In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelierUprummaged. When and where was never clearNor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloomResisting inquisition. I opineIt is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,Are they deniable?—Distinguished graceAnd the pure oval of the noble faceTarnished in color badly. Half in lightExtend it so. Incline. The exquisiteExpression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;Imperial beauty; each, an icy thornOf light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuseOf patience.—Often, vaguely visible,The portrait fills each feature, making swellThe heart with hope: avoiding face and hairStart out in living hues; astonished, "There!The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo!You hold a blur; an undetermined glowDislimns a daub.—Restore?—Ah, I have triedOur best restorers, but it has defied.Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghostLives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; daredNot tell he worshiped. From his window stared,Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when shePassed paged to Court. Her cold nobilityLoved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and pliedA feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.The narrow Judengasse: gables frownAround a humpbacked usurer's, where brownAnd dirty in a corner long it lay,Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,Retables done in tempora and oldPanels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings coldOf martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lotOf praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;A crucifix and rosary; inlaidArms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayedNïello of Byzantium; rich work,In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,There holy patens.So. My ancestor,The first De Herancour, esteemed by farThis piece most precious, most desirable;Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked wellIn the dark paneling above the oldHearth of his room. The head's religious gold,The soft severity of the nun face,Made of the room an apostolic placeRevered and feared.—Like some lived scene I seeThat gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent fieldThree sable mallets—arms of Herancour—Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—A vellum volume of black-lettered text.Near by a taper, blinking as if vexedWith silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.And then I seem to see again the hall,The stairway leading to that room.—Then allThe terror of that night of blood and crimePasses before me.—It is Catherine's time:The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couchAnd chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,The stir of searching steel.What find they hereOn St. Bartholomew's?—A HuguenotDead in his chair! Eyes violently shotWith horror, fastened on a portrait there;Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hairOf finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—Looking exalted visitation,—leanedFrom its black panel; in its eyes a hateDemonic; hair—a glowing auburn, lateA dull, enduring golden."Just one threadOf the fierce hair around his throat," they said,"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring dead."
In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelierUprummaged. When and where was never clearNor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloomResisting inquisition. I opineIt is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,Are they deniable?—Distinguished graceAnd the pure oval of the noble faceTarnished in color badly. Half in lightExtend it so. Incline. The exquisiteExpression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;Imperial beauty; each, an icy thornOf light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuseOf patience.—Often, vaguely visible,The portrait fills each feature, making swellThe heart with hope: avoiding face and hairStart out in living hues; astonished, "There!The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo!You hold a blur; an undetermined glowDislimns a daub.—Restore?—Ah, I have triedOur best restorers, but it has defied.Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghostLives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; daredNot tell he worshiped. From his window stared,Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when shePassed paged to Court. Her cold nobilityLoved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and pliedA feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.The narrow Judengasse: gables frownAround a humpbacked usurer's, where brownAnd dirty in a corner long it lay,Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,Retables done in tempora and oldPanels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings coldOf martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lotOf praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;A crucifix and rosary; inlaidArms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayedNïello of Byzantium; rich work,In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,There holy patens.So. My ancestor,The first De Herancour, esteemed by farThis piece most precious, most desirable;Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked wellIn the dark paneling above the oldHearth of his room. The head's religious gold,The soft severity of the nun face,Made of the room an apostolic placeRevered and feared.—Like some lived scene I seeThat gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent fieldThree sable mallets—arms of Herancour—Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—A vellum volume of black-lettered text.Near by a taper, blinking as if vexedWith silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.And then I seem to see again the hall,The stairway leading to that room.—Then allThe terror of that night of blood and crimePasses before me.—It is Catherine's time:The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couchAnd chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,The stir of searching steel.What find they hereOn St. Bartholomew's?—A HuguenotDead in his chair! Eyes violently shotWith horror, fastened on a portrait there;Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hairOf finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—Looking exalted visitation,—leanedFrom its black panel; in its eyes a hateDemonic; hair—a glowing auburn, lateA dull, enduring golden."Just one threadOf the fierce hair around his throat," they said,"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring dead."
In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelierUprummaged. When and where was never clearNor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloomResisting inquisition. I opineIt is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,Are they deniable?—Distinguished graceAnd the pure oval of the noble faceTarnished in color badly. Half in lightExtend it so. Incline. The exquisiteExpression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;Imperial beauty; each, an icy thornOf light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuseOf patience.—Often, vaguely visible,The portrait fills each feature, making swellThe heart with hope: avoiding face and hairStart out in living hues; astonished, "There!The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo!You hold a blur; an undetermined glowDislimns a daub.—Restore?—Ah, I have triedOur best restorers, but it has defied.
In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelier
Uprummaged. When and where was never clear
Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloom
Resisting inquisition. I opine
It is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,
Are they deniable?—Distinguished grace
And the pure oval of the noble face
Tarnished in color badly. Half in light
Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite
Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;
Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn
Of light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!
Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse
Of patience.—Often, vaguely visible,
The portrait fills each feature, making swell
The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair
Start out in living hues; astonished, "There!
The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo!
You hold a blur; an undetermined glow
Dislimns a daub.—Restore?—Ah, I have tried
Our best restorers, but it has defied.
Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghostLives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; daredNot tell he worshiped. From his window stared,Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when shePassed paged to Court. Her cold nobilityLoved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and pliedA feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.
Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghost
Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;
A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared
Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared,
Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when she
Passed paged to Court. Her cold nobility
Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied
A feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.
The narrow Judengasse: gables frownAround a humpbacked usurer's, where brownAnd dirty in a corner long it lay,Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,Retables done in tempora and oldPanels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings coldOf martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lotOf praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;A crucifix and rosary; inlaidArms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayedNïello of Byzantium; rich work,In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,There holy patens.
The narrow Judengasse: gables frown
Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown
And dirty in a corner long it lay,
Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,
Retables done in tempora and old
Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold
Of martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—
Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lot
Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,
'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;
A crucifix and rosary; inlaid
Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed
Nïello of Byzantium; rich work,
In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,
There holy patens.
So. My ancestor,The first De Herancour, esteemed by farThis piece most precious, most desirable;Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked wellIn the dark paneling above the oldHearth of his room. The head's religious gold,The soft severity of the nun face,Made of the room an apostolic placeRevered and feared.—
So. My ancestor,
The first De Herancour, esteemed by far
This piece most precious, most desirable;
Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well
In the dark paneling above the old
Hearth of his room. The head's religious gold,
The soft severity of the nun face,
Made of the room an apostolic place
Revered and feared.—
Like some lived scene I seeThat gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent fieldThree sable mallets—arms of Herancour—Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—A vellum volume of black-lettered text.Near by a taper, blinking as if vexedWith silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.
Like some lived scene I see
That gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:
Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,
Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent field
Three sable mallets—arms of Herancour—
Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,
Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—
Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—
A vellum volume of black-lettered text.
Near by a taper, blinking as if vexed
With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,
Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.
And then I seem to see again the hall,The stairway leading to that room.—Then allThe terror of that night of blood and crimePasses before me.—It is Catherine's time:The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couchAnd chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,The stir of searching steel.
And then I seem to see again the hall,
The stairway leading to that room.—Then all
The terror of that night of blood and crime
Passes before me.—It is Catherine's time:
The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,
Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:
Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couch
And chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,
Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,
The stir of searching steel.
What find they hereOn St. Bartholomew's?—A HuguenotDead in his chair! Eyes violently shotWith horror, fastened on a portrait there;Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hairOf finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—Looking exalted visitation,—leanedFrom its black panel; in its eyes a hateDemonic; hair—a glowing auburn, lateA dull, enduring golden.
What find they here
On St. Bartholomew's?—A Huguenot
Dead in his chair! Eyes violently shot
With horror, fastened on a portrait there;
Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair
Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—
Looking exalted visitation,—leaned
From its black panel; in its eyes a hate
Demonic; hair—a glowing auburn, late
A dull, enduring golden.
"Just one threadOf the fierce hair around his throat," they said,"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring dead."
"Just one thread
Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said,
"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring dead."
Against each prince now she had held her own,An easy victor for the seven yearsO'er kings and sons of kings—Eddetma, she,Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,Espoused their ways to win beyond their strengthThrough martial exercise and hero deeds:She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,Had heralds cry through every kingdom known—"Eddetma weds with none but him who provesHimself her master in the test of arms;Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"And many princes came to woo with arms,Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,Proud-palanquined from principalitiesOf Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.Though she was womanly as that Empress ofThe proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, andMore beautiful, yet she had held her own.To Behram of the Territories, oneSon of a Persian monarch swaying kings,Came bruit of her and her great victories,Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength.Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court,With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,To the rich city where her father reigned,Its seven citadels set above the sea,Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world;And messengered the monarch with a giftOf savage vessels wroughten out of gold,Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.Vizier-ambassadored the old king gaveHis answer to the suitor:—"I, my son,—What grace have I beyond the grace of God?What power is mine but a material?What rule have I but a mere temporal?Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shadeLess, God invests with power but of man;Yea! and man's right is but the right of God;Histhe dominion of the secret soul—And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,By all her vestal soul, that none shall knowHer but her better in the listed field,Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust.She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.—Allah is great!—My greeting and farewell."And so the lists of war and love arose,Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,On a great steed she came; Davidean crestAnd hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rodeTo meet her; on his arm a mighty shieldOf Syrian silver high embossed with gold.So clanged the prologue of the battle. AsCloser it waxed, Prince Behram, who a whileWithheld his valor,—in that she he lovedOpposed him and beset him, woman whomHe had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—Beheld his folly: how he were undoneWith shining shame unless he strove withal,Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinetThat helmed the haughty face that long had scornedThe wide world's vanquished royalty, and soRushed on his own defeat. For, like untoA cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, thereShe sails a silver aspect, so the helm,Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,And glorious, glowing face. By his own blowWas Behram vanquished. All his wavering strengthSwerved from its purpose. With no final strokeStunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,All his strong life absorbed into her face,All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,Tamed and obedient to her word and look.Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,One trophy more to added victories:Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;But on the seventh, casting stupor off,Rose, and the straitness of the case, that heldHim as with manacles of knitted fire,Considered—and decided on a way....Once when Eddetma with an houri bandOf high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,—Where marble Peris poured a diamond rainIn scooped cornelian,—one, a dim, hoar head,—A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,—Bent spreading gems and priceless ornamentsOf jewelled amulets of hollow goldSweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask—What did the ancient with his riches there?Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,"To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughedAs oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,With orient midnight in her starry eyes,And tropic music on her languid tongue,"And what ifIshould wed with thee, O beardGrayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"—"One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,"He; and the humor took them till, like birdsThat sing among the spice-trees and the palms,The garden pealed with maiden merriment.Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him,Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;And took Ansada's hand and laid it inThe old man's staggering hand, and he unbentHis crookéd back and on his staff aroseWrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,And left them laughing at his foolish beard.Now on the next day, as she took her easeWith her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens whoSo many royal tulips seemed,—behold,Bowed with white years, upon a flowery swardThe ancient with new jewelry and gemsWherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and litGlimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,As yesternoon, wherefore the father thereDisplayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.—"Another marriage and another kiss?—What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tallDiarra with the midnight in her hair,Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;And took the dotard's jewels with the kissIn merry mockery.Ere the morrow's dawnBethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smilesAnd withered kisses still divide his wealth?While I stand idle, lose the caravanWhose least is notable?—I too will wed,Betide me what betides."And with the mornBefore the man,—for privily she came,—Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,In humbler raiment. Now the ancient sawAnd knew her for the princess that she was,And kindling gladness of the knowledge madeTwo sparkling forges of his deep-set eyesBeneath the ashes of his priestly brows.Not timidly she came; but coy approachBecame a maiden of Eddetma's suite.She, gazing on the jewels he had spreadBeneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:—"The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce."And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"—Responsive to her quavering request,—"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?And thou wouldst wed?—Then let us not delay.—Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heapedHer with barbaric jewelry and gems,And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,And from the man all palsied hoariness.Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,A god in ardent capabilities,Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.
Against each prince now she had held her own,An easy victor for the seven yearsO'er kings and sons of kings—Eddetma, she,Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,Espoused their ways to win beyond their strengthThrough martial exercise and hero deeds:She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,Had heralds cry through every kingdom known—"Eddetma weds with none but him who provesHimself her master in the test of arms;Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"And many princes came to woo with arms,Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,Proud-palanquined from principalitiesOf Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.Though she was womanly as that Empress ofThe proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, andMore beautiful, yet she had held her own.To Behram of the Territories, oneSon of a Persian monarch swaying kings,Came bruit of her and her great victories,Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength.Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court,With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,To the rich city where her father reigned,Its seven citadels set above the sea,Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world;And messengered the monarch with a giftOf savage vessels wroughten out of gold,Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.Vizier-ambassadored the old king gaveHis answer to the suitor:—"I, my son,—What grace have I beyond the grace of God?What power is mine but a material?What rule have I but a mere temporal?Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shadeLess, God invests with power but of man;Yea! and man's right is but the right of God;Histhe dominion of the secret soul—And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,By all her vestal soul, that none shall knowHer but her better in the listed field,Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust.She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.—Allah is great!—My greeting and farewell."And so the lists of war and love arose,Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,On a great steed she came; Davidean crestAnd hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rodeTo meet her; on his arm a mighty shieldOf Syrian silver high embossed with gold.So clanged the prologue of the battle. AsCloser it waxed, Prince Behram, who a whileWithheld his valor,—in that she he lovedOpposed him and beset him, woman whomHe had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—Beheld his folly: how he were undoneWith shining shame unless he strove withal,Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinetThat helmed the haughty face that long had scornedThe wide world's vanquished royalty, and soRushed on his own defeat. For, like untoA cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, thereShe sails a silver aspect, so the helm,Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,And glorious, glowing face. By his own blowWas Behram vanquished. All his wavering strengthSwerved from its purpose. With no final strokeStunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,All his strong life absorbed into her face,All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,Tamed and obedient to her word and look.Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,One trophy more to added victories:Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;But on the seventh, casting stupor off,Rose, and the straitness of the case, that heldHim as with manacles of knitted fire,Considered—and decided on a way....Once when Eddetma with an houri bandOf high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,—Where marble Peris poured a diamond rainIn scooped cornelian,—one, a dim, hoar head,—A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,—Bent spreading gems and priceless ornamentsOf jewelled amulets of hollow goldSweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask—What did the ancient with his riches there?Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,"To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughedAs oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,With orient midnight in her starry eyes,And tropic music on her languid tongue,"And what ifIshould wed with thee, O beardGrayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"—"One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,"He; and the humor took them till, like birdsThat sing among the spice-trees and the palms,The garden pealed with maiden merriment.Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him,Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;And took Ansada's hand and laid it inThe old man's staggering hand, and he unbentHis crookéd back and on his staff aroseWrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,And left them laughing at his foolish beard.Now on the next day, as she took her easeWith her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens whoSo many royal tulips seemed,—behold,Bowed with white years, upon a flowery swardThe ancient with new jewelry and gemsWherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and litGlimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,As yesternoon, wherefore the father thereDisplayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.—"Another marriage and another kiss?—What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tallDiarra with the midnight in her hair,Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;And took the dotard's jewels with the kissIn merry mockery.Ere the morrow's dawnBethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smilesAnd withered kisses still divide his wealth?While I stand idle, lose the caravanWhose least is notable?—I too will wed,Betide me what betides."And with the mornBefore the man,—for privily she came,—Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,In humbler raiment. Now the ancient sawAnd knew her for the princess that she was,And kindling gladness of the knowledge madeTwo sparkling forges of his deep-set eyesBeneath the ashes of his priestly brows.Not timidly she came; but coy approachBecame a maiden of Eddetma's suite.She, gazing on the jewels he had spreadBeneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:—"The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce."And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"—Responsive to her quavering request,—"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?And thou wouldst wed?—Then let us not delay.—Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heapedHer with barbaric jewelry and gems,And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,And from the man all palsied hoariness.Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,A god in ardent capabilities,Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.
Against each prince now she had held her own,An easy victor for the seven yearsO'er kings and sons of kings—Eddetma, she,Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,Espoused their ways to win beyond their strengthThrough martial exercise and hero deeds:She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,Had heralds cry through every kingdom known—"Eddetma weds with none but him who provesHimself her master in the test of arms;Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"And many princes came to woo with arms,Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,Proud-palanquined from principalitiesOf Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.Though she was womanly as that Empress ofThe proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, andMore beautiful, yet she had held her own.
Against each prince now she had held her own,
An easy victor for the seven years
O'er kings and sons of kings—Eddetma, she,
Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,
Espoused their ways to win beyond their strength
Through martial exercise and hero deeds:
She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,
Had heralds cry through every kingdom known—
"Eddetma weds with none but him who proves
Himself her master in the test of arms;
Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,
So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,
Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,
Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,
The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"
And many princes came to woo with arms,
Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;
Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,
Proud-palanquined from principalities
Of Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.
Though she was womanly as that Empress of
The proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, and
More beautiful, yet she had held her own.
To Behram of the Territories, oneSon of a Persian monarch swaying kings,Came bruit of her and her great victories,Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength.Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court,With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,To the rich city where her father reigned,Its seven citadels set above the sea,Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world;And messengered the monarch with a giftOf savage vessels wroughten out of gold,Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.Vizier-ambassadored the old king gaveHis answer to the suitor:—
To Behram of the Territories, one
Son of a Persian monarch swaying kings,
Came bruit of her and her great victories,
Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength.
Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court,
With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,
To the rich city where her father reigned,
Its seven citadels set above the sea,
Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world;
And messengered the monarch with a gift
Of savage vessels wroughten out of gold,
Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.
Vizier-ambassadored the old king gave
His answer to the suitor:—
"I, my son,—What grace have I beyond the grace of God?What power is mine but a material?What rule have I but a mere temporal?Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shadeLess, God invests with power but of man;Yea! and man's right is but the right of God;Histhe dominion of the secret soul—And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,By all her vestal soul, that none shall knowHer but her better in the listed field,Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust.She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.—Allah is great!—My greeting and farewell."
"I, my son,—
What grace have I beyond the grace of God?
What power is mine but a material?
What rule have I but a mere temporal?
Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shade
Less, God invests with power but of man;
Yea! and man's right is but the right of God;
Histhe dominion of the secret soul—
And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,
By all her vestal soul, that none shall know
Her but her better in the listed field,
Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust.
She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.—
Allah is great!—My greeting and farewell."
And so the lists of war and love arose,Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,On a great steed she came; Davidean crestAnd hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rodeTo meet her; on his arm a mighty shieldOf Syrian silver high embossed with gold.So clanged the prologue of the battle. AsCloser it waxed, Prince Behram, who a whileWithheld his valor,—in that she he lovedOpposed him and beset him, woman whomHe had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—Beheld his folly: how he were undoneWith shining shame unless he strove withal,Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinetThat helmed the haughty face that long had scornedThe wide world's vanquished royalty, and soRushed on his own defeat. For, like untoA cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, thereShe sails a silver aspect, so the helm,Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,And glorious, glowing face. By his own blowWas Behram vanquished. All his wavering strengthSwerved from its purpose. With no final strokeStunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,All his strong life absorbed into her face,All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,Tamed and obedient to her word and look.Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,One trophy more to added victories:Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.
And so the lists of war and love arose,
Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.
Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,
On a great steed she came; Davidean crest
And hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,
Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rode
To meet her; on his arm a mighty shield
Of Syrian silver high embossed with gold.
So clanged the prologue of the battle. As
Closer it waxed, Prince Behram, who a while
Withheld his valor,—in that she he loved
Opposed him and beset him, woman whom
He had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—
Beheld his folly: how he were undone
With shining shame unless he strove withal,
Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinet
That helmed the haughty face that long had scorned
The wide world's vanquished royalty, and so
Rushed on his own defeat. For, like unto
A cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,
That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, there
She sails a silver aspect, so the helm,
Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,
And glorious, glowing face. By his own blow
Was Behram vanquished. All his wavering strength
Swerved from its purpose. With no final stroke
Stunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,
All his strong life absorbed into her face,
All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,
Tamed and obedient to her word and look.
Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,
Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,
One trophy more to added victories:
Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;
Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;
And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.
Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;But on the seventh, casting stupor off,Rose, and the straitness of the case, that heldHim as with manacles of knitted fire,Considered—and decided on a way....
Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;
But on the seventh, casting stupor off,
Rose, and the straitness of the case, that held
Him as with manacles of knitted fire,
Considered—and decided on a way....
Once when Eddetma with an houri bandOf high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,—Where marble Peris poured a diamond rainIn scooped cornelian,—one, a dim, hoar head,—A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,—Bent spreading gems and priceless ornamentsOf jewelled amulets of hollow goldSweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask—What did the ancient with his riches there?Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,"To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughedAs oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,With orient midnight in her starry eyes,And tropic music on her languid tongue,"And what ifIshould wed with thee, O beardGrayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"—"One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,"He; and the humor took them till, like birdsThat sing among the spice-trees and the palms,The garden pealed with maiden merriment.
Once when Eddetma with an houri band
Of high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,
In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,
Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,—
Where marble Peris poured a diamond rain
In scooped cornelian,—one, a dim, hoar head,—
A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,—
Bent spreading gems and priceless ornaments
Of jewelled amulets of hollow gold
Sweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;
Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;
Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.
Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask—
What did the ancient with his riches there?
Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,
"To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughed
As oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,
With orient midnight in her starry eyes,
And tropic music on her languid tongue,
"And what ifIshould wed with thee, O beard
Grayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"—
"One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,"
He; and the humor took them till, like birds
That sing among the spice-trees and the palms,
The garden pealed with maiden merriment.
Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him,Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;And took Ansada's hand and laid it inThe old man's staggering hand, and he unbentHis crookéd back and on his staff aroseWrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,And left them laughing at his foolish beard.Now on the next day, as she took her easeWith her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens whoSo many royal tulips seemed,—behold,Bowed with white years, upon a flowery swardThe ancient with new jewelry and gemsWherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and litGlimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,As yesternoon, wherefore the father thereDisplayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.—"Another marriage and another kiss?—What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tallDiarra with the midnight in her hair,Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;And took the dotard's jewels with the kissIn merry mockery.
Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him,
Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,
And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;
And took Ansada's hand and laid it in
The old man's staggering hand, and he unbent
His crookéd back and on his staff arose
Wrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,
And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,
And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,
And left them laughing at his foolish beard.
Now on the next day, as she took her ease
With her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens who
So many royal tulips seemed,—behold,
Bowed with white years, upon a flowery sward
The ancient with new jewelry and gems
Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and lit
Glimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,
Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.
And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,
As yesternoon, wherefore the father there
Displayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.—
"Another marriage and another kiss?—
What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?
O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!
O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!
Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tall
Diarra with the midnight in her hair,
Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;
And took the dotard's jewels with the kiss
In merry mockery.
Ere the morrow's dawnBethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smilesAnd withered kisses still divide his wealth?While I stand idle, lose the caravanWhose least is notable?—I too will wed,Betide me what betides."
Ere the morrow's dawn
Bethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,
Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smiles
And withered kisses still divide his wealth?
While I stand idle, lose the caravan
Whose least is notable?—I too will wed,
Betide me what betides."
And with the mornBefore the man,—for privily she came,—Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,In humbler raiment. Now the ancient sawAnd knew her for the princess that she was,And kindling gladness of the knowledge madeTwo sparkling forges of his deep-set eyesBeneath the ashes of his priestly brows.Not timidly she came; but coy approachBecame a maiden of Eddetma's suite.She, gazing on the jewels he had spreadBeneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:—"The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce."And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"—Responsive to her quavering request,—"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?And thou wouldst wed?—Then let us not delay.—Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heapedHer with barbaric jewelry and gems,And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,And from the man all palsied hoariness.Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,A god in ardent capabilities,Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.
And with the morn
Before the man,—for privily she came,—
Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,
In humbler raiment. Now the ancient saw
And knew her for the princess that she was,
And kindling gladness of the knowledge made
Two sparkling forges of his deep-set eyes
Beneath the ashes of his priestly brows.
Not timidly she came; but coy approach
Became a maiden of Eddetma's suite.
She, gazing on the jewels he had spread
Beneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:—
"The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.
Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.
Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce."
And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"—
Responsive to her quavering request,—
"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?
And thou wouldst wed?—Then let us not delay.—
Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heaped
Her with barbaric jewelry and gems,
And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.
Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,
And from the man all palsied hoariness.
Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,
A god in ardent capabilities,
Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,
Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,
Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.
To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo.
What doth the Archbishop, his chapter ofToledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull—Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:Spain's King is less than king as I am lessThan Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around;Observe and dare!—I write above my seal,A grave Dominican, to postulatePacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaksNo nonsense in your excellencies' ears:King Henry's heirisillegitimate!Blanche of Navarre cast off, his ImpotenceGave us a wanton out of PortugalFor Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heirThe cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masksAre but for slaves; the people's smile is freeFrom all concealment; and the word still wagsAbout this son,—who is his favorite's,Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,—Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,—The King himself, needing a lusty heir,Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.What shall we do? endorse the infamy?Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake!Or, if not that, then with the axe that hewsThe neck of State asunder!—Is it well,Prelates and ministers?Be merciful?—Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,Why not pare off all rottenness and leaveThe healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,The Church, and God demand the overthrow,Deponement or the abnegation ofThis Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!—Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hopeThat brothers of such kings have no long life.)—Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;Ambition ever was and aye will beCousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,The tonsure and the cowl,theymust advance!My native town, Valladolid, did sowThe priestly germ, ambition, first in me;Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,Despite the richness of the soil, poor growthAnd less encouragement; the nipping windOf Court disfavor was too much for it;And so I bore it thence to Cordova,And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?—Grew to a tenderness too insecureFor love's black frosts. Required hardiness,And found it there at Zaragossa; (whereFat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,My youth confuted with wise nonsense, andAstonished Spain in disputation inThe public controversies of the monks).Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's redIs promised by the bud that tops its stem.How have I, through the saintly mediumOf the confessional, impressed the earOf Isabella, daughter and dear child!The incarnation of my dear ideal,Pure crucifix of my religious love,Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:Ploughed up the early meadows of her soulFor fruitful increase! in her maiden heartInsinuated subtleties of seedShall ripen to a queen crowned with a crownFrom welded gold of Arragon and Castile!How I this son of John, the Second named,Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,—(Grant absolution, holy mother mine!Thus thy advancement and thy masteryWould I obtain!)—have on her fancy limnedIn morning colors of proud chivalry!Till he a sceptered paladin of loveAnd beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreamsWhat—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a starShe saw when but a babe and in the armsOf some old nurse. A star, that laughed aboveA space of Moorish balcony that hungAbove a water full of upset stars;Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,But never got; that blew young promises,Court promises, centupled, from the tipsOf golden fingers at her infant eyes.—Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,What if one, Torquemada, clothe her starIn palpable approach and give it her!—When she is Queen, three steadfast purposesHave grown their causes to divine results.—No young imagination did I trainWith such endeavor and for no reward.—How often have I told her of the thingsShe could perform when Queen, while silentlyAnd pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushedBy one propped elbow, its bent, careless leavesRich with illuminated capitalsOf gold and purple,—open on her lap.Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking ofFelicity; discoursing earnestlyOf Earth and Heaven; and of who adhereTo God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,Celestial, of eternal Paradise,As everlasting as the souls that haveBuilt a strong tower for the only Faith.And I recall now how, in exhortation,Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:—"Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,The easy ways of Satan! Rather thornsFor naked feet that will not falter ifRetentive of the arm of our true Church,Who comforts weariness with promisesStill urging onward; and refreshes heartsWith whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."—And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,"Do some digress?"—And I, "Yea, many! yea!And there's necessity! we should annul,Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.—God's persecution! they confront our FaithWith brows of stigmatizing error writIn Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"—Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for SpainThe Inquisition! Let the Saints record!I promise thee, my father, thou shalt beA mattock of deracination toExtirpate heresy."Well, well; time goes:The world moves onward, and I still am—oh,Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!...Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager forHer Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.Conclusion to these monster heresiesOr their most imminent consequence!—The throne,Which is derived directly from high God,Meseems should champion God in any cause;And if it will not, we will make it to.—O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crushThese multiplying madnesses that mouthTheir paradoxes at the Cross and shriekTheir blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!—O miserable Religion, is thy prideSo fallen here! thy tenement of strengthSo powerless! Then where's security,When steadfast principle is insecure,And God's own pillars rock and none resists?—But I have tempered, at a certain heat,A heart of womanhood; and so have wroughtThe metal of a mind within the forgeOf holy discourse, that Toledo's steelSprings not more true than my reforming blade,Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.—Imperial Isabella! patroness!Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!—My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend:This need is first: to make her sceptered QueenOf wide Castile. To make (the second need),Him, whom Ximenes, my friend CordelierShall serve as minister, King Ferdinand,Her wedded consort. And the third great need,The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from SpainThese Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lairOf that rich region of Granada, which,Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy,Scabs Spain's fair face.Delay not. Let the ChurchDivide attention then 'twixt hereticsAnd unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!—King Henry falls. God and Saint DominickAid our endeavor! and the Holy SeeBuild firm foundations!—Let the corner-stoneOf our most Holy Inquisition hereBe mortared with the blood of hereticsThat its strong structure may endure!—And he,This Torquemada, the Dominican,Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal,This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feelsThat God inspires him with His own desires,Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world.
What doth the Archbishop, his chapter ofToledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull—Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:Spain's King is less than king as I am lessThan Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around;Observe and dare!—I write above my seal,A grave Dominican, to postulatePacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaksNo nonsense in your excellencies' ears:King Henry's heirisillegitimate!Blanche of Navarre cast off, his ImpotenceGave us a wanton out of PortugalFor Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heirThe cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masksAre but for slaves; the people's smile is freeFrom all concealment; and the word still wagsAbout this son,—who is his favorite's,Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,—Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,—The King himself, needing a lusty heir,Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.What shall we do? endorse the infamy?Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake!Or, if not that, then with the axe that hewsThe neck of State asunder!—Is it well,Prelates and ministers?Be merciful?—Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,Why not pare off all rottenness and leaveThe healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,The Church, and God demand the overthrow,Deponement or the abnegation ofThis Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!—Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hopeThat brothers of such kings have no long life.)—Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;Ambition ever was and aye will beCousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,The tonsure and the cowl,theymust advance!My native town, Valladolid, did sowThe priestly germ, ambition, first in me;Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,Despite the richness of the soil, poor growthAnd less encouragement; the nipping windOf Court disfavor was too much for it;And so I bore it thence to Cordova,And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?—Grew to a tenderness too insecureFor love's black frosts. Required hardiness,And found it there at Zaragossa; (whereFat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,My youth confuted with wise nonsense, andAstonished Spain in disputation inThe public controversies of the monks).Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's redIs promised by the bud that tops its stem.How have I, through the saintly mediumOf the confessional, impressed the earOf Isabella, daughter and dear child!The incarnation of my dear ideal,Pure crucifix of my religious love,Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:Ploughed up the early meadows of her soulFor fruitful increase! in her maiden heartInsinuated subtleties of seedShall ripen to a queen crowned with a crownFrom welded gold of Arragon and Castile!How I this son of John, the Second named,Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,—(Grant absolution, holy mother mine!Thus thy advancement and thy masteryWould I obtain!)—have on her fancy limnedIn morning colors of proud chivalry!Till he a sceptered paladin of loveAnd beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreamsWhat—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a starShe saw when but a babe and in the armsOf some old nurse. A star, that laughed aboveA space of Moorish balcony that hungAbove a water full of upset stars;Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,But never got; that blew young promises,Court promises, centupled, from the tipsOf golden fingers at her infant eyes.—Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,What if one, Torquemada, clothe her starIn palpable approach and give it her!—When she is Queen, three steadfast purposesHave grown their causes to divine results.—No young imagination did I trainWith such endeavor and for no reward.—How often have I told her of the thingsShe could perform when Queen, while silentlyAnd pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushedBy one propped elbow, its bent, careless leavesRich with illuminated capitalsOf gold and purple,—open on her lap.Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking ofFelicity; discoursing earnestlyOf Earth and Heaven; and of who adhereTo God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,Celestial, of eternal Paradise,As everlasting as the souls that haveBuilt a strong tower for the only Faith.And I recall now how, in exhortation,Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:—"Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,The easy ways of Satan! Rather thornsFor naked feet that will not falter ifRetentive of the arm of our true Church,Who comforts weariness with promisesStill urging onward; and refreshes heartsWith whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."—And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,"Do some digress?"—And I, "Yea, many! yea!And there's necessity! we should annul,Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.—God's persecution! they confront our FaithWith brows of stigmatizing error writIn Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"—Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for SpainThe Inquisition! Let the Saints record!I promise thee, my father, thou shalt beA mattock of deracination toExtirpate heresy."Well, well; time goes:The world moves onward, and I still am—oh,Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!...Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager forHer Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.Conclusion to these monster heresiesOr their most imminent consequence!—The throne,Which is derived directly from high God,Meseems should champion God in any cause;And if it will not, we will make it to.—O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crushThese multiplying madnesses that mouthTheir paradoxes at the Cross and shriekTheir blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!—O miserable Religion, is thy prideSo fallen here! thy tenement of strengthSo powerless! Then where's security,When steadfast principle is insecure,And God's own pillars rock and none resists?—But I have tempered, at a certain heat,A heart of womanhood; and so have wroughtThe metal of a mind within the forgeOf holy discourse, that Toledo's steelSprings not more true than my reforming blade,Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.—Imperial Isabella! patroness!Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!—My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend:This need is first: to make her sceptered QueenOf wide Castile. To make (the second need),Him, whom Ximenes, my friend CordelierShall serve as minister, King Ferdinand,Her wedded consort. And the third great need,The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from SpainThese Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lairOf that rich region of Granada, which,Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy,Scabs Spain's fair face.Delay not. Let the ChurchDivide attention then 'twixt hereticsAnd unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!—King Henry falls. God and Saint DominickAid our endeavor! and the Holy SeeBuild firm foundations!—Let the corner-stoneOf our most Holy Inquisition hereBe mortared with the blood of hereticsThat its strong structure may endure!—And he,This Torquemada, the Dominican,Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal,This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feelsThat God inspires him with His own desires,Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world.
What doth the Archbishop, his chapter ofToledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull—Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:Spain's King is less than king as I am lessThan Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around;Observe and dare!—I write above my seal,A grave Dominican, to postulatePacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaksNo nonsense in your excellencies' ears:King Henry's heirisillegitimate!Blanche of Navarre cast off, his ImpotenceGave us a wanton out of PortugalFor Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heirThe cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masksAre but for slaves; the people's smile is freeFrom all concealment; and the word still wagsAbout this son,—who is his favorite's,Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,—Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,—The King himself, needing a lusty heir,Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.What shall we do? endorse the infamy?Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake!Or, if not that, then with the axe that hewsThe neck of State asunder!—Is it well,Prelates and ministers?
What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of
Toledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull—
Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?
Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!
Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:
Spain's King is less than king as I am less
Than Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around;
Observe and dare!—I write above my seal,
A grave Dominican, to postulate
Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks
No nonsense in your excellencies' ears:
King Henry's heirisillegitimate!
Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence
Gave us a wanton out of Portugal
For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir
The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.
Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masks
Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free
From all concealment; and the word still wags
About this son,—who is his favorite's,
Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,—
Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,—
The King himself, needing a lusty heir,
Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.
What shall we do? endorse the infamy?
Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake!
Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews
The neck of State asunder!—Is it well,
Prelates and ministers?
Be merciful?—Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,Why not pare off all rottenness and leaveThe healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,The Church, and God demand the overthrow,Deponement or the abnegation ofThis Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!—Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hopeThat brothers of such kings have no long life.)—Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;Ambition ever was and aye will beCousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,The tonsure and the cowl,theymust advance!My native town, Valladolid, did sowThe priestly germ, ambition, first in me;Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,Despite the richness of the soil, poor growthAnd less encouragement; the nipping windOf Court disfavor was too much for it;And so I bore it thence to Cordova,And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?—Grew to a tenderness too insecureFor love's black frosts. Required hardiness,And found it there at Zaragossa; (whereFat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,My youth confuted with wise nonsense, andAstonished Spain in disputation inThe public controversies of the monks).Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's redIs promised by the bud that tops its stem.How have I, through the saintly mediumOf the confessional, impressed the earOf Isabella, daughter and dear child!The incarnation of my dear ideal,Pure crucifix of my religious love,Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:Ploughed up the early meadows of her soulFor fruitful increase! in her maiden heartInsinuated subtleties of seedShall ripen to a queen crowned with a crownFrom welded gold of Arragon and Castile!How I this son of John, the Second named,Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,—(Grant absolution, holy mother mine!Thus thy advancement and thy masteryWould I obtain!)—have on her fancy limnedIn morning colors of proud chivalry!Till he a sceptered paladin of loveAnd beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreamsWhat—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a starShe saw when but a babe and in the armsOf some old nurse. A star, that laughed aboveA space of Moorish balcony that hungAbove a water full of upset stars;Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,But never got; that blew young promises,Court promises, centupled, from the tipsOf golden fingers at her infant eyes.—Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,What if one, Torquemada, clothe her starIn palpable approach and give it her!—
Be merciful?—
Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,
This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,
Why not pare off all rottenness and leave
The healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,
The Church, and God demand the overthrow,
Deponement or the abnegation of
This Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!—
Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hope
That brothers of such kings have no long life.)—
Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;
Ambition ever was and aye will be
Cousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,
The tonsure and the cowl,theymust advance!
My native town, Valladolid, did sow
The priestly germ, ambition, first in me;
Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,
Despite the richness of the soil, poor growth
And less encouragement; the nipping wind
Of Court disfavor was too much for it;
And so I bore it thence to Cordova,
And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,
'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?—
Grew to a tenderness too insecure
For love's black frosts. Required hardiness,
And found it there at Zaragossa; (where
Fat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,
My youth confuted with wise nonsense, and
Astonished Spain in disputation in
The public controversies of the monks).
Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!
Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's red
Is promised by the bud that tops its stem.
How have I, through the saintly medium
Of the confessional, impressed the ear
Of Isabella, daughter and dear child!
The incarnation of my dear ideal,
Pure crucifix of my religious love,
Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:
Ploughed up the early meadows of her soul
For fruitful increase! in her maiden heart
Insinuated subtleties of seed
Shall ripen to a queen crowned with a crown
From welded gold of Arragon and Castile!
How I this son of John, the Second named,
Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,—
(Grant absolution, holy mother mine!
Thus thy advancement and thy mastery
Would I obtain!)—have on her fancy limned
In morning colors of proud chivalry!
Till he a sceptered paladin of love
And beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreams
What—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a star
She saw when but a babe and in the arms
Of some old nurse. A star, that laughed above
A space of Moorish balcony that hung
Above a water full of upset stars;
Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:
A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,
But never got; that blew young promises,
Court promises, centupled, from the tips
Of golden fingers at her infant eyes.—
Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,
What if one, Torquemada, clothe her star
In palpable approach and give it her!—
When she is Queen, three steadfast purposesHave grown their causes to divine results.—No young imagination did I trainWith such endeavor and for no reward.—How often have I told her of the thingsShe could perform when Queen, while silentlyAnd pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushedBy one propped elbow, its bent, careless leavesRich with illuminated capitalsOf gold and purple,—open on her lap.Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking ofFelicity; discoursing earnestlyOf Earth and Heaven; and of who adhereTo God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,Celestial, of eternal Paradise,As everlasting as the souls that haveBuilt a strong tower for the only Faith.And I recall now how, in exhortation,Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:—"Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,The easy ways of Satan! Rather thornsFor naked feet that will not falter ifRetentive of the arm of our true Church,Who comforts weariness with promisesStill urging onward; and refreshes heartsWith whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."—And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,"Do some digress?"—And I, "Yea, many! yea!And there's necessity! we should annul,Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.—God's persecution! they confront our FaithWith brows of stigmatizing error writIn Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"—Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for SpainThe Inquisition! Let the Saints record!I promise thee, my father, thou shalt beA mattock of deracination toExtirpate heresy."
When she is Queen, three steadfast purposes
Have grown their causes to divine results.—
No young imagination did I train
With such endeavor and for no reward.—
How often have I told her of the things
She could perform when Queen, while silently
And pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,
Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushed
By one propped elbow, its bent, careless leaves
Rich with illuminated capitals
Of gold and purple,—open on her lap.
Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking of
Felicity; discoursing earnestly
Of Earth and Heaven; and of who adhere
To God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:
Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,
Celestial, of eternal Paradise,
As everlasting as the souls that have
Built a strong tower for the only Faith.
And I recall now how, in exhortation,
Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:—
"Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,
The easy ways of Satan! Rather thorns
For naked feet that will not falter if
Retentive of the arm of our true Church,
Who comforts weariness with promises
Still urging onward; and refreshes hearts
With whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."—
And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,
"Do some digress?"—And I, "Yea, many! yea!
And there's necessity! we should annul,
Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,
Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.—
God's persecution! they confront our Faith
With brows of stigmatizing error writ
In Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?
No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"—
Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for Spain
The Inquisition! Let the Saints record!
I promise thee, my father, thou shalt be
A mattock of deracination to
Extirpate heresy."
Well, well; time goes:The world moves onward, and I still am—oh,Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!...
Well, well; time goes:
The world moves onward, and I still am—oh,
Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!...
Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager forHer Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.Conclusion to these monster heresiesOr their most imminent consequence!—The throne,Which is derived directly from high God,Meseems should champion God in any cause;And if it will not, we will make it to.—O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crushThese multiplying madnesses that mouthTheir paradoxes at the Cross and shriekTheir blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!—O miserable Religion, is thy prideSo fallen here! thy tenement of strengthSo powerless! Then where's security,When steadfast principle is insecure,And God's own pillars rock and none resists?—But I have tempered, at a certain heat,A heart of womanhood; and so have wroughtThe metal of a mind within the forgeOf holy discourse, that Toledo's steelSprings not more true than my reforming blade,Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.—Imperial Isabella! patroness!Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!—
Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager for
Her Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.
Conclusion to these monster heresies
Or their most imminent consequence!—The throne,
Which is derived directly from high God,
Meseems should champion God in any cause;
And if it will not, we will make it to.—
O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crush
These multiplying madnesses that mouth
Their paradoxes at the Cross and shriek
Their blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!—
O miserable Religion, is thy pride
So fallen here! thy tenement of strength
So powerless! Then where's security,
When steadfast principle is insecure,
And God's own pillars rock and none resists?—
But I have tempered, at a certain heat,
A heart of womanhood; and so have wrought
The metal of a mind within the forge
Of holy discourse, that Toledo's steel
Springs not more true than my reforming blade,
Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.—
Imperial Isabella! patroness!
Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!
Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,
Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!
Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!—
My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend:This need is first: to make her sceptered QueenOf wide Castile. To make (the second need),Him, whom Ximenes, my friend CordelierShall serve as minister, King Ferdinand,Her wedded consort. And the third great need,The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from SpainThese Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lairOf that rich region of Granada, which,Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy,Scabs Spain's fair face.
My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend:
This need is first: to make her sceptered Queen
Of wide Castile. To make (the second need),
Him, whom Ximenes, my friend Cordelier
Shall serve as minister, King Ferdinand,
Her wedded consort. And the third great need,
The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from Spain
These Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lair
Of that rich region of Granada, which,
Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy,
Scabs Spain's fair face.
Delay not. Let the ChurchDivide attention then 'twixt hereticsAnd unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!—King Henry falls. God and Saint DominickAid our endeavor! and the Holy SeeBuild firm foundations!—Let the corner-stoneOf our most Holy Inquisition hereBe mortared with the blood of hereticsThat its strong structure may endure!—And he,This Torquemada, the Dominican,Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal,This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feelsThat God inspires him with His own desires,Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world.
Delay not. Let the Church
Divide attention then 'twixt heretics
And unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!—
King Henry falls. God and Saint Dominick
Aid our endeavor! and the Holy See
Build firm foundations!—Let the corner-stone
Of our most Holy Inquisition here
Be mortared with the blood of heretics
That its strong structure may endure!—And he,
This Torquemada, the Dominican,
Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal,
This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feels
That God inspires him with His own desires,
Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world.
Transcriber Notes:P.31. "fragant firmament", changed 'fragant' to 'fragrant'.A copy of the original text can be foundhere:
Transcriber Notes:
P.31. "fragant firmament", changed 'fragant' to 'fragrant'.
A copy of the original text can be foundhere: