long vanished hence.Ah, too fine, too rare, they beFor the grosser mortal sight,And they foil our waking sense.
Yet we feel them floating near,Know that we are not alone,Though our open eyes beholdNothing save the moon's bright sphere,In the vacant heavens shown,And the ocean's path of gold.
By the impulse of my will,By the red flame in my blood,By me nerves' electric thrill,By the passion of my mood,My concentrated desire,My undying, desperate love,I ignore Fate, I defy her,Iron-hearted Death I move.When the town lies numb with sleep,Here, round-eyed I sit; my breathQuickly stirred, my flesh a-creep,And I force the gates of death.I nor move nor speak—you'd deemFrom my quiet face and hands,I were tranced—but in her dream,SHE responds, she understands.I have power on what is not,Or on what has ceased to be,From that deep, earth-hollowed spot,I can lift her up to me.And, or ere I am awareThrough the closed and curtained door,Comes my lady white and fair,And embraces me once more.Though the clay clings to her gown,Yet all heaven is in her eyes;Cool, kind fingers press mine eyes,To my soul her soul replies.But when breaks the common dawn,And the city wakes—behold!My shy phantom is withdrawn,And I shiver lone and cold.And I know when she has left,She is stronger far than I,And more subtly spun her weft,Than my human wizardry.Though I force her to my will,By the red flame in my blood,By my nerves' electric thrill,By the passion of my mood,Yet all day a ghost am I.Nerves unstrung, spent will, dull brain.I achieve, attain, but die,And she claims me hers again.
Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high,In the glowing August sky,Quenching all her neighbor stars,Save the steady flame of Mars.White as silver shines the sea,Far-off sails like phantoms be,Gliding o'er that lake of light,Vanishing in nether night.Heavy hangs the tasseled corn,Sighing for the cordial morn;But the marshy-meadows bare,Love this spectral-lighted air,Drink the dews and lift their song,Chirp of crickets all night long;Earth and sea enchanted lie'Neath that moon-usurped sky.
To the faces of our friendsUnfamiliar traits she lends—Quaint, white witch, who looketh downWith a glamour all her own.Hushed are laughter, jest, and speech,Mute and heedless each of each,In the glory wan we sit,Visions vague before us flit;Side by side, yet worlds apart,Heart becometh strange to heart.
Slowly in a moved voice, then,Ralph, the artist spake again—"Does not that weird orb unrollScenes phantasmal to your soul?As I gaze thereon, I swear,Peopled grows the vacant air,Fables, myths alone are real,White-clad sylph-like figures steal'Twixt the bushes, o'er the lawn,Goddess, nymph, undine, and faun.Yonder, see the Willis dance,Faces pale with stony glance;They are maids who died unwed,And they quit their gloomy bed,Hungry still for human pleasure,Here to trip a moonlit measure.Near the shore the mermaids play,Floating on the cool, white spray,Leaping from the glittering surfTo the dark and fragrant turf,Where the frolic trolls, and elvesDaintily disport themselves.All the shapes by poet's brain,Fashioned, live for me again,In this spiritual light,Less than day, yet more than night.What a world! a waking dream,All things other than they seem,Borrowing a finer grace,From yon golden globe in space;Touched with wild, romantic glory,Foliage fresh and billows hoary,Hollows bathed in yellow haze,Hills distinct and fields of maize,Ancient legends come to mind.Who would marvel should he find,In the copse or nigh the spring,Summer fairies gambolingWhere the honey-bees do suck,Mab and Ariel and Puck?Ah! no modern mortal seesCreatures delicate as these.All the simple faith has goneWhich their world was builded on.Now the moonbeams coldly glanceOn no gardens of romance;To prosaic senses dull,Baldur's dead, the Beautiful,Hark, the cry rings overhead,'Universal Pan is dead!'""Requiescant!" Claude's grave toneThrilled us strangely. "I am oneWho would not restore that Past,Beauty will immortal last,Though the beautiful must die—This the ages verify.And had Pan deserved the nameWhich his votaries misclaim,He were living with us yet.I behold, without regret,Beauty in new forms recast,Truth emerging from the vast,Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere,Making the obscure air clear.He shall be of bards the king,Who, in worthy verse, shall singAll the conquests of the hour,Stealing no fictitious powerFrom the classic types outworn,But his rhythmic line adornWith the marvels of the real.He the baseless feud shall healThat estrangeth wide apartScience from her sister Art.Hold! look through this glass for me?Artist, tell me what you see?""I!" cried Ralph. "I see in placeOf Astarte's silver face,Or veiled Isis' radiant robe,Nothing but a rugged globeSeamed with awful rents and scars.And below no longer Mars,Fierce, flame-crested god of war,But a lurid, flickering star,Fashioned like our mother earth,Vexed, belike, with death and birth."