MÉSALLIANCE
With gentle manners, winsome face,
And forehead fit to wear a crown,
How brilliant might have been her place,
Had she not mated with a clown,—
A Caliban of modern date,
Ill-dressed, ill-shapen, ill at ease,
With halting speech and awkward gait,
And manners certain to displease!
What secret motive could have led
This charming girl her life to stain
By condescending thus to wed
A husband whom she must disdain?
Far worthier men had vainly sought
To win her for herself alone;
What potent spell could Love have wrought
To draw her to a tactless drone?
A palace she might well have graced.
And led its functions like a queen;
Instead, her life has run to waste,
The wraith of what it might have been.
For boorishness hath brought its blight;
Her rare accomplishments are marred,
And every path, with promise bright,
By stupid tyranny is barred.
Yet still she bravely moves through life,
Ignoring her pathetic fall;—
A loveless, broken-hearted wife;
Alas, the pity of it all!
IN A MODERN CITY
Dreary fog and drizzling sleet,
And a lamp-lit track of slime;
Phantoms dim in the misty street,
Vanishing, streaked with grime;
Overhead in a spurious night,
Formed by the vapors dun,
Wraith-like globes of haloed light,
Mocking the hidden sun;—
Children, shod in sodden shoes,
(That is a sight that hurts;)
Women, furrowing filthy ooze
In thin, bedraggled skirts;
Horses, lashed with cruel zest,
Ploughing the fumid fog;
Hark! … a car, with no arrest,
Killing a howling dog;—
Clanging trams, with haggard men
Forcing their way within,—
Some compressed in a steaming-pen,
Others soaked to the skin;
Smoke and soot in the murky sky,
Death in the tainted air,
Each aware, were he to die,
None in the crowd would care;—
Here and there a carriage fine,
Cleaving the reeking mass;
Scowling faces, ranged in line,
Watching the rich man pass;
Envy's gleam in many an eye,
Hate in many a threat;
Why should he be warm and dry,
And they be cold and wet?
Pictures these of the "Passing Show,"
Scenes in a world gone wrong,
Wretched weaklings, born to woe,
Crushed by the brutal strong!
Breaking hearts that crave release,
Slaves to a ceaseless strife! …
I will go back to sylvan peace
And a sight of the Source of Life.
MY BORES
I take their hands with placid smile
And words which social rules enforce,
Though sadly conscious all the while
Of something very like remorse,
Because beneath the mask I wear
I really wish they were not there.
Their visits I at heart resent;
The half-read volume haunts my thought;
The urgent note remains unsent;
The verse, unfinished, comes to naught;
And all because, on some pretence,
They waste their time at my expense.
Yet no grim misanthrope am I,
Who fears, distrusts, and hates his race;
I merely wish them to pass by,
And seek some other lounging-place;
For, frankly, I should love them more
A little further from my door.
In vain I make no answering calls;
They blandly smile and come again!
Nay, even bring within my walls
More curious strangers in their train,
"Who wished so much your home to see!"
Why do they never think of me?
The few I want I can invite;
Hence why should others thus intrude?
How dare they give themselves the right,
Unasked, to spoil my solitude?
And why presume I care to know
More triflers in their world of show?
Their idle life, on pleasure bent,
Their mania for some silly game,
Their hours in stupid gossip spent,—
Would give me self-contempt and shame;
Between us is no common ground
On which a comradeship to found.
A word or two upon the street
Suffice me with the most of men;
Beyond a greeting, when we meet.
I care not if we speak again;
My books and Nature's charming face
Such human consorts well replace.
Not all, indeed; for who but yearns
To call some kindred heart his own?
Some friend to whom he fondly turns,
And with whom he is still alone,
Since each, while absolutely free,
Respects the other's privacy.
To such his pent-up love o'erflows;
With such his soul's seclusion ends;
For each the other's nature knows,
And every motive comprehends;
So perfectly do both agree,
So close their bond of sympathy!
But those who come to wear away
With me the time they deem a bore,
And blithely rob me of a day
Which God Himself cannot restore—
From such, at risk of being rude,
I will preserve my solitude.
Their vapid visits I refuse;
Their forced attachment I decline;
I surely have the right to choose
The friends, whose lives shall blend with mine;
My bark shall gain the open sea
With but the few I love and me.
GRATITUDE
The sun is on the mountain crest,
The sky without a cloud,
The moon is slipping down the west,
The robin's song is loud;
White blossoms crown the apple trees,
The dew is on the thorn,
The scent of roses fills the breeze,—
Thank God, another morn!
The sunset embers smoulder low,
The moon climbs o'er the hill,
The peaks have caught the alpenglow,
The robin's song is still;
The hush of peace is on the earth,
With stars the sky grows bright,
The fire is kindled on my hearth,—
Thank God, another night!
IN TENEBRIS
All the lights have been extinguished
In my closely-curtained room,
Nothing now can be distinguished
In the all-pervading gloom;
And through darkness, so alluring,
I would float away to sleep,
Like a boat that slips its mooring,
And moves gently toward the deep.
How delightful this seclusion
From the garish light of day,—
All its turmoil and confusion
Pushed, a little while, away!
Neither men nor things shall try me
Till to-morrow brings its light;
Let my cares go drifting by me!
I'll not think of them to-night.
Social cant and empty phrases,
Base returns for kindness shown,
Envy's serpent-smile, and praises
Which convey, for bread, a stone,—
What a joy to have rejected
All such griefs, of evil born!
What a boon to feel protected
From their advent until morn!
Moon and stars, without, are gleaming
Over snow-capped peaks sublime,
But to-night I'll give to dreaming,
Nor esteem it wasted time;
Nay, through darkness, so alluring,
I will float away to sleep,
Like a boat that slips its mooring,
And moves gently toward the deep.
TWO MOTHERS
One night two lonely women met
Beside a storm-swept bay;
With tears their mournful eyes were wet,
Their pale lips salt with spray;
They passed; then turned, as though each yearned
Some friendly word to say.
"Poor soul", cried one, "hast thou no fear
To walk this haunted strand?
What hopeless sorrow brings thee here,
Where dead men drift to land?
I too have grief beyond relief;
Speak! I can understand."
"I mourn a son", the other said;
"That ocean is his grave;
My heart will not be comforted,
It breaks with every wave;
Would I might sleep in yonder deep
With him I could not save!
"The wind was raging, as to-night;
Straight on these rocks it blew;
I watched until the dawning light
Disclosed the wreck to view;
From where we stand I saw his hand
Wave me a last adieu!
"He deemed the boat too frail to bear
Another living freight;
'Push off'! he said with tranquil air,
'Go first, and I will wait;'
But all the while, despite his smile,
He knew 'twould be too late.
"That heartless crew shall nevermore
God's absolution find!
They watched, like cravens, from the shore
The man they left behind
Go down before the breakers' roar,
The surges and the wind!
"Hence, when such maddened tempests rave,
I cannot rest at home,
For then the billows deck his grave
With flowers of snow-white foam;
And here I pray till break of day
Beneath night's starless dome."
A silence fell; then, faint and low,
The other, weeping, said;
"My heavier woe thou needst not know;
Within his ocean bed
On thy son's name there rests no shame;
Would God that mine were dead!"
AT HOCHFINSTERMÜNZ
Once more between its walls of pines
I see the long ravine expand
To where the ice-world's crystal lines
Define the realm of Switzerland.
Once more, a thousand feet below,
I watch the river's silver sheen,
As, foaming in its fettered flow,
It rushes from the Engadine.
Forever young, forever old,
This gorge, where stream with forest blends,
These glittering peaks, these glaciers cold,—
Are all to me familiar friends.
I know, alas, their towering forms
Of unresponsive rocks and snow
Are heartless as their wintry storms,
And heed not if I come or go;
Yet none the less I love to trace
Their stainless crests along the sky,
And, as I greet each well-known face,
Each seems in turn to make reply.
So potent is the subtle spell
That clothes such masses with a mind;
So strong the instincts which impel
Their lover answering love to find!
What if in truth there really be
A soul within them to adore;
Some half-revealed Divinity,
Whose presence haunts us evermore?
Some Power, to read our hearts, and know
How this wild beauty moves our tears;
Some God that, as our spirits grow,
Shall be discerned in after years?
Instinctively did earlier man
See fauns and dryads in the trees,
And find in universal Pan
The soul of Nature's mysteries.
All is divine,—the bird that sings,
The flowers that bloom, the waves that roll;
One Spirit quickens men and things,
And stirs alike the sun and soul.
Great Nature's God! however styled,
I love thee, and upon thy breast
Would gladly lie,—a grateful child,
And, dying, trust thee for the rest.
THE GIFT OF JUNO
Already 'neath the morning star
The shrine, by Juno's favor blest,
Had flashed its whiteness from afar,
Resplendent on a mountain's crest,
Along whose base the ocean rolled
A flood of sapphire, flecked with gold.
In twilight still the shore remained;
But, toiling upward through the night,
A wistful mother had just gained
The summit of the sacred height,
Where Juno's far-famed statue stood,—
Palladium of motherhood.
At her approach the bolts were drawn,
And inward swung the temple gate,
Revealing in the light of dawn
The marble form immaculate,
The effigy of heaven's queen,
Sublime, beneficent, serene.
Slow-moving and with fluttering heart,
The youthful matron onward passed
To where that masterpiece of art
Repaid her arduous toil at last;
As, gazing through a mist of tears,
She realized here the dream of years.
Beside her, one on either hand,
Two little children stood in fear,
Unable yet to understand
The reason of their coming here;
Both beautiful in form and face,
True types of the Hellenic race.
No fairer pilgrims ever came
Within the temple's stately door;
No sweeter picture could it frame
Than that upon its marble floor,
When, in the hush of dawning day,
The lovely trio knelt to pray.
"Immortal goddess, not in vain
Do mothers lift their souls to thee;
Their love, their hopes, their fears, their pain
Thy heart can feel, thine eyes can see;
Deign, therefore, my sweet babes to bless,
O Juno, fount of tenderness!
"To thy divine, all-seeing eyes
The course of every life is clear;
I pray thee, note what future lies
Before these helpless children here;
Then, of the gifts by thee possessed,
Give them but one; choose thou the best!"
She paused, and waited for reply,
While solemn stillness filled the shrine;
Heard something like a gentle sigh,
Or passing of a breath divine;
Then saw their eyes, like petals, close
In death's sweet, statue-like repose.
Repose, unbroken evermore!
The world of suffering still unknown!
Escaping through that peaceful door
From every ill life might have shown.
Heart-broken mother, cease to weep!
The best was given them,—dreamless sleep.
THE AWAKENING
Let me sleep on! I would not waken yet,
Or leave too soon the peaceful realm of dreams!
There, lulled by placid Lethe, I forget
The tumult raging on Earth's roaring streams;
Doubt not that, later, I shall surely meet
With steadfast soul Day's ceaseless, sordid strife,
But now I crave again that strangely sweet
Oblivion of life;—
That tranquil sleep, whose cooling shadow stills
The throbbing forehead and the fevered brain,
Which soothes to rest all sense of present ills,
Of poignant sorrow and persistent pain;
O gift divine, O boon beyond compare,
God's benediction at the evening's close,
The antidote of grief, the cure of care,
The kingdom of repose!
Too late … the spell is broken … I awake;
How swift the rush of memory's turning tide,
Whose ruthless waves the will's frail barriers break,
And flood the cells where consciousness would hide!
Alas, how mad and fierce the world appears!
How dark and ominous the future seems!
I rise to face them … yet recall through tears
The quiet land of dreams.
THE WINE OF LIFE
Earthen jar of quaint design,
Fragile clay and slender mould,
I shall soon have drained the wine
Which you still contrive to hold,—
Wine that sixty years ago
Seemed about to overflow.
Few the draughts that now remain,
And I husband them with care,
For naught ever comes again
That is once exhausted there,
And the emptied jar is cast
To the scrap-heap of the past.
Oh, the wine we rashly waste
When held brimming to the lip!
What a difference in its taste
When we drink it sip by sip,
As a miser counts his gold
On a hearth that leaves him cold!
But why should we feel distress
If the jar be far from filled?
Though its contents may be less,
Yet its essence is distilled,
And the best wine always clears
With the passing of the years.
Fermentation is for youth,
But serenity for age;
For a knowledge of the truth
Men have always sought the Sage,
And though youth may live with zest,
'Tis in age that one lives best.
LIFE'S TRILOGY
Youth dreams of all the years shall hold,—
Of poems writ, of battles won,
Of statues made, of love, of gold,
And honors, added one by one;
How sweet the song of Hope, if sung,
When life is young!
Man's dreams are stern and few indeed;
His youthful aims he finds despised,
For in a world of strife and greed
Ideals must be sacrificed;
Alas, there is so little time
In manhood's prime!
Age dreams of what the years have brought,—
The blots upon life's tear-dimmed scroll,
The brave attempts that came to naught,
The unsolved problems of the soul;
How sadly is the tale retold,
When life is old!
Youth, Manhood, Age,—the fatal Three!
Illusion, Struggle, and Regret!
So hath it been, so shall it be,
And to what end? We know not yet;
Still sweeps the mighty life-flood on,
Now here, now gone!
Seed, bud, florescence, and decay
In nature, races, nations, men;—
Nay, Earth itself shall fail one day
To feed its freezing brood! What then?
Successive cycles, vast and small,—
Can these be all?
Do all these swirls of suns and souls,
Of spirit keen and senseless stone,
Speed on to no appointed goals,
Like sand along the desert blown,—
Forever born from out the void,
To be destroyed?—
Nay, Reason, shocked at anarchy,
Demands an author and an aim,
Seeks ever for the master-key
To solve the mystery,—Whence came
This starlit sea of Evermore,
Without a shore?
And whence comes Life,—that occult Force,
So rich in its prolific range,
So frail and swift to run its course,
Yet deathless in protean change?
Must we not hope that Death will clear
The darkness here?
Such hopes appear of little worth
When, peering through our planet's bars,
We picture this, our tiny Earth,
Amid that wilderness of stars!
Yet in those sun-strewn depths of space
It hath its place.
Its rhythmic motion, tuned to time,
Its awful rush, yet sure return,
Make even our dim orb sublime,
And we at last the truth discern,—
With God is neither small nor great,
Nor soon, nor late.
Unconscious actors,—it may be
That here we painfully rehearse,
In parts, whose plots we do not see,
Some drama of the universe,—
Advanced, as nobler grow our souls,
To loftier roles.
MYSTERIES
Bound to the earth in its headlong flight,
Whence and whither we do not know,
Cleaving the awful void of night
With frost above and fire below,
What is the goal toward which we fly?
What does it mean to live and die?
Under our feet a trembling shell,
Pierced by a hundred lurid rents!
Lower still a molten hell,
Seen through its lava-belching vents!
And men, within its blighting breath,
Are charred, like leaves, to a shrivelled death.
Thin is the rind on which we tread;
It shakes, and a thousand lives are lost;
The sea engulfs unnumbered dead;
Each second scores of souls are tossed
Into the stream that sweeps them on …
Whither? Who knows where they are gone?
Over the earth-crust millions crawl,
Fight for a little gold and grain,
Then in a few years leave it all,
Nevermore to be seen again!
When will the tragic tale be told?
And what of Man when the earth grows cold?
Poised on the planet's rim we stand,
Peering aghast into boundless space;
Infinite depths on every hand,
Never again in the self-same place;
Dragged by the sun itself away
On toward a point in the Milky Way.
Not without companions we;
Here and there gleam other fires,—
Burning ships on a shoreless sea;
Now and again a flame expires,
One last, quivering shaft of light,
Shot through a billion leagues of night.
There in its last volcanic throes
A dying world perhaps dissolves;
Further still, where the sun-mist glows,
A mighty, new-born sun evolves;
Ceaseless change in an endless sky!
What does it mean to live and die?
STAR DRIFT
The glaring sun hath ceased to shine;
The solemn stars invade the sky;
Again the welcome night is mine,
Wherein to view the worlds on high;
The night! when heaven bares its face,
And man with reverent soul can trace
The awful mysteries of space.
Too long the shadeless solar blaze
Hath forced my vision toward the sod;
'Tis night alone that helps us raise
Our thoughts from littleness to God,
And by its darkness sets us free
To gaze across what seems to be
The portal of Eternity.
I watch the stellar hosts ascend
Their devious paths in slow array,
And note the place where millions blend
To form the fabled Milky Way,—-
That zone of radiant suns, whose light
Hath needed centuries of flight
To reach our little earth to-night,
Through lenses scanned, its golden haze
Resolves itself to points that glow
In one stupendous, brilliant maze
Of countless orbs, that come and go
On pathways we may never learn,
However long their light may burn,
However ardently we yearn.
Apparently so densely strewn,
But oh! what gulfs those suns divide!
As each pursues its course alone
Beyond an interval as wide
As that which yawns between our own
And any of those star-seeds sown
In astral gardens, still unknown.
Sometimes from that resplendent sheen
A new light gleams across the void,
And, awe-struck, we conceive the scene
Of two vast solar orbs destroyed;
By fearful impact changed again,
Unnumbered miles beyond our ken,
To leagues of blazing hydrogen.
Before such marvels, what are we
To plume ourselves in foolish pride?
Within that dim immensity
How many suns and earths have died!
The tiny mote on which we stand,
However fair and finely planned,
Is nothing but a grain of sand.
To-day, as through the ages gone,
By law impelled, by law restrained,
Suns, planets, systems,—all sweep on
Toward bourns still dark and unexplained;
Some bright with youth, some dull with age,
Their varied colors well presage
Their distance from the final stage.
For all are doomed at last to die!
On heaven's blue sea each isle of fire,
Of all that now enchant the eye,
Must finally in gloom expire;
Though all may still roll on, unseen,
As blackened cinders, while between
Dark, lifeless planets intervene.
And then? The mind sinks back in dread!
Such burnt-out worlds may well appal,
If they must still continue dead,
And universal night end all;
But, one by one, as speed shall fail,
Each may some rival mass assail,
Till nebulas again prevail.
But not for long! A refluent spurge
Shall that destructive course reverse,
And cause those sun-mists to converge
To mould another universe;
Again shall constellations rise,
And suns and planets light the skies,
And man regain his paradise.
For thus with rhythmic sweep sublime
Swings Chaos on to Cosmos; then
In ages, measureless by time,
Rolls Cosmos back to mist again,
In one stupendous ebb and flow,
As aeons come and aeons go,
With all their freight of weal and woe.
Hard, cruel, hopeless? It may be.
We know too little to decide;
Yet hope that o'er that starlit sea
Some steadfast, God-directed tide
Will one day bear us to a shore,
Where we shall find our lost once more,
And what was here unknown, adore.
TYROLEAN
OBERMAIS
Obermais! Obermais!
Charming bit of Paradise,
Where the palm and snow are blended,
Where life's joys seem never ended,
Where the purl of limpid streams
Haunts the traveller's deepest dreams;
Girt by miles of terraced vines,
Birthplace of the purest wines,
Sheltered by imposing mountains,
Musical from countless fountains,
Bathed in sunshine, bright with flowers,
Studded with old Roman towers,
Castles, convents, shrines and walls,
Whose strange history enthralls,—
Jewel of fair South Tyrol,
Thou hast won my heart and soul!
CONTENTMENT
Urge me no more! The mid-day toil is ended,
And shadows lengthen from the radiant west;
The glowing sun, with sumptuous clouds attended,
Sinks to its rest.
I too would rest; an Indian-Summer beauty
Gilds my life's autumn in a charming vale;
No further quest of gold or fame seems duty;
Their splendors pale
Tempt me no more! In vain are spread before me
New plans of battle and rare hopes of gain;
The sweeter airs of love and peace blow o'er me;
I will remain.
Gone is the glamour of the heartless city;
Hateful its traffic and its ceaseless roar;
Slaves of its tyranny, you have my pity;
Urge me no more!
Girdled by mountains, in a land of story,
Nestles the high-walled garden of my home;
Here, book in hand, I feast myself on glory,
Nor wish to roam.
Each dawn brings rose-hued snow-peaks to my vision;
Each eve's enchanting pageant thrills my soul;
Day after day I find yet more elysian
Fair South Tyrol.
Urge me no more! The riches of Golconda
Could not allure me to the old-time task;
Here, till the curtain falls, to live and ponder
Is all I ask.
TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS
Breathe on my soul your everlasting calm,
Majestic mountains, passionless and cold!
Give to my spirit, drooping 'neath the palm,
The rugged strength your changeless summits hold!
So thin the azure veil that floats between
My tropic flowers and your arctic snows,
That one swift glance reveals to me the sheen
Of your white bastions and my blossoming rose.
Yet, though so near, my feet have never pressed
Your silvered ramparts, etched along the sky:
Untrodden crystal crowns each spotless crest;
On virgin snows the sunset colors die.
So near, yet unattainable! Ye seem
Like awful deities, at whose command
Man's evanescent life,—a fretful stream,
One instant murmurs and is lost in sand.
Splendid in sunshine, steadfast under storms,
Facing the fiercest tempests with disdain,
The blackest clouds that shroud your giant forms,
Leave on your glittering panoply no stain.
The setting sun will turn your gray to gold,
The dawn will find your icy foreheads bare,
And all your glacial armor, as of old,
Will shine resplendent in the upper air.
So from my life may all dark clouds depart!
So may I come unscathed from Fate's worst blows!
Yet with your strength, O Mountains, let my heart
Retain, as well, the sweetness of the rose.
AT SUNSET
Belov'd Meran, supremely fair!
With joy I greet thy peaks anew,
And quaff again the crystal air
That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue.
Once more through miles of trellised vines
The purple bloom of vintage glows;
Once more amid my palms and pines
I breathe the perfume of the rose.
Once more, as snow-crests far and wide
Flush crimson in the Alpine glow,
I sit and muse at eventide
On Roman days of long ago.
Across the valley, steeped in light,
Uplifted toward the western skies,
And flanked by many a snow-crowned height,
The stately "Roman Terrace" lies;
Whose fair expanse hath been a stage
Where actors for two thousand years
Have played, by turns, in every age
Their varying roles of smiles and tears.
Still through its mighty Vintschgau door
The sunset streams in floods of gold;
Still winding o'er its emerald floor,
The river sparkles as of old.
I watch the distant torrent leap
From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound;
A ghostly path it seems, whose deep,
Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground.
Beside its waves, whose glittering spray
Begems the gorge its flood hath worn,
Rome's conquering legions made their way
A score of years ere Christ was born.
On yonder mound where frowns the wood,
And curves the road with steep incline,
A temple to Diana stood
Before the age of Antonine.
Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame
I see the ancient watchtower stand,
Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame
Flashed signals into Switzerland.
And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls
Loom grandly from the darkening moor,
Where still a dungeon-keep recalls
The last Tyrolean Troubadour.
Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower
That Nature gave to South Tyrol
Cannot alone explain thy power
To captivate both mind and soul;
I love thy sunshine, fruits and flowers,
I love thy mountain-peaks sublime,
But, best of all, thine agèd towers,—
The ivied protégés of Time.
Thus favored, while my sun of life
Moves calmly toward a cloudless west,
I crave no more the New World's strife
And ceaseless turmoil of unrest;
Content, within my garden walls,
To let the Present's uproar cease,
While on my tranquil spirit falls
The Past's sweet benison of peace.
POST NUBES LUX
Sink, sullen rear-guard of the storm,
Behind the Laugen's snowy crest!
Already Rotheck's lordly form
Stands spotless in the radiant west;
Blow, winter wind, and clarify
Our crystal air, our sapphire sky!
Shine, Sun God! Give us life once more!
Too long have clouds concealed thy face;
Give to Meran the look she wore,
When to her beauty, light, and grace
I gladly yielded heart and soul,
And made my home in fair Tyrol!
Stupendous source of life and light!
As in thy warmth my pulses thrill,
Before thy glory and thy might
I feel myself a Pagan still,
And in my spirit's inmost shrine
I half adore thee as divine.
THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME
Make haste! There is but one more turning!
The horses cannot go too fast,
So eagerly our hearts are yearning
To see the longed-for home at last!
Here is the shrine, the lamp still burning,
Beside the vineyard's massive wall;
And see, to welcome our returning,
The banners on the flagstaffs tall!
Before the gate, our servants, wearing
Their brightest smiles, together stand,
In quaint, Tyrolean style preparing
To kiss respectfully the hand.
Now, too, the dogs perceive their master,
And rush to meet our carriage wheels;
The loyal Leo first and faster,
The dackels close upon his heels!
How wild the joy, how loud the chorus
Our old, familiar tones excite!
Dear, faithful creatures that adore us,
How genuine their keen delight!
The door is passed, the hall is entered!
How true it is, where'er we roam,
That here alone our hearts are centered,
That no place hath the charm of Home!
Here smile the pictures ranged above us;
Here stand our books, the best of friends;
Here those we love and those who love us
Are happy that our absence ends.
We prize the intellectual treasures
On History's famous sites amassed;
And precious are the varied pleasures
From Art's great glories of the past;
But well we know, when once more seated
Within these rooms with volumes lined,
That,—now the journey is completed—,
The best of Rome is in the mind.
MY GARDEN
Sweet garden, wreathed in fruits and flowers,
And domed by blue Tyrolean skies,
Within thy rose-encircled bowers,
Secluded from all curious eyes,
I find a peaceful paradise.
Without, the world's fierce strife and yearning
In floods of passion ebb and flow;
Within, as in a shrine, is burning,—
Reflecting fires of long ago,—
A stormy life's calm afterglow.
How sumptuous is the golden splendor
Thy yellow roses give my walls!
Like yonder glow, so sweet and tender,
That o'er the snow at sunset falls,
And by its spell the soul enthralls.
How swiftly pass the happy hours
Beside thy palms, beneath thy pines,
As through the fountain's crystal showers
I watch the sunlight gild thy vines
Against the snow-peaks' silvered lines!
I lean upon my loggia's railing
And view the vineyard's saffron sheen,—
Its amber leaves in glory veiling
The purpling grapes, that hang between
Its long arcades of gold and green.
And at the sight my heart is beating
With rapture hitherto unknown,
As with delight I keep repeating
In love's triumphant undertone,—
"All this is mine, my very own"!
Then with a chill, like that which steals
Across the vale at set of sun,
A solemn thought the truth reveals,—
How transient is the prize thus won!
How short a time my lease can run!
Before I thought this garden fair
And from its beauty rapture drew,
How many others breathed its air,
And, glorying in its matchless view,
Had plucked its roses wet with dew!
Where now my vines and violets grow,
And fill the breeze with odors sweet,
Two thousand years and more ago
Some Roman had his loved retreat,
And watched the sun and snow-peak meet.
Rome fell; but, Maia still remaining,
Both Goth and Frank the slope desired,
Through two millenniums still retaining
The longing for what all admired,
The love which ownership inspired.
I sometimes fancy that I see
Those masters of an earlier age,—
A ghostly line preceding me
Across this corner of life's stage,—
The Pagan, Christian, bard and sage.
Each one in turn called thee his own,
And deemed thee his submissive slave;
But, when a few short years had flown,
Of all thy wealth what could he save?
At most thou gavest him a grave!
Ephemeral creatures of a day,
We move like insects on thy soil,
And wear our little lives away
In fleeting pleasures or in toil;
But naught our destiny can foil.
A few more Springs thy buds shall quicken,
A few more Summers bring thy bloom,
A few more Autumn suns shall thicken
The clusters ripening in thy gloom,—
When I for strangers must make room!
When other eyes shall see the vision
Of Rotheck's pyramid of snow,
And watch the roseate hues elysian
Creep over it at evening's glow,
As o'er its crest the sun sinks low.
Another then will pluck the flowers
Whose seeds my loving hand hath sown;
Another, through the mid-day hours,
Will hear the honey bee's dull drone
Where other roses shall have blown.
These mountains then will still be lifting
Their ice-crowned summits to the sky;
The fleecy clouds will still be drifting
Above their peaks and pastures high;
But they will heed not where I lie.
Even thou wilt never miss thy master!
Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same,
The season's round will move no faster,
No bud will quench its torch of flame,
And naught will change here but a name.
Yet all who shall with joy succeed me
In their turn must thy charms resign,
When, as to all who now precede me,
Death shall have made the fatal sign
To join the ever-lengthening line.
We "owners," then, are but thy tenants
Despite our purchase and our pride;
To thee what is our transient presence?
Thou carest not if we abide
Among thy roses, or have died.
Hence, let me drain in fullest measure
Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine!
To-day at least I hold thy treasure;
To-day with truth I call thee mine;
To-morrow's sun may never shine.
THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUNRISE
Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms
Indent the western sky:
The jewelled gifts of countless storms
Upon their summits lie.
The sinking moon, with fading scars,
Hath touched their frosty spires;
Around them pale the wearied stars,
Like waning bivouac fires.
Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one,
Like rose leaves half unfurled,
Announce the coming of the sun
To an awakening world.
The chief peak now hath caught the glow,
And, soft, o'er sloping walls
And buttresses of dazzling snow,
The flood of splendor falls;
While miles of tender pink and gold
Incrust the blue of space,
And bands of amethyst enfold
Each mountain's massive base.
Gone are the tents that pierced the skies;
But in their place, more fair,
Transfigured flowers of Paradise
Bloom in the crystal air.
OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER
A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran
PROLOGUE
Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minnesingers, loved a beautiful woman, named Sabina, who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs by writing poems on her coquetry and cruelty. Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven him his satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese prince, "Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also hated Oswald for opposing his political plans. Accordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce the poet to come to her under a pretence of renewing their former love. To effect this, she wrote him a letter expressing her undying affection for him, and begging him to meet her near Meran. The plot was successful, and Oswald fell completely into their power. By Frederick's orders he was at once imprisoned in the dungeon of Schloss Forst, and subjected to tortures which crippled him for the rest of his life.
"Oswald von Wolkenstein!
Last of a gifted line,
Years have gone by since we parted in hate;
What have they taught to me?
This, that all's naught to me
Save what you brought to me,—
Love and love's fate.
Can you that love forget?
Know that I love you yet!
If you my passion share,
Linger no longer there;
Fearless to do and dare,
Come, ere too late!
"Near the old Roman Road
Up which the legions strode,
Where the first vine-covered terraces rise,
Stands a grim fortress tall,
Which, like a mountain wall,
Though scarred by many a ball,
Capture defies!
'Forst' is the name it bears;
Brilliant the fame it wears;
Thither,—our trysting place—,
Ride at your swiftest pace;
Come to my fond embrace!
My love your prize!"
Who could such words suspect?
Who could that call reject?
Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul!
Gone is the pain of years;
Vanished his jealous fears;
Smiles have replaced his tears;
Lost self-control;
Slave to his passion's past,
Vows to the winds are cast;
Faithless, she holds him still;
Absent, she sways his will;
Traitress, with subtle skill
Plays she her role.
Where Etsch and Eisack meet,
Mingling their waters fleet,
Opens the valley that leads to Meran;
As its red cliffs divide,
Castles on either side
(Each a strong chieftain's pride)
Threaten his plan;
Yet, where the shadows sleep
Under each dungeon keep,
Up through the land of wine,
Blest with both palm and pine,
Oswald von Wolkenstein
Rides to Terlan.
Here falls his gallant horse,
Killed by his headlong course;
Is it a warning to halt and retreat?
Yet who, when passion pleads,
Ever such warning heeds?
What though a dozen steeds
Drop at his feet?
Hence, while the peasants stare,
Buys he their swiftest mare;
And, as the pavement rings
With the bright gold he flings,
He to the saddle springs,
Never so fleet!
Now, lover, pause for breath!
Folly may here mean death!
Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers;
Here let thy pace be slow;
Frederick, thy crafty foe,
Plots there to lay thee low,
Fearing thy powers;
He of the "empty purse",
Stung by thy biting verse,
Using a woman's hate,
Offers a tempting bait;
Both thy approach await,
Counting the hours!
Dark is the starless night;
Only one feeble light
Burns at the grating surmounting the door;
Has his advance been heard?
Was that a whispered word?
What in that shadow stirred?
Shall he explore?
Fie! when a prize so fair
Doubtless awaits him there,
Shall he now hesitate
Here, at Forst's very gate,
Fearing to test his fate?
No, nevermore!
Hark! 'tis a gruff command,
Loosing an ambushed band;
Seizing, they drag him, disarmed, to the court;
Brightly the torches flare,
Flinging a ruddy glare
On a proud, mocking pair,
Watching the sport;
God, can this thing be true?
She with this hostile crew!
"Faithless and shameless one,
Thou hast my life undone"!
"Poet, thy race is run",
Is her retort.
Barred is the iron door!
On the damp dungeon floor
Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong,
Lies in a loathsome cave,
Dark as a living grave,
No one to care or save,
Silenced his song;
And while they leave him there,
Crushed by profound despair,
Princelet and paramour,
Knowing their prey secure,
Feeling their vengeance sure,
Laugh loud and long.
Who can in words relate
Oswald's unhappy fate,
Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze?
Both on revenge were bent;
He for a menace sent,
She for the merriment
Caused by his lays.
"Dungeon and torture-rack,
These shall now pay thee back!
Minstrel and poet rare,
Rave in thy mad despair,
And in that fetid lair
Finish thy days!"
Vainly he pleads with her;
No prayer succeeds with her;
Useless the joys of their past to rehearse;
For to increase his woe,
Frederick, his jealous foe,
Shares in this cruel show,—
Fit for God's curse;
Shameless and treacherous,
Heartless and lecherous,
Sabine with fiendish glee,
Deaf to his every plea,
Watches his agony,
Quoting his verse!
Broken at last his chain!
Ended the poet's pain!
Freed by a ransom (his relatives' dole),
Humbled by grief and shame,
Injured in name and fame,
Drags he his crippled frame
Back through Tyrol.
Then, in a plaintive song
Chanting his grievous wrong,
Oswald von Wolkenstein,
Last of his gifted line,
Dies in Schloss Hauenstein;
God rest his soul!
AFTER THE VINTAGE
How can my vineyard's charm be told,
As it basks in the autumn haze?
The Frost King's touch, so light and cold,
Like that of the Persian king of old,
Hath turned its roof from green to gold,
Till the hillside seems ablaze.
Threading its maze of arbors fair
Under its saffron bowers,
I watch, in the crisp, November air,
Through vine-framed openings here and there
The ivied walls of castles rare
And ruined Roman towers.
Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky,
White are the mountain walls,
Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie
Lavishly spread on the forests high,
Where leaves by millions flame and die,
As the chill of Autumn falls.
Over the slopes in sun and shade
The terraced vines descend,
Like stately steps of a broad cascade,
Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed
In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade,
Where red and amber blend.
I love to see, from the rising sun
Each terrace gain its crown,
When the splendid dawn hath just begun,
From the crest of the mountain it hath won,
To gild the vine-rows one by one,
As the mellow glow creeps down.
And when the day's receding light
Deserts the vale below,
I trace its noiseless, upward flight
Through darkening zones of foliage bright,
Till all the world is lost in night
Save pyramids of snow.
THE PASSING MOON
In my loggia bright I watch to-night
The full moon sailing by;
From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak
It slipped to the open sky,
And now rides free in a clear, blue sea,
With not an island nigh.
Through pearly haze its light displays
Each buttressed mountain side,
And softly shines through stately pines
Where feudal castles hide,
And every height grows dazzling white
In the foam of a silver tide.
From the eastern side of the valley wide
To its snow-capped western rim
It will hold its way, till the dawning day
Shall have made its disk grow dim;
Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view
Behind the mountain's brim.
Whence did it climb on its path sublime,
Ere it left that icy height?
And where will it go, when yonder snow
Is reached in the morning light?
Will its face elsewhere be just as fair,
When here it is lost to sight?
Why should I ask? 'Tis a fruitless task;
Enough that its splendor falls
On me to-night in my loggia bright,
Till the scene my soul enthralls;
'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set
Behind those glittering walls.
And even when it sinks again
Below that stainless crest,
It will seem at last to have safely passed
To a haven of peace and rest,
Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal
In the kingdom of the blest.
I also know not where I go,
Nor whence I came, or why,
Nor can I guess what happiness
Or strange, new world may lie
Beyond the vale through which I sail,
Beneath another sky;
But as the moon, which all too soon
Sinks down the west for me,
To other eyes appears to rise
And glide on fair and free,
So the frail boat in which I float,
Though tempest-worn it be,
May cross life's brink, and seem to sink,
Yet sail another sea.
AUTUMN IN MERAN
The vintage time is gone, but not its glory;
The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom;
Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story,
Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom.
The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains
Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold;
Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains,
Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold.
Above the vines the mountain sides are blending
The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow,
In variegated zones their hues ascending
From radiant roses to eternal snow.
Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping,
A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide,—
High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping,
Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide.
In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river
Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls;
While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver,
Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls.
Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious,
Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down;
Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious,
In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown.
THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH. MERAN
She is seated by the river
In a robe of spotless white,
With her lovely face illumined
By the evening's tender light;
But her eyes are full of sadness,
As if weary of the day,
And her gaze is toward the ocean,
While the river glides away.
At her feet are beds of flowers,
Overhead are stately trees
Whose protecting branches murmur
With the passing of the breeze;
Though her hand retains a volume,
From its page her glances stray,
For her thoughts are with the ocean,
As the river flows away.
As I view her chastened features,
I can feel the rising tears
At the thought of all her anguish
Through a martyrdom of years;
For her joys were writ in water,—
Too impermanent to stay,
And were swept toward sorrow's ocean,
Ere her youth had passed away.
She was captured in the morning
Of her childhood's careless age,
And imprisoned in a palace
Like a linnet in a cage;
And its gilded bars confined her
To a Court's prescribed display,
Which her simple nature hated,
As the slow years crept away.
Thus her heart grew always sadder,
Till her sorrows, one by one,
Reached at last their tragic climax
In the murder of her son;
And this broken-hearted woman,
As a madman's victim, lay
By Geneva's placid waters,
While her life-blood ebbed away!
Hence her marble face seems troubled,
As she gazes down the stream,
Like an angel who hath wakened
From a fearful, earth-born dream;
She is waiting for the sunset
Of her tempest-darkened day,
But her soul is with the ocean,
Where all rivers wend their way.
THE OUTCASTS
The smile of God was in the air;
Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue,
The valley lay, divinely fair,
Beneath a cloudless vault of blue;
And singing, like a bird set free,
The river hurried to the sea.
Through Alpine ether, crystal clear,
The genial sun of South Tyrol
Diffused its blessèd warmth and cheer,
Enriching body, mind and soul,
While music floated o'er the stream,
And made such beauty seem a dream.
Enraptured with the sun's caress
And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow,
In careless quest of happiness
The gay world sauntered to and fro,
Or, seated on the well-kept strand,
Enjoyed the music of the band.
Upon a bench, remote from those
Whose dress betokened rank or wealth,
Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose
Betrayed a fruitless search for health,—
An agèd couple, near their end,
United, yet without a friend.
But still they bravely tried to smile,
—So warm the sun, so fair the scene!—
They could be happy yet a while,
Ere death's cold shadow crept between;
And music's softly rhythmic flow
Recalled their youth of long ago.
"Begone!" a watchman's voice exclaimed;
"Your rustic garb is much too poor;
How comes it, you are not ashamed
In such a place to play the boor?
From company like this withdraw!
Obey the mandate of the law!"
The startled strangers meekly rose
And moved away with downcast eyes,
Too wonted to such cruel blows
To manifest the least surprise;
Too humbled to inquire why;
Too timid to attempt reply.
Poor outcasts from that joyous stage
Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease,
With faltering steps, and bowed with age,
They vanished slowly 'neath the trees;
But neither scanned the other's face,
For fear a falling tear to trace.
Farewell, sweet, music-laden air,
And sunshine on the sheltered strand!
I follow where that outcast pair
Are walking sadly, hand in hand;
For me your vaunted charm hath fled,
While they remain uncomforted.
HEIMWEH
I dwell in a region of valleys fair,
Of stately forests and mountains bold,
Of churches filled with treasures rare,
And storied castles centuries old;
But now and then, when the sun sinks low,
And the vesper bell is softly rung,
I think of the days of long ago,
And yearn for the land where I was young.
I live where the sun shines bright and warm
On feathery palms and terraced vines,
Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm
And the sough of the wind through northern pines;
And though my ear hath wonted grown
To the accents strange of an alien tongue,
No speech hath half so sweet a tone
As the language learned when I was young.
I live in a land where men are kind,
And friends increase, as the years roll on,
Yet of them all not one I find
So dear as those of the days now gone;
And so I think, as the sun sinks low,
And the curfew bell of my life is rung,
I shall turn to my home of long ago,
And die in the land where I was young.
MY LIBRARY
Shrine of my mind, my Library!
Each morn I greet thee with delight,
When, soul-refreshed, I bring to thee
The benediction of the night;
Encompassed by thy sheltering walls,
'Mid books whose interest enthralls,
Life's shadow from my spirit falls.
Behold! above the wooded height
The sun-god's glittering disk appears,
And at a bound its flood of light
The intervening valley clears;
Enveloped in its noiseless tide,
Each castle on the mountain side
Stands forth in splendor, glorified.
How welcome are the yellow waves
That through the eastern windows pour
And, with a warmth my nature craves,
Transmute to gold the polished floor!
Then mount to gild my desk, my chair,
And e'en the spotless paper there,
Which soon my written thought must bear.
In serried ranks around me rise
Two thousand tried and trusty friends;
Instructive, famous, witty, wise,
Each gladly his assistance lends
To suit, at will, my varying mood;
But none that aid will e'er intrude,
Or break, unsought, my solitude.
Some speak of problems of the soul,—
Profound, insoluble, sublime;
Some tell of Law's supreme control;
And some retrace through distant time
The evolution of mankind,
And in its ever-broadening mind
A hope for future triumphs find.
A few the noble deeds rehearse
Of heroes famed in peace or war;
While many in inspiring verse
Show heights to which the soul may soar;
But all with serious thoughts are filled,
And some hold truths, from life distilled,
Whose power my heart hath often thrilled.
By such companions cheered and blest,
How vapid seems the listless throng
Of those who, tortured by unrest,
Find life too dull and days too long,
And idly frittering time away,
As scandal-mongers, rend and slay
The friends they dined with yesterday!
My Library! to thee I turn,
As turns the needle toward the pole,
And feel my heart within me yearn
For all thou offerest to the soul;
Why should I join in feverish haste
The crowd for which I have no taste,
The precious boon of life to waste?
Yet not as an austere recluse,—
Still less as one who hates mankind—,
Do I thy peaceful precincts choose;
But as a student, who can find
No joys in Vanity's gay Fair
That for an instant can compare
With those thou askest me to share.
Moreover, welcome as the sun
Are friends whose love I prize and hold;
Their visits I would never shun;
To them my heart grows never cold;
And whether they have wealth, or fame,
Or bear a plain or titled name,
To me will always be the same.
Nor am I ever quite alone
When thus ensconced among my books;
A kindred mind there meets my own,
And with me toward the sunset looks;
With blazing logs the hearth is bright,
A treasured volume is in sight;
Hence to the outer world good night!