IX

At length there came upon Sordino’s cityAn enemy with armies great and strong,And laid a siege about its buttressed walls,And since the strongest bulwark sometime fallsBefore a cannonading fierce, and long,So did its self-defences, without pity.The conqueror did loot and kill and ravage,While o’er it all the chimes sang forth the hour,In notes which shamed the horror of that day,And as he listened said: “Take them away,Their music hath upon my men a pow’r,Which makes a saint out of a bloody savage!”Then from the lofty tow’r they were removed,Against Sordino’s pleadings, these to spare,And carried hence, none but the victor knew—And captive toilers whom at last he slew,—Their value he surmised and used such care,As for their preservation it behooved.

The conqueror did loot and kill and ravage,While o’er it all the chimes sang forth the hour,In notes which shamed the horror of that day,And as he listened said: “Take them away,Their music hath upon my men a pow’r,Which makes a saint out of a bloody savage!”

Then from the lofty tow’r they were removed,Against Sordino’s pleadings, these to spare,And carried hence, none but the victor knew—And captive toilers whom at last he slew,—Their value he surmised and used such care,As for their preservation it behooved.

O, heinous War, Hell’s very incarnation!Whose countenance is black with darkest hate,Whose eyes have serpent’s gleam of greed and lust,And fiendish satisfaction, when the dustOf God’s fair earth with precious blood is sate,Who laughs at the destruction of a nation.Whose breath is pois’nous fumes and dire disease,And darting flames, devouring man’s abodes,Whose voice with terror fills all living things,And nought attracts except the vulture’s wings,Its rending roar the very heaven goadsUntil the dark’ning cloud a-weeping flees.Whose brutish hands, with gore and grime polluted,Are strangling innocents and ripping wombs,And gagging Virtue’s cry, and sunderingThe maiden from her mother; plunderingThe aged and the sick, yea, even the tombsOf those “at rest” are by this monster looted.It rules the empires, and it rules the seas,It is the prince of power in the air,And kings and nations worship it with fear,But drunk with blood they loud and wildly cheer,And think its glory great beyond compare,Yea, worth all loss and human miseries.O, Christ, who stood on storm-tossed Galilee,Reproaching evil, saying: “Peace be still!”So all the fury of the storm and waveAbated, and the struggling ship was safe,Speak thou again that word divine, untilThe world shall hear, and war shall cease to be!O, may the day-spring from on High appear,When this foul monster shall be chained in Hell,When man, freed from its tyranny, shall beThe blessed of the Lord, in harmonyWith every race which under heaven dwell,And all his life be like a golden year!

Whose breath is pois’nous fumes and dire disease,And darting flames, devouring man’s abodes,Whose voice with terror fills all living things,And nought attracts except the vulture’s wings,Its rending roar the very heaven goadsUntil the dark’ning cloud a-weeping flees.

Whose brutish hands, with gore and grime polluted,Are strangling innocents and ripping wombs,And gagging Virtue’s cry, and sunderingThe maiden from her mother; plunderingThe aged and the sick, yea, even the tombsOf those “at rest” are by this monster looted.

It rules the empires, and it rules the seas,It is the prince of power in the air,And kings and nations worship it with fear,But drunk with blood they loud and wildly cheer,And think its glory great beyond compare,Yea, worth all loss and human miseries.

O, Christ, who stood on storm-tossed Galilee,Reproaching evil, saying: “Peace be still!”So all the fury of the storm and waveAbated, and the struggling ship was safe,Speak thou again that word divine, untilThe world shall hear, and war shall cease to be!

O, may the day-spring from on High appear,When this foul monster shall be chained in Hell,When man, freed from its tyranny, shall beThe blessed of the Lord, in harmonyWith every race which under heaven dwell,And all his life be like a golden year!

Sordino from the fated city fled,When he beheld destruction’s hand engagedIn Vandalism on the house of God;It seemed to him an awful chastening-rod,Because of sin which heaven had enraged,For which the blood of thousands now was shed.When he perceived resistance was in vain,The city’s doom declared in blood and fire,He left it under cover of the night,With thousand others. Pausing in his flightHe saw the flames from the cathedral spireLeap ’gainst the angry clouds of storm and rain.He first sought safety at his country-seat,A villa rich in orchard and in field,Where he did shelter homeless refugees,And here, for many days they lived in peace,Until the country, too, itself must yield,And valiant men before the foe retreat.We will not here relate the conflict’s trend,Sufficient that at last the enemyWas driven from the land by armies strong,And as in days of the heroic song,With plunder rich, across the stormy sea,They to their home-land shores the course did wend.Deep sadness fell upon Sordino’s heartFor all the sorrow of his countrymen,For all the ravages wrought by the foe,But most of all his cup seemed overflowWith grief beyond the measure of our ken,Because he from his chimes did have to part.He restless grew, no place found him content,No pleasure could his spirit satisfy,His former love of study him forsook,And e’en on nature he did cease to lookWith that true, heartfelt joy of years gone by,—His days in gloom and ennui were spent.At last he in his heart resolved to goUpon a journey—he knew hardly where—In quest of his beloved bells, though noneFor certain seemed to know where they had gone,Still he would travel over land and mere,—With this resolve his soul was soon aglow.

When he perceived resistance was in vain,The city’s doom declared in blood and fire,He left it under cover of the night,With thousand others. Pausing in his flightHe saw the flames from the cathedral spireLeap ’gainst the angry clouds of storm and rain.

He first sought safety at his country-seat,A villa rich in orchard and in field,Where he did shelter homeless refugees,And here, for many days they lived in peace,Until the country, too, itself must yield,And valiant men before the foe retreat.

We will not here relate the conflict’s trend,Sufficient that at last the enemyWas driven from the land by armies strong,And as in days of the heroic song,With plunder rich, across the stormy sea,They to their home-land shores the course did wend.

Deep sadness fell upon Sordino’s heartFor all the sorrow of his countrymen,For all the ravages wrought by the foe,But most of all his cup seemed overflowWith grief beyond the measure of our ken,Because he from his chimes did have to part.

He restless grew, no place found him content,No pleasure could his spirit satisfy,His former love of study him forsook,And e’en on nature he did cease to lookWith that true, heartfelt joy of years gone by,—His days in gloom and ennui were spent.

At last he in his heart resolved to goUpon a journey—he knew hardly where—In quest of his beloved bells, though noneFor certain seemed to know where they had gone,Still he would travel over land and mere,—With this resolve his soul was soon aglow.

To France he first of all did make his way,—Enduring hardship on the boistrous sea,And dangers on the shores of sullen foes,But since to hearts of purpose strong no woesInsufferable seem, thus agony,Of any kind, could not his zeal allay.He reached the wondrous city of the Seine,The metropole of Europe’s art and modes,Where ever dazzling Show and Pleasure sweet,Like youths in Daphne’s grove alaughing meet,Where Grecian deities have their abodes,And genius hath reared a matchless fane.[A][A]The Louvre.Where stands the armless Venus, unto whomPoor Heine cried for help, but none received,Since pagan culture is quite impotentTo save a soul in doubt and error spent,Though for poor Heine none needs to be grieved,Whose glory mingles with the maid of foam.Great Paris, scene of most momentous deeds,Far reaching consequences to the race;Where monarchs died like vilest criminals,While Anarchy did sing her bacchanals,And trampled in the mire, what once did grace,The highest places and most hallowed creeds.Where great Napoleon, a demigod,Ascended to the pinnacle of fameAnd pow’r most dread, who made the monarchs quailBefore his genius, until a wailOf anguish rose mid ruin and the shameOf empires, struck by heav’n’s avenging rod.But even his greatness could not have its swayO’er equilibriums by ages fixed;His life was like the wierd and dazzling lightOf some stray star in its erratic flight,Or like the image where the metals mixed,The gold and silver with ignoble clay.The head of gold, the feet of clay, and soThe little stone of Fate the giant felled,The star erratic into exile sent,Its lustre in ignominy misspent,Still it had closed an age—whose doom was spelled,The slave is free, the tyrant, too, must go.But this was not the France Sordino knew,Long time before the Corsican he lived,Ere France had lost her faith in monks and nuns,While chiming bells were more than roaring guns,And in their potency the land believed,Rejoicing that their fathers’ faith was true.His life fell in the days of Charles the Great,When wars were pleasant pastime for the kings,Who fought for many reasons quite terrestrial,But sometimes, as they thought, for things celestial,And nothing like the latter valor brings,Inspired by bigotry and hellish hate.When France was warring for her very life,And Guise, the mighty lion, held at bay,When Florence beat her foe at Marciano,And poor Sordino lost his sweet campana,’Twas in that age he lived and made his wayTo Paris, weary from the worldly strife.He traveled like a scholar, incognito,And sought the company of learned men,Disputing with them in the classic lore;This helped him churchly places to explore,Where might have been, perchance, a robber’s den,Since that of old has ever had a ditto.“My Father’s house ye made a den of thieves,”Said Christ to priests who wrought for Him a cross,But afterwards, full often, in His nameThe priesthood has been guilty of the same:What was a sister nation’s grievous loss,They proudly stored in dusky sacristies.Such was the plunder of the noble art,Which Philip from the Netherlands did take,Such, too, the treasures which NapoleonWith ruthless warfare from the nations won;Thus ever, where the priest his sign doth makeUpon the sin which pierced the sacred heart.Such guilt may, even in Sordino’s times,Have rested upon some Parisian church,Or abbey in its strange seclusiveness,But everywhere he found but weariness,Resulting from his all persistent search,And nowhere did he see nor hear his chimes.

He reached the wondrous city of the Seine,The metropole of Europe’s art and modes,Where ever dazzling Show and Pleasure sweet,Like youths in Daphne’s grove alaughing meet,Where Grecian deities have their abodes,And genius hath reared a matchless fane.[A]

[A]The Louvre.

Where stands the armless Venus, unto whomPoor Heine cried for help, but none received,Since pagan culture is quite impotentTo save a soul in doubt and error spent,Though for poor Heine none needs to be grieved,Whose glory mingles with the maid of foam.

Great Paris, scene of most momentous deeds,Far reaching consequences to the race;Where monarchs died like vilest criminals,While Anarchy did sing her bacchanals,And trampled in the mire, what once did grace,The highest places and most hallowed creeds.

Where great Napoleon, a demigod,Ascended to the pinnacle of fameAnd pow’r most dread, who made the monarchs quailBefore his genius, until a wailOf anguish rose mid ruin and the shameOf empires, struck by heav’n’s avenging rod.

But even his greatness could not have its swayO’er equilibriums by ages fixed;His life was like the wierd and dazzling lightOf some stray star in its erratic flight,Or like the image where the metals mixed,The gold and silver with ignoble clay.

The head of gold, the feet of clay, and soThe little stone of Fate the giant felled,The star erratic into exile sent,Its lustre in ignominy misspent,Still it had closed an age—whose doom was spelled,The slave is free, the tyrant, too, must go.

But this was not the France Sordino knew,Long time before the Corsican he lived,Ere France had lost her faith in monks and nuns,While chiming bells were more than roaring guns,And in their potency the land believed,Rejoicing that their fathers’ faith was true.

His life fell in the days of Charles the Great,When wars were pleasant pastime for the kings,Who fought for many reasons quite terrestrial,But sometimes, as they thought, for things celestial,And nothing like the latter valor brings,Inspired by bigotry and hellish hate.

When France was warring for her very life,And Guise, the mighty lion, held at bay,When Florence beat her foe at Marciano,And poor Sordino lost his sweet campana,’Twas in that age he lived and made his wayTo Paris, weary from the worldly strife.

He traveled like a scholar, incognito,And sought the company of learned men,Disputing with them in the classic lore;This helped him churchly places to explore,Where might have been, perchance, a robber’s den,Since that of old has ever had a ditto.

“My Father’s house ye made a den of thieves,”Said Christ to priests who wrought for Him a cross,But afterwards, full often, in His nameThe priesthood has been guilty of the same:What was a sister nation’s grievous loss,They proudly stored in dusky sacristies.

Such was the plunder of the noble art,Which Philip from the Netherlands did take,Such, too, the treasures which NapoleonWith ruthless warfare from the nations won;Thus ever, where the priest his sign doth makeUpon the sin which pierced the sacred heart.

Such guilt may, even in Sordino’s times,Have rested upon some Parisian church,Or abbey in its strange seclusiveness,But everywhere he found but weariness,Resulting from his all persistent search,And nowhere did he see nor hear his chimes.

Why should a soul consume its power and peaceIn quest of that which useless seems and vague,In following mirages of ideals,And pass through many harassing ordeals,Endure the cruel sneer of mobs that plague,When one may dwell ’mongst them in mental ease?Why follow, like a fettered slave, one’s longingWhich sometimes leads through dun and dreary wilds,O’er pathless hills and mountain tops afar,And then points to a dim and distant star,With faith a-smiling, like a little child’s,While spectral shadows round one’s soul is thronging?Because a gleam—as from a fiery globe—Illumined souls before their incarnation,And bound them with love’s chain eternally,That Beauty’s face for ever they might see,And ne’er be happy in their earthly station,Unless their life in heav’n’s pure light they robe.This gleam was ever glowing in the heartOf him whom men might say was “lacking sense,”The light of beauty and a smould’ring love.—Since strait-laced folk may now his acts reprove,And fearing this, we shall the tale condense,Of what took place, before he did depart.One day he met a scholar from Vienna,Whose home was on the banks of that fair stream,Renowned in history and minstrel’s song,O’er whose blue waters, as they flow along,Some olden romance hovers like a dream,In saffron hues of terra di Sienna.There traveled with this scholar a young womanWhose beauty smote Sordino at first sight,And made him captive unaware; how strange!Since he had thought himself outside the range,Now two score ten, ev’n of the wildest flightOf any arrow from the little bow-man.But such is man, who thinks, he knows himself,And—like Sordino—very much besides,Quite fortified by wisdom’s splendid armor,Who thinks his heart is dead to any charmer,Will suddenly discover that there hidesWithin its chambers still a little elf.She was a coy, elusive little creature,Uncaptured yet by suitors manifold,Her father’s only child, and motherless,Whose cheerfulness his saddened heart did bless,Whose eyes of Danube blue and hair of gold,Commingled with her Mother’s Grecian feature.She was proficient in the classic learning,Read Greek and Latin like her native tongue,Italian, too, and did on Dante dote,And metaphysics studied, but by rote,For mental subtleties she was too young,And was to Hella’s songs too often turning.Anacreon she knew by heart and setHis lyric and erotic odes to tunes,And most of all she did with fondness loveHis ἐραςμίη πέλεια—the doveOf Venus, odorous with sweet perfumes,Her payment for the poet’s canzonet.And like an Amathusia she seemed,To fond Sordino, who had ne’er beheldSuch loveliness of mind and body wed,And then he knew that ’mid the past and deadOf his own life, no being had compelledHis love like she whom he a goddess deemed.But when he saw her father’s jealous care,He did not dare his hand to tender her,But first of all sought to ingratiateHimself to both, but most to the sedate,Pedantic scholar, ready to concurIn all his views, though fallacy lay bare.Thus suavity did win the learned man,And he became Sordino’s ardent friend,And asked him to return with them to Wien,Another thing he failed not to agree in,And when their stay in Paris had an end,He gladly journeyed with this Austrian.

Why follow, like a fettered slave, one’s longingWhich sometimes leads through dun and dreary wilds,O’er pathless hills and mountain tops afar,And then points to a dim and distant star,With faith a-smiling, like a little child’s,While spectral shadows round one’s soul is thronging?

Because a gleam—as from a fiery globe—Illumined souls before their incarnation,And bound them with love’s chain eternally,That Beauty’s face for ever they might see,And ne’er be happy in their earthly station,Unless their life in heav’n’s pure light they robe.

This gleam was ever glowing in the heartOf him whom men might say was “lacking sense,”The light of beauty and a smould’ring love.—Since strait-laced folk may now his acts reprove,And fearing this, we shall the tale condense,Of what took place, before he did depart.

One day he met a scholar from Vienna,Whose home was on the banks of that fair stream,Renowned in history and minstrel’s song,O’er whose blue waters, as they flow along,Some olden romance hovers like a dream,In saffron hues of terra di Sienna.

There traveled with this scholar a young womanWhose beauty smote Sordino at first sight,And made him captive unaware; how strange!Since he had thought himself outside the range,Now two score ten, ev’n of the wildest flightOf any arrow from the little bow-man.

But such is man, who thinks, he knows himself,And—like Sordino—very much besides,Quite fortified by wisdom’s splendid armor,Who thinks his heart is dead to any charmer,Will suddenly discover that there hidesWithin its chambers still a little elf.

She was a coy, elusive little creature,Uncaptured yet by suitors manifold,Her father’s only child, and motherless,Whose cheerfulness his saddened heart did bless,Whose eyes of Danube blue and hair of gold,Commingled with her Mother’s Grecian feature.

She was proficient in the classic learning,Read Greek and Latin like her native tongue,Italian, too, and did on Dante dote,And metaphysics studied, but by rote,For mental subtleties she was too young,And was to Hella’s songs too often turning.

Anacreon she knew by heart and setHis lyric and erotic odes to tunes,And most of all she did with fondness loveHis ἐραςμίη πέλεια—the doveOf Venus, odorous with sweet perfumes,Her payment for the poet’s canzonet.

And like an Amathusia she seemed,To fond Sordino, who had ne’er beheldSuch loveliness of mind and body wed,And then he knew that ’mid the past and deadOf his own life, no being had compelledHis love like she whom he a goddess deemed.

But when he saw her father’s jealous care,He did not dare his hand to tender her,But first of all sought to ingratiateHimself to both, but most to the sedate,Pedantic scholar, ready to concurIn all his views, though fallacy lay bare.

Thus suavity did win the learned man,And he became Sordino’s ardent friend,And asked him to return with them to Wien,Another thing he failed not to agree in,And when their stay in Paris had an end,He gladly journeyed with this Austrian.

On Danube’s shores, ’mid wooded hills, a villaWas smiling welcome to its lord and guest,But most of all to her—whose name was Stella,(Her father called her “pulchra me’ puella”)For whom the servants ready had ein Fest,Where once encamped the hosts of Attila.A Florentine among Teutonic scenes,Led thither by a love, yet unexpressed,Forgot his sorrows, yea, forgot his bells,Since nought like love its victim so compelsTo full submission to a sweet behest,The looks and smiles of one still in her teens.Her beauty was the centre of all scenes,Her voice the only music of each sound,Her presence, sole embodiment of bliss,And heaven itself it would have been, a kiss,For which the Shibboleth he had not found,Behind the garden-trees and flow’ry screens.On horseback did they sometimes ride alongThe winding roads, and most in early morn,While yet the dew was trembling on the blade,And all the minstrelsy of dreamy gladeWas like a stream Elysian to them borne,With pure delight, estranged to earthly wrong.And sometimes on the noble river’s breastThey sailed, below the stately castle walls,Or hoary ruins on o’erhanging cliffs,Of ancient lore the sacred hieroglyphs,Upon whose mystery the moonlight falls,With fairy-charm which age of knighthood blessed.’Mongst such are those of famous DürrensteinWhich once imprisoned Richard Lionhearted,—Returning from a holy pilgrimage,—The English lion in an unknown cage,—For ev’n his minstrel, from whom he had parted,Knew not what walls his good lord did confine.But he, the faithful Blondel, sought him long,And traveled in disguise through Germany,Until he learned of some great personage,On whom king Leopold had wreaked his rage,And now he sought this place most eagerly,Without an aid or weapon, but a song.A song which he, together with the king,Had made one night among Judean hills,A ballad full of stirring battle-scenes,Of Crusaders in strife with Saracens,Of victories, defeats and untold ills,And this below the tow’r he now did sing.And in the stillness of the summer nightHis voice rose clear up to the battlement,But none did deem it but a common lay,Except the one who watched a flick’ring rayOf one bright star, to him the song’s ascentCame like God’s angels on the gleam of light.He reached the middle of his song and ceased,Then harkened for an answer from the tow’r,When all at once he heard his master’s voiceConclude the lay, it made his heart rejoice.He homeward sped, and soon a ransom’s powerThe monarch from captivity released.This story Stella told the Florentine,Who found it charming in her quaint Italian,But would have substituted some fair ladyFor doughty Richard, though perhaps more shady,If held a ransom by a noble villain,Found by her lover while she did repine.A thing she disagreed with very strongly,Since heroes she preferred to amorettes,And poets, singing monarchs out of prison,To luting minstrels whose life’s missionIs sentimental ditties and regrets,Though she in heart felt this was stated wrongly.And such is, after all, a maiden’s heart,Unknown to her, unsearchable to man,It quotes one thing, while feeling quite another,Though guileless like a sister to her brother,Her head and heart are like a sprightly spanOf untrained colts which ever pull apart.But we must shun continuous digression,And turn to him, the hero of our tale,Who made the rather sad discovery,That Stella ne’ertheless did worship Chivalry,But not in men of fifty, though all hale,For he received a “No” to his confession.Her heart cleaved to a youth in far off land,A youth of prowess in her country’s cause,Though not bethrothed, she hoped the day would come,When that should be, ev’n in her father’s home,This to Sordino a great sorrow was,Since he had hoped to win her heart and hand.He said adieu to these his friends, by chance,And drew away, he cared but little whither,Since wounded love has lost its grip on life,And sees it like a night with horror rife,Until the victim on some morning blither,Does damn such meetings as that one in France.For men at fifty may as truly love,As boys of fifteen, and a little truer,And, disappointed, feel the keenest pang,But yet I have not heard a suitor hangHimself, because he flatly failed to woo her,Nor worth the while with rivals, have a row.For wisdom grows with years, and manly reasonBecomes the load-star of the wanderer,And man doth cease to be a woman’s slave,For which she may despise him as a knave;The “superman” she made, doth ponder her,And knows, beneath her love is sometimes treason.

A Florentine among Teutonic scenes,Led thither by a love, yet unexpressed,Forgot his sorrows, yea, forgot his bells,Since nought like love its victim so compelsTo full submission to a sweet behest,The looks and smiles of one still in her teens.

Her beauty was the centre of all scenes,Her voice the only music of each sound,Her presence, sole embodiment of bliss,And heaven itself it would have been, a kiss,For which the Shibboleth he had not found,Behind the garden-trees and flow’ry screens.

On horseback did they sometimes ride alongThe winding roads, and most in early morn,While yet the dew was trembling on the blade,And all the minstrelsy of dreamy gladeWas like a stream Elysian to them borne,With pure delight, estranged to earthly wrong.

And sometimes on the noble river’s breastThey sailed, below the stately castle walls,Or hoary ruins on o’erhanging cliffs,Of ancient lore the sacred hieroglyphs,Upon whose mystery the moonlight falls,With fairy-charm which age of knighthood blessed.

’Mongst such are those of famous DürrensteinWhich once imprisoned Richard Lionhearted,—Returning from a holy pilgrimage,—The English lion in an unknown cage,—For ev’n his minstrel, from whom he had parted,Knew not what walls his good lord did confine.

But he, the faithful Blondel, sought him long,And traveled in disguise through Germany,Until he learned of some great personage,On whom king Leopold had wreaked his rage,And now he sought this place most eagerly,Without an aid or weapon, but a song.

A song which he, together with the king,Had made one night among Judean hills,A ballad full of stirring battle-scenes,Of Crusaders in strife with Saracens,Of victories, defeats and untold ills,And this below the tow’r he now did sing.

And in the stillness of the summer nightHis voice rose clear up to the battlement,But none did deem it but a common lay,Except the one who watched a flick’ring rayOf one bright star, to him the song’s ascentCame like God’s angels on the gleam of light.

He reached the middle of his song and ceased,Then harkened for an answer from the tow’r,When all at once he heard his master’s voiceConclude the lay, it made his heart rejoice.He homeward sped, and soon a ransom’s powerThe monarch from captivity released.

This story Stella told the Florentine,Who found it charming in her quaint Italian,But would have substituted some fair ladyFor doughty Richard, though perhaps more shady,If held a ransom by a noble villain,Found by her lover while she did repine.

A thing she disagreed with very strongly,Since heroes she preferred to amorettes,And poets, singing monarchs out of prison,To luting minstrels whose life’s missionIs sentimental ditties and regrets,Though she in heart felt this was stated wrongly.

And such is, after all, a maiden’s heart,Unknown to her, unsearchable to man,It quotes one thing, while feeling quite another,Though guileless like a sister to her brother,Her head and heart are like a sprightly spanOf untrained colts which ever pull apart.

But we must shun continuous digression,And turn to him, the hero of our tale,Who made the rather sad discovery,That Stella ne’ertheless did worship Chivalry,But not in men of fifty, though all hale,For he received a “No” to his confession.

Her heart cleaved to a youth in far off land,A youth of prowess in her country’s cause,Though not bethrothed, she hoped the day would come,When that should be, ev’n in her father’s home,This to Sordino a great sorrow was,Since he had hoped to win her heart and hand.

He said adieu to these his friends, by chance,And drew away, he cared but little whither,Since wounded love has lost its grip on life,And sees it like a night with horror rife,Until the victim on some morning blither,Does damn such meetings as that one in France.

For men at fifty may as truly love,As boys of fifteen, and a little truer,And, disappointed, feel the keenest pang,But yet I have not heard a suitor hangHimself, because he flatly failed to woo her,Nor worth the while with rivals, have a row.

For wisdom grows with years, and manly reasonBecomes the load-star of the wanderer,And man doth cease to be a woman’s slave,For which she may despise him as a knave;The “superman” she made, doth ponder her,And knows, beneath her love is sometimes treason.

Vienna has a noble shrine; ev’n thenIt vied in glory with all Europe’s fanes,St. Stephen;—thither did he go one day,To see its beauty, more perchance, to pray,For he would fain seek solace ’mongst the manesOf the departed than the crowds of men.There in the dimness of the lofty naveHe tarried long and mused upon the past,On visored knights who thither came to findForgiveness, and assurance to their mind,That God did sanction that their lot was castWith them who fought for the Redeemer’s grave.Their sacred task he almost envied them,To have a noble aim and be assuredThat heaven its benediction on it smiles,And loving hearts are with the weary miles,For such a quest all things might be endured,And death itself be life’s great diadem.A mission and a woman’s love is allA man should crave for earthly happiness,Sordino thought, while absently his gazeDid fall upon the sweet Madonna’s face,And he had none of these to lift and blessHis aimless, dark and love-tormented soul.He humbly knelt before the ancient altar,A stranger mid the holy solitude,But what he said in pray’r must not be toldTo all the world, whose cynic smile is cold;Sufficient that the Saviour on the RoodImparted strength to him who seemed to falter.Just then a clear-tongued bell rang from the tower,With notes akin to one of his lost chimes,Reminding him of his neglected quest;He rose as if by a new zeal possest,As when a mountaineer, who upward climbs,Is fascinated by the vision’s power.

There in the dimness of the lofty naveHe tarried long and mused upon the past,On visored knights who thither came to findForgiveness, and assurance to their mind,That God did sanction that their lot was castWith them who fought for the Redeemer’s grave.

Their sacred task he almost envied them,To have a noble aim and be assuredThat heaven its benediction on it smiles,And loving hearts are with the weary miles,For such a quest all things might be endured,And death itself be life’s great diadem.

A mission and a woman’s love is allA man should crave for earthly happiness,Sordino thought, while absently his gazeDid fall upon the sweet Madonna’s face,And he had none of these to lift and blessHis aimless, dark and love-tormented soul.

He humbly knelt before the ancient altar,A stranger mid the holy solitude,But what he said in pray’r must not be toldTo all the world, whose cynic smile is cold;Sufficient that the Saviour on the RoodImparted strength to him who seemed to falter.

Just then a clear-tongued bell rang from the tower,With notes akin to one of his lost chimes,Reminding him of his neglected quest;He rose as if by a new zeal possest,As when a mountaineer, who upward climbs,Is fascinated by the vision’s power.

That night he had a dream, in which he heardThe music of his bells across the seas,Whose notes came clearly from a purple haze,And wandered with the breeze from place to place,A-dancing with the billows’ wild caprice,And mingled with the cries of many a bird.And floated round a many-colored sail,Half-hoisted, flapping, listening between,And eager to depart for that fair land,Whence came the music, on whose purple strandThe ocean shifted from the dazzling sheen,To emerald and amethystine pale.And in the stern the smiling Stella stood,A-beckoning to come with her away,And he did hasten to the rocky shore,But as he reached it, she was there no more,The ship had carried her far out the bay,And in its wake the waves were red as blood.Then did he weep, until a gentle handWas laid upon his head, now bending low,And looking up, a stranger met his eye,Who said: “Why art thou here, why dost thou cry?The melodies which o’er the waters go,Proceed from chimes made in thy native land;Thy own they are, go seek them till thou findest,Then is thy journey ended, and the strife,Then shalt thou know the joy which heaven will give,So overwhelming that thou canst not live;Now, henceforth thou must sacrifice thy life,To those who bear the cross our God is kindest.”When from his dream he woke, he pondered longIts meaning, and at last waxed confident,It was an angel that had spoken thus;For calling in distress, God heareth us,His unseen ministers to us are sent,To give us light, and weeping change to song.He also felt assured, his chimes had foundA place across the seas, though not in France,May be in England or some British isle,—This thought provoked a melancholy smile,For Richard’s fame and knightly lance,And Blondel’s song were with it bound.And he determined to depart full soon,Yet one thing did his heart desire to see,—The face of Stella, which both night and dayDid follow him, where-e’er he turned his way,Her beck’ning in his dream might mean to beA change of mind, before another moon.Yea, might he but behold those eyes once more,Receive again one look of kindliness,And feast his famished heart upon her beauty,And hear her speak, as once, forgetting duty,And give him one adieu of hope to bless,Then would he seek his chimes on any shore.

And floated round a many-colored sail,Half-hoisted, flapping, listening between,And eager to depart for that fair land,Whence came the music, on whose purple strandThe ocean shifted from the dazzling sheen,To emerald and amethystine pale.

And in the stern the smiling Stella stood,A-beckoning to come with her away,And he did hasten to the rocky shore,But as he reached it, she was there no more,The ship had carried her far out the bay,And in its wake the waves were red as blood.

Then did he weep, until a gentle handWas laid upon his head, now bending low,And looking up, a stranger met his eye,Who said: “Why art thou here, why dost thou cry?The melodies which o’er the waters go,Proceed from chimes made in thy native land;Thy own they are, go seek them till thou findest,Then is thy journey ended, and the strife,Then shalt thou know the joy which heaven will give,So overwhelming that thou canst not live;Now, henceforth thou must sacrifice thy life,To those who bear the cross our God is kindest.”

When from his dream he woke, he pondered longIts meaning, and at last waxed confident,It was an angel that had spoken thus;For calling in distress, God heareth us,His unseen ministers to us are sent,To give us light, and weeping change to song.

He also felt assured, his chimes had foundA place across the seas, though not in France,May be in England or some British isle,—This thought provoked a melancholy smile,For Richard’s fame and knightly lance,And Blondel’s song were with it bound.

And he determined to depart full soon,Yet one thing did his heart desire to see,—The face of Stella, which both night and dayDid follow him, where-e’er he turned his way,Her beck’ning in his dream might mean to beA change of mind, before another moon.

Yea, might he but behold those eyes once more,Receive again one look of kindliness,And feast his famished heart upon her beauty,And hear her speak, as once, forgetting duty,And give him one adieu of hope to bless,Then would he seek his chimes on any shore.

How man is ever living by illusions!The more the better, why then shatter them?Why kill the birds of Paradise with science?Why meet old Superstition with defiance,Since in the past her very garments’ hemGave from life’s guiltiness sweet absolution?Why not let lore of Middle Ages reign,The lore of fairy—and of elfin-land?A world of strange, imaginary things,Which gave to human mind its soaring wings,And bore the simplest to a golden strand,Where he forgot his poverty and pain.What are your knowledge and inventions worth,If they destroy man’s fleeting happiness,—Illusion’s chiefest offspring, and life’s goal?Far better then the hut and back-log coalThan mansions lighted by the magic press,But without fairies and a glowing hearth.Sordino’s age was not like ours—of engines;No Kipling to bid romance a farewell,No wonders in the realm of rods and wheels,No squeaking phonographs and Chaplin reels,No railroads, autos, and, what was as well,No Zeppelins, no bombs and submarines.His was the vanished day of simple living,Of child-like faith in man, and things unseen,When next God’s footstool poet, prophet stood,And told that all which makes man glad is good,That ever Eden’s Tree of Life is green,And to the world its leaves of healing giving.And such a leaf was any happy dream,—An omen or a message from beyond,As truly as in good Hellenic days,When at the Sibyl’s cave men found their ways,—And to Sordino its illusion fondBecame a prophecy, a guiding gleam.

Why not let lore of Middle Ages reign,The lore of fairy—and of elfin-land?A world of strange, imaginary things,Which gave to human mind its soaring wings,And bore the simplest to a golden strand,Where he forgot his poverty and pain.

What are your knowledge and inventions worth,If they destroy man’s fleeting happiness,—Illusion’s chiefest offspring, and life’s goal?Far better then the hut and back-log coalThan mansions lighted by the magic press,But without fairies and a glowing hearth.

Sordino’s age was not like ours—of engines;No Kipling to bid romance a farewell,No wonders in the realm of rods and wheels,No squeaking phonographs and Chaplin reels,No railroads, autos, and, what was as well,No Zeppelins, no bombs and submarines.

His was the vanished day of simple living,Of child-like faith in man, and things unseen,When next God’s footstool poet, prophet stood,And told that all which makes man glad is good,That ever Eden’s Tree of Life is green,And to the world its leaves of healing giving.

And such a leaf was any happy dream,—An omen or a message from beyond,As truly as in good Hellenic days,When at the Sibyl’s cave men found their ways,—And to Sordino its illusion fondBecame a prophecy, a guiding gleam.

A Catholic he was and had his passport,And did not fear to take a ship for London,Though rumor owned it, things were lively there,And travellers had better take a care,Where “Bloody Mary” ruled with fierce abandon,Suspecting strangers to be of the base sort.The base sort being chiefly protestant,Or sympathizers with the cause of Cranmer;And since he was not either, he might ventureTo see the city without fearing censure,And so, at last, he started out to wanderThrough Germany, whose scenes did him enchant.At last he reached the port of old Calais,And bought a passage ’cross the English Channel,According as the angel had him bidden,Believing that his chimes were used or hiddenIn London town, where back of pane or panelHe’d seek and find them on some happy day.Now as the wind bore gently ’gainst the sail,And slowly eked their distance from the shore,The western sun lay ruddy on the wave,His dream thereby made real, all things, saveThe one whose face his heart did still adore,She was not there this pilgrim strange to hail.Upon him fell a sadness, which aloneThe homeless, longing traveller doth know,Augmented by a disappointed love,And standing musing at the vessel’s prow,The only thing his wistful vision saw,Was that red glow which on the water shone.He stood there when the evening shadows fell,And darkening storm-clouds rose o’er England’s coast,He stood there when the night closed from his viewThe shores of France, within the deepest blue,Through which a glim’ring light, the uttermost,Was smiling him a dubious farewell.He stood there when the waves began to roll,The wind to sigh and whine in sail and rope,And night closed round him with forebodings darkOf dangers for the rocking little bark,On which full many souls now stayed their hope,That it would bear them to their journey’s goal.But he feared not, no, rather pleasure foundIn the arising fury of the deep,Since it expressed the sorrow of his soul,And he did hear its wild alluring call,Into its mystic rest at once to leap,A rest beneath the billows’ angry sound.And now the elements did more and moreUnstop their many-voiced organ-keys:The thunder’s loud diapason, the shriekOf wailing wind, the flopping and the creakOf rigging; and the rain upon the seas,The lightning’s hiss and surging water’s roar.But all of this his heart enjoyed with glee,And he refused to leave his lonely post,Though drenched, and clinging to the vessel’s railing,A good old ship, though sorely tried, yet sailing,It was her sturdy captain’s boast,That she could weather even the roughest sea.Sordino heard in all the symphonyOf nature’s stormy mood, the miseryAnd rage pent up in her great heart, like his,Thus all its terror was to him a bliss,He heard in it majestic melody,Since all God’s universe is harmony.The wind grew chilly and at last him droveInto the hold, where slumber soon him claimed;And when the morning dawned, the ship was nearThe cliffs of England; this a grateful tearBrought from the anxious hearts, which almost shamedSordino whom this sight left quite unmoved.

The base sort being chiefly protestant,Or sympathizers with the cause of Cranmer;And since he was not either, he might ventureTo see the city without fearing censure,And so, at last, he started out to wanderThrough Germany, whose scenes did him enchant.

At last he reached the port of old Calais,And bought a passage ’cross the English Channel,According as the angel had him bidden,Believing that his chimes were used or hiddenIn London town, where back of pane or panelHe’d seek and find them on some happy day.

Now as the wind bore gently ’gainst the sail,And slowly eked their distance from the shore,The western sun lay ruddy on the wave,His dream thereby made real, all things, saveThe one whose face his heart did still adore,She was not there this pilgrim strange to hail.

Upon him fell a sadness, which aloneThe homeless, longing traveller doth know,Augmented by a disappointed love,And standing musing at the vessel’s prow,The only thing his wistful vision saw,Was that red glow which on the water shone.

He stood there when the evening shadows fell,And darkening storm-clouds rose o’er England’s coast,He stood there when the night closed from his viewThe shores of France, within the deepest blue,Through which a glim’ring light, the uttermost,Was smiling him a dubious farewell.

He stood there when the waves began to roll,The wind to sigh and whine in sail and rope,And night closed round him with forebodings darkOf dangers for the rocking little bark,On which full many souls now stayed their hope,That it would bear them to their journey’s goal.

But he feared not, no, rather pleasure foundIn the arising fury of the deep,Since it expressed the sorrow of his soul,And he did hear its wild alluring call,Into its mystic rest at once to leap,A rest beneath the billows’ angry sound.

And now the elements did more and moreUnstop their many-voiced organ-keys:The thunder’s loud diapason, the shriekOf wailing wind, the flopping and the creakOf rigging; and the rain upon the seas,The lightning’s hiss and surging water’s roar.

But all of this his heart enjoyed with glee,And he refused to leave his lonely post,Though drenched, and clinging to the vessel’s railing,A good old ship, though sorely tried, yet sailing,It was her sturdy captain’s boast,That she could weather even the roughest sea.

Sordino heard in all the symphonyOf nature’s stormy mood, the miseryAnd rage pent up in her great heart, like his,Thus all its terror was to him a bliss,He heard in it majestic melody,Since all God’s universe is harmony.

The wind grew chilly and at last him droveInto the hold, where slumber soon him claimed;And when the morning dawned, the ship was nearThe cliffs of England; this a grateful tearBrought from the anxious hearts, which almost shamedSordino whom this sight left quite unmoved.

Fair England, long by God elect and blessed,His chosen land, as Palestine of old,From which His light to all the world has shone,Where Freedom sits with monarchs on their throne,Where truth, more precious than the ruddy gold,Is by her wise men fearlessly professed.Where he, the many-minded geniusArose to make her name and tongue immortal,With never dying characters and song,Who knew the soul among the vulgar throng,As well as that of kings in castle portal,And made them all so much akin to us.Great Shakespeare, harbinger of Britain’s glory,The child of ages, product of a race,Born in the fulness of the time,—the world awakingTo a new day, its rusty fetters breaking,—He with his torch showed it the better ways,And linked the new with ancient fairy-story.Sordino’s times were all with forces seething,The new and old at war for mastery,But through its hope and fear, its love and hating,The nation with its rulers vacillating,There came the age when light gained victory,And Freedom through the songs of Shakespear breathing.That Freedom then, as ever, bathed in blood,And tried by fiery fagot and the stake,The Freedom of the soul to trow and live,As Christ commanded, ev’n that men should give—Like He—their lives for His own Kingdom’s sake,For none was free as He, upon the rood.The voice of Freedom whispered through the world—Like quick’ning breezes of advancing Spring,Which wake the modest crocus ’mongst the hills,And violets along the laughing rills,And bid returning songster’s music ringThrough budding woodlands by the mist impearled.Thus Freedom’s voice did wake the souls of men,The lowly and the mighty felt its power,But most the pure in heart who saw their God,Their hearts rejoiced ev’n ’neath the scourging rod;Alone they stood in suffering’s dark hour,But in a strength which heaven did grant them then.

Where he, the many-minded geniusArose to make her name and tongue immortal,With never dying characters and song,Who knew the soul among the vulgar throng,As well as that of kings in castle portal,And made them all so much akin to us.

Great Shakespeare, harbinger of Britain’s glory,The child of ages, product of a race,Born in the fulness of the time,—the world awakingTo a new day, its rusty fetters breaking,—He with his torch showed it the better ways,And linked the new with ancient fairy-story.

Sordino’s times were all with forces seething,The new and old at war for mastery,But through its hope and fear, its love and hating,The nation with its rulers vacillating,There came the age when light gained victory,And Freedom through the songs of Shakespear breathing.

That Freedom then, as ever, bathed in blood,And tried by fiery fagot and the stake,The Freedom of the soul to trow and live,As Christ commanded, ev’n that men should give—Like He—their lives for His own Kingdom’s sake,For none was free as He, upon the rood.

The voice of Freedom whispered through the world—Like quick’ning breezes of advancing Spring,Which wake the modest crocus ’mongst the hills,And violets along the laughing rills,And bid returning songster’s music ringThrough budding woodlands by the mist impearled.

Thus Freedom’s voice did wake the souls of men,The lowly and the mighty felt its power,But most the pure in heart who saw their God,Their hearts rejoiced ev’n ’neath the scourging rod;Alone they stood in suffering’s dark hour,But in a strength which heaven did grant them then.

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