KHAMSIN.Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!—Khamsin,The wind from the desert blew in!It blew from the heart of the fiery south,From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth,And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth;The wind from the desert blew in!It blasted the buds on the almond bough,And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree;The wizened dervish breathed no vow,So weary and parched was he.The lean muezzin could not cry;The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky;The hot sun shone like a copper disk,And prone in the shade of an obeliskThe water-carrier sank with a sigh,For limp and dry was his water-skin;And the wind from the desert blew in.The camel crouched by the crumbling wall,And oh the pitiful moan it made!The minarets, taper and slim and tall,Reeled and swam in the brazen light;And prayers went up by day and night,But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed.The river writhed in its slimy bed,Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread;The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind;And still the wind, the ruthless wind,Khamsin,The wind from the desert blew in.Into the cool of the mosque it crept,Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine;Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine;It fevered the brow of the maid who slept,And men grew haggard with revel of wine.The tiny fledglings died in the nest;The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast.Then a rumor rose and swelled and spreadFrom a tremulous whisper, faint and vague,Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread,The plague!the plague!the plague!—Oh the wind, Khamsin,The scourge from the desert, blew in!CLINTON SCOLLARD.
KHAMSIN.
Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!—Khamsin,The wind from the desert blew in!It blew from the heart of the fiery south,From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth,And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth;The wind from the desert blew in!
It blasted the buds on the almond bough,And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree;The wizened dervish breathed no vow,So weary and parched was he.The lean muezzin could not cry;The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky;The hot sun shone like a copper disk,And prone in the shade of an obeliskThe water-carrier sank with a sigh,For limp and dry was his water-skin;And the wind from the desert blew in.
The camel crouched by the crumbling wall,And oh the pitiful moan it made!The minarets, taper and slim and tall,Reeled and swam in the brazen light;And prayers went up by day and night,But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed.The river writhed in its slimy bed,Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread;The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind;And still the wind, the ruthless wind,Khamsin,The wind from the desert blew in.
Into the cool of the mosque it crept,Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine;Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine;It fevered the brow of the maid who slept,And men grew haggard with revel of wine.The tiny fledglings died in the nest;The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast.Then a rumor rose and swelled and spreadFrom a tremulous whisper, faint and vague,Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread,The plague!the plague!the plague!—Oh the wind, Khamsin,The scourge from the desert, blew in!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
THE DIVER."Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,As to dive to the howling charybdis below?—I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold,And o'er it already the dark waters flow:Whoever to me may the goblet bring,Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep,That rugged and hoary, hung over the vergeOf the endless and measureless world of the deep,Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge."And where is the diver so stout to go—I ask ye again—to the deep below?"And the knights and the squires that gathered around,Stood silent—and fixed on the ocean their eyes;They looked on the dismal and savage profound,And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize.And thrice spoke the monarch—"The cup to win,Is there never a wight who will venture in?"And all as before heard in silence the king—Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle,'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring,Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle;And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder,On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.
THE DIVER.
"Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,As to dive to the howling charybdis below?—I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold,And o'er it already the dark waters flow:Whoever to me may the goblet bring,Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."
He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep,That rugged and hoary, hung over the vergeOf the endless and measureless world of the deep,Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge."And where is the diver so stout to go—I ask ye again—to the deep below?"
And the knights and the squires that gathered around,Stood silent—and fixed on the ocean their eyes;They looked on the dismal and savage profound,And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize.And thrice spoke the monarch—"The cup to win,Is there never a wight who will venture in?"
And all as before heard in silence the king—Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle,'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring,Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle;And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder,On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.
THE DIVER
"Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,And behold: he is whirled in the grasp of the main."—Schiller.—From a photogravure after drawing byA. Michaelis.
"Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,And behold: he is whirled in the grasp of the main."—Schiller.—From a photogravure after drawing byA. Michaelis.
As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gaveOne glance on the gulf of that merciless main;Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave,Casts roaringly up the charybdis again;And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,As when fire is with water commixed and contending;And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending.And it never will rest, nor from travail be free,Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.And at last there lay open the desolate realm!Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell,Dark—dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm,The path to the heart of that fathomless hell.Round and round whirled the waves—deep and deeper still driven,Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.The youth gave his trust to his Maker! BeforeThat path through the riven abyss closed again—Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main!And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled,And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound,But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell;And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud—"Gallant youth—noble heart—fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!"And still ever deepening that wail as of woe,More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling,And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;"God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king—A crown at such hazard were valued too dear.For never did lips of the living reveal,What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast,Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave;Again crashed together, the keel and the mast,To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.—Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer,Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,As when fire is with water commixed and contending;And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending,And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom,What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white?Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!—They battle—the Man with the Element's might.It is he—it is he!—In his left hand behold,As a sign—as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long,And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day.They gaze on each other—they shout as they throng—"He lives—lo, the ocean has rendered its prey!And out of the grave where the Hell began,His valor has rescued the living man!"And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee,And the goblet his daring has won from the water,He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee;And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter,And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring,And thus spake the Diver—"Long life to the king!"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice,The air and the sky that to mortals are given!May the horror below never more find a voice—Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven!Never more—never more may he lift from the mirror,The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!"Quick-brightening like lightning—it tore me along,Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at playIn the rocks of its wilderness caught me—and strongAs the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away.Vain, vain were my struggles—the circle had won me,Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me."And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer,In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath—And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair,And I clung to it, trembling—and baffled the death.And, safe in the perils around me, beholdOn the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear,Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure!A silence of horror that slept on the ear,That the eye more appalled might the horror endure!Salamander—snake—dragon—vast reptiles that dwellIn the deep—coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!"Dark-crawled—glided dark the unspeakable swarms,Like masses unshapen, made life hideously;Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms,Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea,And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion,Went the terrible Shark—the hyena of Ocean."There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me,So far from the earth where man's help there was none!The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me—Alone—in a loneness so ghastly—ALONE!Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound,With the death of the main and the monsters around."Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that nowA hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey,And darted.—O God! from the far-flaming boughOf the coral, I swept on the horrible way;And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar,It seized me to save—King, the danger is o'er!"On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled—quoth he,"Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine,And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee,Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine;If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again,To say what lies hid in theinnermostmain!"Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion,"Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest?Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean—He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest.If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire,Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"The king seized the goblet—he swung it on high,And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide;"But bring back that goblet again to my eye,And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side,And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree,The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy—And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire,On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy;The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire!Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath;He resolves!—To the strife with the life and the death!They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell;Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along!Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell—They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng,Rearing up to the cliff—roaring back as before;But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.From the German ofJOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.
As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gaveOne glance on the gulf of that merciless main;Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave,Casts roaringly up the charybdis again;And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,As when fire is with water commixed and contending;And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending.And it never will rest, nor from travail be free,Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.
And at last there lay open the desolate realm!Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell,Dark—dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm,The path to the heart of that fathomless hell.Round and round whirled the waves—deep and deeper still driven,Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.
The youth gave his trust to his Maker! BeforeThat path through the riven abyss closed again—Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main!And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled,And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.
O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound,But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell;And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud—"Gallant youth—noble heart—fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!"And still ever deepening that wail as of woe,More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.
If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling,And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;"God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king—A crown at such hazard were valued too dear.For never did lips of the living reveal,What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.
Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast,Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave;Again crashed together, the keel and the mast,To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.—Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer,Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,As when fire is with water commixed and contending;And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending,And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom,What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white?Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!—They battle—the Man with the Element's might.It is he—it is he!—In his left hand behold,As a sign—as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!
And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long,And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day.They gaze on each other—they shout as they throng—"He lives—lo, the ocean has rendered its prey!And out of the grave where the Hell began,His valor has rescued the living man!"
And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee,And the goblet his daring has won from the water,He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee;And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter,And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring,And thus spake the Diver—"Long life to the king!
"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice,The air and the sky that to mortals are given!May the horror below never more find a voice—Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven!Never more—never more may he lift from the mirror,The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!
"Quick-brightening like lightning—it tore me along,Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at playIn the rocks of its wilderness caught me—and strongAs the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away.Vain, vain were my struggles—the circle had won me,Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me.
"And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer,In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath—And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair,And I clung to it, trembling—and baffled the death.And, safe in the perils around me, beholdOn the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!
"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear,Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure!A silence of horror that slept on the ear,That the eye more appalled might the horror endure!Salamander—snake—dragon—vast reptiles that dwellIn the deep—coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!
"Dark-crawled—glided dark the unspeakable swarms,Like masses unshapen, made life hideously;Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms,Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea,And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion,Went the terrible Shark—the hyena of Ocean.
"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me,So far from the earth where man's help there was none!The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me—Alone—in a loneness so ghastly—ALONE!Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound,With the death of the main and the monsters around.
"Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that nowA hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey,And darted.—O God! from the far-flaming boughOf the coral, I swept on the horrible way;And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar,It seized me to save—King, the danger is o'er!"
On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled—quoth he,"Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine,And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee,Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine;If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again,To say what lies hid in theinnermostmain!"
Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion,"Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest?Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean—He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest.If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire,Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"
The king seized the goblet—he swung it on high,And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide;"But bring back that goblet again to my eye,And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side,And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree,The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."
In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy—And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire,On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy;The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire!Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath;He resolves!—To the strife with the life and the death!
They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell;Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along!Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell—They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng,Rearing up to the cliff—roaring back as before;But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.
From the German ofJOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.
[Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the Rhine.—Old Legend.]
The summer and autumn had been so wet,That in winter the corn was growing yet:'Twas a piteous sight to see all aroundThe grain lie rotting on the ground.Every day the starving poorCrowded around Bishop Hatto's door;For he had a plentiful last-year's store,And all the neighborhood could tellHis granaries were furnished well.At last Bishop Hatto appointed a dayTo quiet the poor without delay;He bade them to his great barn repair,And they should have food for the winter there.Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,The poor folks flocked from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old.Then, when he saw it could hold no more,Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And whilst for mercy on Christ they call,He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all."I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;"And the country is greatly obliged to meFor ridding it, in these times forlorn,Of rats that only consume the corn."So then to his palace returned he,And he sate down to supper merrily,And he slept that night like an innocent man;But Bishop Hatto never slept again.In the morning, as he entered the hall,Where his picture hung against the wall,A sweat like death all over him came,For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.As he looked, there came a man from his farm—He had a countenance white with alarm:"My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,And the rats had eaten all your corn."Another came running presently,And he was pale as pale could be."Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he,"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,—The Lord forgive you for yesterday!""I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he;"'T is the safest place in Germany,—The walls are high, and the shores are steep,And the tide is strong, and the water deep."Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away;And he crossed the Rhine without delay,And reached his tower, and barred with careAll the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.He laid him down and closed his eyes,But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow, from whence the screaming came.He listened and looked,—it was only the cat;But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,For she sate screaming, mad with fear,At the army of rats that were drawing near.For they have swum over the river so deep,And they have climbed the shores so steep,And now by thousands up they crawlTo the holes and the windows in the wall.Down on his knees the bishop fell,And faster and faster his beads did he tell,As louder and louder, drawing near,The saw of their teeth without he could hear.And in at the windows, and in at the door,And through the walls, by thousands they pour;And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,From the right and the left, from behind and before,From within and without, from above and below,—And all at once to the bishop they go.They have whetted their teeth against the stones,And now they pick the bishop's bones;They gnawed the flesh from every limb,For they were sent to do judgment on him!ROBERT SOUTHEY.
The summer and autumn had been so wet,That in winter the corn was growing yet:'Twas a piteous sight to see all aroundThe grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poorCrowded around Bishop Hatto's door;For he had a plentiful last-year's store,And all the neighborhood could tellHis granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a dayTo quiet the poor without delay;He bade them to his great barn repair,And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,The poor folks flocked from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more,Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And whilst for mercy on Christ they call,He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;"And the country is greatly obliged to meFor ridding it, in these times forlorn,Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,And he sate down to supper merrily,And he slept that night like an innocent man;But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he entered the hall,Where his picture hung against the wall,A sweat like death all over him came,For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm—He had a countenance white with alarm:"My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,And the rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently,And he was pale as pale could be."Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he,"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,—The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he;"'T is the safest place in Germany,—The walls are high, and the shores are steep,And the tide is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away;And he crossed the Rhine without delay,And reached his tower, and barred with careAll the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes,But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked,—it was only the cat;But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,For she sate screaming, mad with fear,At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,And they have climbed the shores so steep,And now by thousands up they crawlTo the holes and the windows in the wall.
Down on his knees the bishop fell,And faster and faster his beads did he tell,As louder and louder, drawing near,The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door,And through the walls, by thousands they pour;And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,From the right and the left, from behind and before,From within and without, from above and below,—And all at once to the bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,And now they pick the bishop's bones;They gnawed the flesh from every limb,For they were sent to do judgment on him!
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
COUNTESS LAURA.It was a dreary day in Padua.The Countess Laura, for a single yearFernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,Like an uprooted lily on the snow,The withered outcast of a festival,Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,That struck her almost on her wedding day,And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,Till in her chance, it seemed that with a yearFull half a century was overpast.In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,And feigned a knowledge of her malady;In vain had all the doctors, far and near,Gathered around the mystery of her bed,Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,And physic's jargon, in a fruitless questFor causes equal to the dread result.The Countess only smiled when they were gone,Hugged her fair body with her little hands,And turned upon her pillows wearily,As though she fain would sleep no common sleep,But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,The rack could not have wrung her secret out.The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth,Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,"O blessed soul! with nothing to confessSave virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—So humble is she—for our human sins!"Praying for death, she tossed upon her bedDay after day; as might a shipwrecked barkThat rocks upon one billow, and can makeNo onward motion towards her port of hope.At length, one morn, when those around her said,"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a lightBeams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"—One morn in spring, when every flower of earthWas opening to the sun, and breathing upIts votive incense, her impatient soulOpened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace;Then turned with anger on the messenger;Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heartBefore the menial; tears, ah me! such tearsAs love sheds only, and love only once.Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die,And leave behind no shadow? not a traceOf all the glory that environed her,That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,He paced along his gallery of art,And strode among the painters, where they stood,With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,Studying the Masters by the dawning lightOf his transcendent genius. Through the groupsOf gayly vestured artists moved the Count,As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,Packed with the secret of a coming storm,Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,Deadening their splendor. In a moment stillWas Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;And a great shadow overwhelmed them all,As their white faces and their anxious eyesPursued Fernando in his moody walk.He paused, as one who balances a doubt,Weighing two courses, then burst out with this:"Ye all have seen the tidings in my face;Or has the dial ceased to registerThe workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,That almost cracks its frame in utterance;The Countess,—she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned.And if a bolt from middle heaven had struckHis splendid features full upon the brow,He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched."Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,And clung around it, buffeting the airWith one wild arm, as though a drowning manHung to a spar and fought against the waves.The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve,Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-nightIn state within the chapel? Shall it beThat earth must lose her wholly? that no hintOf her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lipsThat talked in silence, and the eager soulThat ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,And scattering glory round it,—shall all theseBe dull corruption's heritage, and we,Poor beggars, have no legacy to showThat love she bore us? That were shame to love,And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalkedForth from his easel stiffly as a thingMoved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew backAs though they let a spectre through. Then he,Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voiceSounding remote and hollow, made reply:"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,—Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count,Astray in woe, but understood assent,Not the strange words that bore it; and he flungHis arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank;Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count,A little reddening at his public state,—Unseemly to his near and recent loss,—Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyesThat did him reverence as he rustled by.Night fell on Padua. In the chapel layThe Countess Laura at the altar's foot.Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,Draped her still body almost to the chin;And over all a thousand candles flamedAgainst the winking jewels, or streamed downThe marble aisle, and flashed along the guardOf men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.When Carlo entered, his unsteady feetScarce bore him to the altar, and his headDrooped down so low that all his shining curlsPoured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.Upon his easel a half-finished work,The secret labor of his studio,Said from the canvas, so that none might err,"I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,And gazed upon the picture; as if thus,Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven.Then he arose; and as a swimmer comesForth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,Emerging from his dream, and standing firmUpon a purpose with his sovereign will.He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"Confidingly and softly to the corpse,And as the veriest drudge, who plies his artAgainst his fancy, he addressed himselfWith stolid resolution to his task,Turning his vision on his memory,And shutting out the present, till the dead,The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,And all the meaning of that solemn sceneBecame as nothing, and creative ArtResolved the whole to chaos, and reformedThe elements according to her law:So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and handWere Heaven's unconscious instruments, and workedThe settled purpose of Omnipotence.And it was wondrous how the red, the white,The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;How just beneath the lucid skin the bloodGlimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apartBloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;How the light glittered through and underneathThe golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyesBecame intelligent with conscious thought,And somewhat troubled underneath the archOf eyebrows but a little too intenseFor perfect beauty; how the pose and poiseOf the lithe figure on its tiny footSuggested life just ceased from motion; soThat any one might cry, in marvelling joy,"That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soulTo win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!"Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touchTo give or soften. "It is done," he cried,—"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earthCan taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"The lofty flame, which bore him up so long,Died in the ashes of humanity;And the mere man rocked to and fro againUpon the centre of his wavering heart.He put aside his palette, as if thusHe stepped from sacred vestments, and assumedA mortal function in the common world."Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approachedThe noble body. "O lily of the world!So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thouTo those who came thus near thee—for I stoodWithout the pale of thy half-royal rank—When thou wast budding, and the streams of lifeMade eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dewsOn its transplanted darling? Hear me now!I say this but in justice, not in pride,Not to insult thy high nobility,But that the poise of things in God's own sightMay be adjusted; and hereafter IMay urge a claim that all the powers of heavenShall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.—Laura you loved me! Look not so severe,With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,—Let it consume you in the wearing strifeIt fought with duty in your ravaged heart.I knew it ever since that summer dayI painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child,At rest beside the fountain; when I felt—O Heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breathBlow through my hair, as with your eager soul—Forgetting soul and body go as one—You leaned across my easel till our cheeks—Ah me! 't was not your purpose—touched, and clung!Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught?I ween it wears as proud a diadem—Here, in this very world—as that you wear.A king has held my palette, a grand-dukeHas picked my brush up, and a pope has beggedThe favor of my presence in his Rome.I did not go; I put my fortune by.I need not ask you why: you knew too well.It was but natural, it was no way strange,That I should love you. Everything that saw,Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet,And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,—I see the halo curving round your head,—I loved you once; but now I worship you,For the great deed that held my love aloof,And killed you in the action! I absolveYour soul from any taint. For from the dayOf that encounter by the fountain-sideUntil this moment, never turned on meThose tender eyes, unless they did a wrongTo nature by the cold, defiant glareWith which they chilled me. Never heard I wordOf softness spoken by those gentle lips;Never received a bounty from that handWhich gave to all the world. I know the cause.You did your duty,—not for honor's sake,Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse,Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,But for the sake of that pure, loyal loveYour husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,I bow before the lustre of your throne!I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,—If I had wronged you, you would answer meOut of the dusty porches of the tomb:—Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have ISpoken the very truth?" "The very truth!"A voice replied; and at his side he sawA form, half shadow and half substance, stand,Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earthIt had no footing, more than some dense mistThat waves o'er the surface of the groundIt scarcely touches. With a reverent lookThe shadow's waste and wretched face was bentAbove the picture; as though greater aweSubdued its awful being, and appalled,With memories of terrible delightAnd fearful wonder, its devouring gaze."You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape."And might not this, this second Eve, consoleThe emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlastThe fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?Before that figure, Time, and Death himself,Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you askMore than God's power, from nothing to create?"The artist gazed upon the boding form,And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,That were an idle question. What to meIs my creative power, bereft of love?Or what to God would be that self-same power,If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned,You calmly forfeited. For had you saidTo living Laura—in her burning ears—One half that you professed to Laura dead,She would have been your own. These contrariesSort not with my intelligence. But speak,Were Laura living, would the same stale playOf raging passion tearing out its heartUpon the rock of duty be performed?""The same, O phantom, while the heart I bearTrembled, but turned not its magnetic faithFrom God's fixed centre." "If I wake for youThis Laura,—give her all the bloom and glowOf that midsummer day you hold so dear,—The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul,The love of genius,—yea, the very love,The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receiveThat gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips,And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair faceWith nameless torture. But he cried aloud,Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smokeOf very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head.He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see—""Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjureThese vile abominations! Shall she bearLife's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,While God is justice?" "Who has made you judgeOf what you call God's good, and what you thinkGod's evil? One to him, the source of both,The God of good and of permitted ill.Have you no dream of days that might have been,Had you and Laura filled another fate?—Some cottage on the sloping Apennines,Roses and lilies, and the rest all love?I tell you that this tranquil dream may beFilled to repletion. Speak, and in the shadeOf my dark pinions I shall bear you hence,And land you where the mountain-goat himselfStruggles for footing." He outspread his wings,And all the chapel darkened, as though hellHad swallowed up the tapers; and the airGrew thick, and, like a current sensible,Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash,As of the waters of a nether sea.Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!Know my full meaning,—I who neither fearYour mystic person nor your dreadful power.Nor shall I now invoke God's potent nameFor my deliverance from your toils. I standUpon the founded structure of his law,Established from the first, and thence defyYour arts, reposing all my trust in that!"The darkness eddied off; and Carlo sawThe figure gathering, as from outer space,Brightness on brightness; and his former shapeFell from him, like the ashes that fall off,And show a core of mellow fire within.Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fellUpon the floor, enringing him with flame;And o'er the tresses of his beaming headArose a stream of many-colored light,Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoodSteadfast, for all the splendor, reaching upThe outstretched palms of his untainted soulTowards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked,With reverential wonder quivering throughHis sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?""I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death.""Then take my hand, if so God orders it;For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man,What the world loses in the loss of thee!What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse!What unwon glories are in store for thee!What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,Would shine upon the letters of thy nameGraven in marble, or the brazen heightOf columns wise with memories of thee!""Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,I could but paint those features o'er and o'er:Lo! that is done." A smile of pity litThe seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.The mandate came. He touched with downy wingThe sufferer lightly on his aching heart;And gently, as the skylark settles downUpon the clustered treasures of her nest,So Carlo softly slid along the propOf his tall easel, nestling at the footAs though he slumbered; and the morning brokeIn silver whiteness over Padua.GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
COUNTESS LAURA.
It was a dreary day in Padua.The Countess Laura, for a single yearFernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,Like an uprooted lily on the snow,The withered outcast of a festival,Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,That struck her almost on her wedding day,And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,Till in her chance, it seemed that with a yearFull half a century was overpast.In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,And feigned a knowledge of her malady;In vain had all the doctors, far and near,Gathered around the mystery of her bed,Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,And physic's jargon, in a fruitless questFor causes equal to the dread result.The Countess only smiled when they were gone,Hugged her fair body with her little hands,And turned upon her pillows wearily,As though she fain would sleep no common sleep,But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,The rack could not have wrung her secret out.The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth,Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,"O blessed soul! with nothing to confessSave virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—So humble is she—for our human sins!"Praying for death, she tossed upon her bedDay after day; as might a shipwrecked barkThat rocks upon one billow, and can makeNo onward motion towards her port of hope.At length, one morn, when those around her said,"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a lightBeams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"—One morn in spring, when every flower of earthWas opening to the sun, and breathing upIts votive incense, her impatient soulOpened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace;Then turned with anger on the messenger;Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heartBefore the menial; tears, ah me! such tearsAs love sheds only, and love only once.Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die,And leave behind no shadow? not a traceOf all the glory that environed her,That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,He paced along his gallery of art,And strode among the painters, where they stood,With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,Studying the Masters by the dawning lightOf his transcendent genius. Through the groupsOf gayly vestured artists moved the Count,As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,Packed with the secret of a coming storm,Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,Deadening their splendor. In a moment stillWas Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;And a great shadow overwhelmed them all,As their white faces and their anxious eyesPursued Fernando in his moody walk.He paused, as one who balances a doubt,Weighing two courses, then burst out with this:"Ye all have seen the tidings in my face;Or has the dial ceased to registerThe workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,That almost cracks its frame in utterance;The Countess,—she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned.And if a bolt from middle heaven had struckHis splendid features full upon the brow,He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched."Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,And clung around it, buffeting the airWith one wild arm, as though a drowning manHung to a spar and fought against the waves.The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve,Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-nightIn state within the chapel? Shall it beThat earth must lose her wholly? that no hintOf her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lipsThat talked in silence, and the eager soulThat ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,And scattering glory round it,—shall all theseBe dull corruption's heritage, and we,Poor beggars, have no legacy to showThat love she bore us? That were shame to love,And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalkedForth from his easel stiffly as a thingMoved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew backAs though they let a spectre through. Then he,Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voiceSounding remote and hollow, made reply:"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,—Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count,Astray in woe, but understood assent,Not the strange words that bore it; and he flungHis arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank;Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count,A little reddening at his public state,—Unseemly to his near and recent loss,—Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyesThat did him reverence as he rustled by.Night fell on Padua. In the chapel layThe Countess Laura at the altar's foot.Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,Draped her still body almost to the chin;And over all a thousand candles flamedAgainst the winking jewels, or streamed downThe marble aisle, and flashed along the guardOf men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.When Carlo entered, his unsteady feetScarce bore him to the altar, and his headDrooped down so low that all his shining curlsPoured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.Upon his easel a half-finished work,The secret labor of his studio,Said from the canvas, so that none might err,"I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,And gazed upon the picture; as if thus,Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven.Then he arose; and as a swimmer comesForth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,Emerging from his dream, and standing firmUpon a purpose with his sovereign will.He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"Confidingly and softly to the corpse,And as the veriest drudge, who plies his artAgainst his fancy, he addressed himselfWith stolid resolution to his task,Turning his vision on his memory,And shutting out the present, till the dead,The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,And all the meaning of that solemn sceneBecame as nothing, and creative ArtResolved the whole to chaos, and reformedThe elements according to her law:So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and handWere Heaven's unconscious instruments, and workedThe settled purpose of Omnipotence.And it was wondrous how the red, the white,The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;How just beneath the lucid skin the bloodGlimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apartBloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;How the light glittered through and underneathThe golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyesBecame intelligent with conscious thought,And somewhat troubled underneath the archOf eyebrows but a little too intenseFor perfect beauty; how the pose and poiseOf the lithe figure on its tiny footSuggested life just ceased from motion; soThat any one might cry, in marvelling joy,"That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soulTo win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!"Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touchTo give or soften. "It is done," he cried,—"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earthCan taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"The lofty flame, which bore him up so long,Died in the ashes of humanity;And the mere man rocked to and fro againUpon the centre of his wavering heart.He put aside his palette, as if thusHe stepped from sacred vestments, and assumedA mortal function in the common world."Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approachedThe noble body. "O lily of the world!So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thouTo those who came thus near thee—for I stoodWithout the pale of thy half-royal rank—When thou wast budding, and the streams of lifeMade eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dewsOn its transplanted darling? Hear me now!I say this but in justice, not in pride,Not to insult thy high nobility,But that the poise of things in God's own sightMay be adjusted; and hereafter IMay urge a claim that all the powers of heavenShall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.—Laura you loved me! Look not so severe,With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,—Let it consume you in the wearing strifeIt fought with duty in your ravaged heart.I knew it ever since that summer dayI painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child,At rest beside the fountain; when I felt—O Heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breathBlow through my hair, as with your eager soul—Forgetting soul and body go as one—You leaned across my easel till our cheeks—Ah me! 't was not your purpose—touched, and clung!Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught?I ween it wears as proud a diadem—Here, in this very world—as that you wear.A king has held my palette, a grand-dukeHas picked my brush up, and a pope has beggedThe favor of my presence in his Rome.I did not go; I put my fortune by.I need not ask you why: you knew too well.It was but natural, it was no way strange,That I should love you. Everything that saw,Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet,And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,—I see the halo curving round your head,—I loved you once; but now I worship you,For the great deed that held my love aloof,And killed you in the action! I absolveYour soul from any taint. For from the dayOf that encounter by the fountain-sideUntil this moment, never turned on meThose tender eyes, unless they did a wrongTo nature by the cold, defiant glareWith which they chilled me. Never heard I wordOf softness spoken by those gentle lips;Never received a bounty from that handWhich gave to all the world. I know the cause.You did your duty,—not for honor's sake,Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse,Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,But for the sake of that pure, loyal loveYour husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,I bow before the lustre of your throne!I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,—If I had wronged you, you would answer meOut of the dusty porches of the tomb:—Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have ISpoken the very truth?" "The very truth!"A voice replied; and at his side he sawA form, half shadow and half substance, stand,Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earthIt had no footing, more than some dense mistThat waves o'er the surface of the groundIt scarcely touches. With a reverent lookThe shadow's waste and wretched face was bentAbove the picture; as though greater aweSubdued its awful being, and appalled,With memories of terrible delightAnd fearful wonder, its devouring gaze."You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape."And might not this, this second Eve, consoleThe emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlastThe fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?Before that figure, Time, and Death himself,Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you askMore than God's power, from nothing to create?"The artist gazed upon the boding form,And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,That were an idle question. What to meIs my creative power, bereft of love?Or what to God would be that self-same power,If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned,You calmly forfeited. For had you saidTo living Laura—in her burning ears—One half that you professed to Laura dead,She would have been your own. These contrariesSort not with my intelligence. But speak,Were Laura living, would the same stale playOf raging passion tearing out its heartUpon the rock of duty be performed?""The same, O phantom, while the heart I bearTrembled, but turned not its magnetic faithFrom God's fixed centre." "If I wake for youThis Laura,—give her all the bloom and glowOf that midsummer day you hold so dear,—The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul,The love of genius,—yea, the very love,The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receiveThat gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips,And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair faceWith nameless torture. But he cried aloud,Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smokeOf very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head.He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see—""Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjureThese vile abominations! Shall she bearLife's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,While God is justice?" "Who has made you judgeOf what you call God's good, and what you thinkGod's evil? One to him, the source of both,The God of good and of permitted ill.Have you no dream of days that might have been,Had you and Laura filled another fate?—Some cottage on the sloping Apennines,Roses and lilies, and the rest all love?I tell you that this tranquil dream may beFilled to repletion. Speak, and in the shadeOf my dark pinions I shall bear you hence,And land you where the mountain-goat himselfStruggles for footing." He outspread his wings,And all the chapel darkened, as though hellHad swallowed up the tapers; and the airGrew thick, and, like a current sensible,Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash,As of the waters of a nether sea.Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!Know my full meaning,—I who neither fearYour mystic person nor your dreadful power.Nor shall I now invoke God's potent nameFor my deliverance from your toils. I standUpon the founded structure of his law,Established from the first, and thence defyYour arts, reposing all my trust in that!"The darkness eddied off; and Carlo sawThe figure gathering, as from outer space,Brightness on brightness; and his former shapeFell from him, like the ashes that fall off,And show a core of mellow fire within.Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fellUpon the floor, enringing him with flame;And o'er the tresses of his beaming headArose a stream of many-colored light,Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoodSteadfast, for all the splendor, reaching upThe outstretched palms of his untainted soulTowards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked,With reverential wonder quivering throughHis sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?""I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death.""Then take my hand, if so God orders it;For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man,What the world loses in the loss of thee!What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse!What unwon glories are in store for thee!What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,Would shine upon the letters of thy nameGraven in marble, or the brazen heightOf columns wise with memories of thee!""Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,I could but paint those features o'er and o'er:Lo! that is done." A smile of pity litThe seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.The mandate came. He touched with downy wingThe sufferer lightly on his aching heart;And gently, as the skylark settles downUpon the clustered treasures of her nest,So Carlo softly slid along the propOf his tall easel, nestling at the footAs though he slumbered; and the morning brokeIn silver whiteness over Padua.
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
OTHELLO'S REMORSE.FROM "OTHELLO," ACT V. SC. 2.Behold, I have a weapon;A better never did itself sustainUpon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,That, with this little arm and this good sword,I have made my way through more impedimentsThan twenty times your stop:—but, O vain boast!Who can control his fate? 't is not so now.—Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed;Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear;Man but a rush against Othello's breast,And he retires:—where should Othello go?—Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench!Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?Even like thy chastity—O, cursèd slave!—Whip me, ye devils,From the possession of this heavenly sight!Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!—O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O!SHAKESPEARE.
OTHELLO'S REMORSE.FROM "OTHELLO," ACT V. SC. 2.
Behold, I have a weapon;A better never did itself sustainUpon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,That, with this little arm and this good sword,I have made my way through more impedimentsThan twenty times your stop:—but, O vain boast!Who can control his fate? 't is not so now.—Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed;Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear;Man but a rush against Othello's breast,And he retires:—where should Othello go?—Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench!Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?Even like thy chastity—O, cursèd slave!—Whip me, ye devils,From the possession of this heavenly sight!Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!—O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O!
SHAKESPEARE.