The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 1

     Rapt in dreamy thought the while,
     With a sphinx-like shadowy smile,
     Poet Florio sat, but now
     Spake in deep-voiced accents slow,
     More as one who probes his mind,
     Than for us—"Who seeks, shall find—
     Widening knowledge surely brings
     Vaster themes to him who sings.
     Was veiled Isis more sublime
     Than yon frozen fruit of Time,
     Hanging in the naked sky?
     Death's domain—for worlds too die.
     Lo! the heavens like a scroll
     Stand revealed before my soul;
     And the hieroglyphs are suns—
     Changeless change the law that runs
     Through the flame-inscribed page,
     World on world and age on age,
     Balls of ice and orbs of fire,
     What abides when these expire?
     Through slow cycles they revolve,
     Yet at last like clouds dissolve.
     Jove, Osiris, Brahma pass,
     Races wither like the grass.
     Must not mortals be as gods
     To embrace such periods?
     Yet at Nature's heart remains
     One who waxes not nor wanes.
     And our crowning glory still
     Is to have conceived his will."

               September 26, 1881.

     Weep for the martyr!  Strew his bier
     With the last roses of the year;
     Shadow the land with sables; knell
     The harsh-tongued, melancholy bell;
     Beat the dull muffled drum, and flaunt
     The drooping banner; let the chant
     Of the deep-throated organ sob—
     One voice, one sorrow, one heart-throb,
     From land to land, from sea to sea—
     The huge world quires his elegy.
     Tears, love, and honor he shall have,
     Through ages keeping green his grave.
     Too late approved, too early lost,
     His story is the people's boast.
     Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil,
     Of peasant lineage, reared to toil,
     In Europe he had been a thing
     To the glebe tethered—here a king!
     Crowned not for some transcendent gift,
     Genius of power that may lift
     A Caesar or a Bonaparte
     Up to the starred goal of his heart;
     But that he was the epitome
     Of all the people aim to be.
     Were they his dying trust?  He was
     No less their model and their glass.
     In him the daily traits were viewed
     Of the undistinguished multitude.
     Brave as the silent myriads are,
     Crushed by the juggernaut world-car;
     Strong with the people's strength, yet mild,
     Simple and tender as a child;
     Wise with the wisdom of the heart,
     Able in council, field, and mart;
     Nor lacking in the lambent gleam,
     The great soul's final stamp—the beam
     Of genial fun, the humor sane
     Wherewith the hero sports with pain.
     His virtues hold within the span
     Of his obscurest fellow-man.
     To live without reproach, to die
     Without a fear—in these words lie
     His highest aims, for none too high.
     No triumph his beyond the reach
     Of patient courage, kindly speech;
     And yet so brave the soul outbreathed,
     The great example he bequeathed,
     Were all to follow, we should see
     A universal chivalry.

     His trust, the People!  They respond
     From Maine to Florida, beyond
     The sea-walled continent's broad scope,
     Honor his pledge, confirm his hope.
     Hark! over seas the echo hence,
     The nations do him reverence.
     An Empress lays her votive wreath
     Where peoples weep with bated breath.
     The world-clock strikes a fateful hour,
     Bright with fair portents, big with power,—
     The first since history's course has run,
     When kings' and peoples' cause is one;
     Those mourn a brother—these a son!

     O how he loved them!  That gray morn,
     When his wound-wasted form was borne
     North, from the White House to the sea,
     Lifting his tired lids thankfully,
     "How good," he murmured in his pain,
     "To see the people once again!"
     Oh, how they loved him!  They stood there,
     Thronging the road, the street, the square,
     With hushed lips locked in silent prayer,
     Uncovered heads and streaming eyes,
     Breathless as when a father dies.
     The records of the ghostly ride,
     Past town and field at morning-tide.

     When life's full stream is wont to gush
     Through all its ways with boisterous rush,
     —The records note that once a hound
     Had barked, and once was heard the sound
     Of cart-wheels rumbling on the stones—
     And once, mid stifled sobs and groans,
     One man dared audibly lament,
     And cried, "God bless the president!"
     Always the waiting crowds to send
     A God-speed to his journey's end—
     The anxious whisper, brow of gloom,
     As in a sickness-sacred room,
     Till his ear drank with ecstasy
     The rhythmic thunders of the sea.

     Tears for the smitten fatherless,
     The wife's, the mother's life-distress,
     To whom the million-throated moan
     From throne and hut, may not atone
     For one hushed voice, one empty chair,
     One presence missing everywhere.
     But only words of joy and sheer,
     The people from his grave shall hear.
     Were they not worthy of his trust,
     From whose seed sprang the sacred dust?
     He broke the bars that separate
     The humble from the high estate.
     And heirs of empire round his bed
     Mourn with the "disinherited."

     Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds,
     Whose martyrdom even his exceeds,
     Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstood—
     Oh, all-enduring multitude,
     Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice!
     There issues from this grave a voice,
     Proclaiming your long night is o'er,
     Your day-dawn breaks from shore to shore.
     You have redeemed his pledge, remained
     Secure, erect, and self-sustained,
     Holding more dear one thing alone,
     Even than the blood of dearest son,
     Revering with religious awe
     The inviolable might of Law.

                      (A Dream.)

                Not a stain,
     In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky—
     Not a ripple on the black translucent lane
     Of the palace-walled lagoon.
                Not a cry
     As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by,
     Through the golden afternoon.

                From this height
     Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o'erjuts
     Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light
     Shimmer soft beneath the bridge,
                That abuts
     On a labyrinth of water-ways and shuts
     Half their sky off with its ridge.

                We shall mark
     All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours,
     Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark
     To their music as they fare.
                Scent their flowers
     Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers
     Through the laughter-ringing air.

                See! they come,
     Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans,
     With the mandoline, viol, and the drum,
     Gems afire on arms ungloved,
                Fluttering fans,
     Floating mantles like a great moth's streaky vans
     Such as Veronese loved.

                But behold
     In their midst a white unruffled swan appear.
     One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold,
     White its tasseled, silver prow.
                Who is here?
     Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear,
     Clad in glittering silken snow?

                Cheek and chin
     Where the mask's edge stops are of the hoar-frosts hue,
     And no eyebeams seem to sparkle from within
     Where the hollow rings have place.
                Yon gay crew
     Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue.
     'T is our sport to watch the race.

                At his side
     Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance,
     From her forehead, shines the splendor of a bride,
     And her feet seem shod with wings,
                To entrance,
     For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance,
     Like Salome at the King's.

                'T is his aim
     Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast,
     Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game.
     Ah, she fears him overmuch!
                Is it jest,—
     Is it earnest? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed
     In her horror of his touch.

                For each time
     That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray
     From the glory of her beauty in its prime;
     And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance
               Is no play
     'Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay—
     But the whirl of fate and chance.

                Where the tide
     Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea,
     There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride.
     Hark, one helpless, stifled scream!
                Must it be?
     Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye?
     Was all Venice such a dream?

     Air and sky are swathed in gold
         Fold on fold,
     Light glows through the trees like wine.
     Earth, sun-quickened, swoons for bliss
         'Neath his kiss,
     Breathless in a trance divine.

     Nature pauses from her task,
         Just to bask
     In these lull'd transfigured hours.
     The green leaf nor stays nor goes,
         But it grows
     Royaler than mid-June's flowers.

     Such impassioned silence fills
         All the hills
     Burning with unflickering fire—
     Such a blood-red splendor stains
         The leaves' veins,
     Life seems one fulfilled desire.

     While earth, sea, and heavens shine,
         Heart of mine,
     Say, what art thou waiting for?
     Shall the cup ne'er reach the lip,
         But still slip
     Till the life-long thirst give o'er?

     Shall my soul, no frosts may tame,
         Catch new flame
     From the incandescent air?
     In this nuptial joy apart,
         Oh my heart,
     Whither shall we lonely fare?

     Seek some dusky, twilight spot,
         Quite forgot
     Of the Autumn's Bacchic fire.
     Where soft mists and shadows sleep,
         There outweep
     Barren longing's vain desire.

                       ECHOES.

     Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope,
     The freshness of the elder lays, the might
     Of manly, modern passion shall alight
     Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope
     (Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope)
     With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite
     The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight;
     Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.
     But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave
     O'erbrowed by hard rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard,
     Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave,
     Lending elf-music to thy harshest word,
     Misprize thou not these echoes that belong
     To one in love with solitude and song.

                      SUCCESS.

     Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
     The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
     These I ignore to-day and only long
     To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
     One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,
     For all the victories of man's high endeavor,
     Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever,
     The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
     Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one
     Who has persisted and achieved?  Rejoice!
     On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
     Salute him with free heart and choral voice,
     'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,
     The bold, significant, successful man.

                   THE NEW COLOSSUS.*

     Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
     With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
     Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
     A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
     Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
     Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand
     Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
     The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
     "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
     With silent lips.  "Give me your tired, your poor,
     Your huddled masses yearning to be free,
     The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
     Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
     I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

     *Written in aid of the Bartholdi Pedestal Fund, 1883.

                  VENUS OF THE LOUVRE.

     Down the long hall she glistens like a star,
     The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone,
     Yet none the less immortal, breathing on.
     Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar.
     When first the enthralled enchantress from afar
     Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone,
     Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne,
     As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,—
     But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew,
     Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love.
     Here Heine wept!  Here still we weeps anew,
     Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move,
     While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain,
     For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.

                       CHOPIN.

                         I.

     A  dream of interlinking hands, of feet
     Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof,
     Of the entangling waltz.  Bright eyebeams meet,
     Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
     Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow
     Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms
     Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snow
     Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
     Hark to the music!  How beneath the strain
     Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
     One fundamental chord of constant pain,
     The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
     So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,
     The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.

                        II.

     Who shall proclaim the golden fable false
     Of Orpheus' miracles?  This subtle strain
     Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain
     Lightly uplifts us.  With the rhythmic waltz,
     The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song
     Of love and languor, varied visions rise,
     That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.
     The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long,
     The seraph-souled musician, breathes again
     Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.
     Revived the exalted face we know so well,
     The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame,
     Slowly consuming with its inward flame,
     We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.

                         III.

     A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine
     As the sad spirit of the evening breeze,
     Throbbing with human passion, yet divine
     As the wild bird's untutored melodies.
     A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim,
     Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall
     The wan and noiseless leaves.  A voice for him
     Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call
     Of the first robin on the first spring day.
     A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart,
     Who, still misprized, must perish by the way,
     Longing with love, for that they lack the art
     Of their own soul's expression.  For all these
     Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.

                          IV.

     Then Nature shaped a poet's heart—a lyre
     From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows
     Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.
     How shall she cherish him?  Behold! she throws
     This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl
     Of seething passions; he is scourged and stung,
     Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl
     Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.
     No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be,
     An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes,
     Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly-wise,
     Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.
     Rich gain for us!  But with him is it well?
     The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!

               (After Robert Schumann.)

                       Prelude.

     Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July
       Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:
       Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony
     With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.
     Shall we not call him Prospero who held
       In his enchanted hands the fateful key
       Of that tempestuous hour's mystery,
     And with him to wander by a sun-bright shore,
       To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly
     With disembodied Ariel once more
       Above earth's wrack and ruin?  Far and nigh
     The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,
     And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.

                          I.

     Floating upon a swelling wave of sound,
       We seemed to overlook an endless sea:
       Poised 'twixt clear heavens and glittering surf were we.
     We drank the air in flight: we knew no bound
     To the audacious ventures of desire.
       Nigh us the sun was dropping, drowned in gold;
       Deep, deep below the burning billows rolled;
     And all the sea sang like a smitten lyre.
     Oh, the wild voices of those chanting waves!
       The human faces glimpsed beneath the tide!
     Familiar eyes gazed from profound sea-caves,
       And we, exalted, were as we had died.
     We knew the sea was Life, the harmonious cry
     The blended discords of humanity.

                          II.

     Look deeper yet: mark 'midst the wave-blurred mass,
       In lines distinct, in colors clear defined,
       The typic groups and figures of mankind.
     Behold within the cool and liquid glass
     Bright child-folk sporting with smooth yellow shells,
       Astride of dolphins, leaping up to kiss
       Fair mother-faces.  From the vast abyss
     How joyously their thought-free laughter wells!
       Lulled by the overwhelming water's sound,
     And some make mouths at dragons, undismayed.
       Oh dauntless innocence!  The gulfs profound
     Reecho strangely with their ringing glee,
     And with wise mermaids' plaintive melody.

                          III.

     What do the sea-nymphs in that coral cave?
       With wondering eyes their supple forms they bend
       O'er something rarely beautiful.  They lend
     Their lithe white arms, and through the golden wave
     They lift it tenderly.  Oh blinding sight!
       A naked, radiant goddess tranced in sleep,
       Full-limbed, voluptuous, 'neath the mantling sweep
     Of auburn locks that kiss her ankles white!
     Upward they bear her, chanting low and sweet:
       The clinging waters part before their way,
     Jewels of flame are dancing 'neath their feet.
       Up in the sunshine, in soft foam, they lay
     Their precious burden, and return forlorn.
     Oh, bliss! oh, anguish!  Mortals, LOVE is born!

                          IV.

     Hark! from unfathomable deeps a dirge
       Swells sobbing through the melancholy air:
       Where Love has entered, Death is also there.
     The wail outrings the chafed, tumultuous surge;
     Ocean and earth, the illimitable skies,
       Prolong one note, a mourning for the dead,
       The cry of souls not to be comforted.
     What piercing music!  Funeral visions rise,
     And send the hot tears raining down our cheek.
       We see the silent grave upon the hill
       With its lone lilac-bush.  O heart, be still!
     She will not rise, she will not stir nor speak.
     Surely, the unreturning dead are blest.
     Ring on, sweet dirge, and knell us to our rest!

                          V.

     Upon the silver beach the undines dance
       With interlinking arms and flying hair;
       Like polished marble gleam their limbs left bare;
     Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance.
     Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet
       Print not the moist floor where they trip their round:
       Affrighted they will scatter at a sound,
     Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nimbly fleet,
     And we shall doubt that we have ever seen,
       While our sane eyes behold stray wreaths of mist,
       Shot with faint colors by the moon-rays kissed,
     Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had been.
     Already, look! the wave-washed sands are bare,
     And mocking laughter ripples through the air.

                       Epilogue.

     Forth in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped,
       Sweet with the dripping grass and flowering vine,
       And saw through irised clouds the pale sun shine.
     Back o'er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept
     Like a transparent curtain's slivery sheen;
       And fronting us the painted bow was arched,
       Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched:
     In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green
     Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue.
       Our hearts o'erflowed with peace.  With smiles we spake
     Of partings in the past, of courage new,
       Of high achievement, of the dreams that make
     A wonder and a glory of our days,
     And all life's music but a hymn of praise.

     I see it as it looked one afternoon
     In August,—by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown.
     The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
     A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
     The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
     The quiet fishing smacks, the Eastern cove,
     The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
     The luminous grasses, and the merry sun
     In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
     Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp
     Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
     Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep
     Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
     All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.

                         1856.

     Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass,
     Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells,
     And martial strains, the full-voiced paean swells.
     The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass
     Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm
     With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass,
     In holiday confusion, class with class,
     And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!
     In the Imperial palace that March morn,
     The beautiful young mother lay and smiled;
     For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child,
     Heir to an empire, to the purple born,
     Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart
     Like a blown clarion—one more Bonaparte.

                         1879.

     Born to the purple, lying stark and dead,
     Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun
     Of brazen Africa!  Thy grave is one,
     Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited
     Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world,
     Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing
     A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling
     Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.
     Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own,
     Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand
     With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand
     With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son.
     Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head,
     And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.

     So, Calchas, on the sacred Palatine,
     Thou thought of Mopsus, and o'er wastes of sea
     A flower brought your message.  I divine
     (Through my deep art) the kindly mockery
     That played about your lips and in your eyes,
     Plucking the frail leaf, while you dreamed of home.
     Thanks for the silent greeting!  I shall prize,
     Beyond June's rose, the scentless flower of Rome.
     All the Campagna spreads before my sight,
     The mouldering wall, the Caesars' tombs unwreathed,
     Rome and the Tiber, and the yellow light,
     Wherein the honey-colored blossom breathed.
     But most I thank it—egoists that we be!
     For proving then and there you thought of me.

     There was a man who watched the river flow
     Past the huge town, one gray November day.
     Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play
     The boys made merry as they saw him go,
     Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream,
     The immortal screed he held within his hand.
     For he was walking in an April land
     With Faust and Helen.  Shadowy as a dream
     Was the prose-world, the river and the town.
     Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies
     He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down.
     He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes,
     Lo—a black line of birds in wavering thread
     Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!

                        An Apologue.

     ("Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned;
     this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned;
     therefore he is not a poet.")

     No man had ever heard a nightingale,
     When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
     To study and define—what is a bird,
     To classify by rote and book, nor fail
     To mark its structure and to note the scale
     Whereon its song might possibly be heard.
     Thus far, no farther;—so he spake the word.
     When of a sudden,—hark, the nightingale!

     Oh deeper, higher than he could divine
     That all-unearthly, untaught strain!  He saw
     The plain, brown warbler, unabashed.  "Not mine"
     (He cried) "the error of this fatal flaw.
     No bird is this, it soars beyond my line,
     Were it a bird, 't would answer to my law."

     When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain
     Roars round about me as I walk the street,
     The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat
     Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain
     Of struggle hand to hand and brain to brain,
     Ofttimes a sudden dream my sense will cheat,
     The gaudy shops, the sky-piled roofs retreat,
     And all at once I stand enthralled again
     Within a marble minster over-seas.
     I watch the solemn gold-stained gloom that creeps
     To kiss an alabaster tomb, where sleeps
     A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies,
     And every day in dusky glory steeps
     Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

     Not while the fever of the blood is strong,
     The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less
     With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless
     The poet-soul to help and soothe with song.
     Not then she bids his trembling lips express
     The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
     Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain
     One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.
     But when the dream is done, the pulses fail,
     The day's illusion, with the day's sun set,
     He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale
     Divine Consoler, featured like Regret,
     Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow.
     Then his lips ope to sing—as mine do now.

     Therefore I dare reveal my private woe,
     The secret blots of my imperfect heart,
     Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert,
     Nor beautify nor hide.  For this I know,
     That even as I am, thou also art.
     Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go,
     To pause and bide with me, to whisper low:
     "Not I alone am weak, not I apart
     Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day.
     Here is my very cross by strangers borne,
     Here is my bosom-sun wherefrom I pray
     Hourly deliverance—this my rose, my thorn.
     This woman my soul's need can understand,
     Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand."

     What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine,
     Thou cold, white, silent Stranger?  From my hand
     Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine;
     Here eyes that flamed with love, at thy command
     Stare stone-blank on blank air; her frozen heart
     Forgets my presence.  Teach me who thou art,
     Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me.
       I never saw thee till this sudden hour.
     What secret door gave entrance unto thee?
       What power in thine, o'ermastering Love's own power?

     Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend,
       Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast.
     Life has grown strange and cold, but thou dost bend
       Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest.
     So often hast thou come, and from my side
     So many hast thou lured, I only bide
     Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine.
       Thy world is peopled for me; this world's bare.
       Through all these years my couch thou didst prepare.
     Thou art supreme Love—kiss me—I am thine!

                         I.

     As the blind Milton's memory of light,
     The deaf Beethoven's phantasy of tone,
     Wrought joys for them surpassing all things known
     In our restricted sphere of sound and sight,—
     So while the glaring streets of brick and stone
     Vex with heat, noise, and dust from morn till night,
     I will give rein to Fancy, taking flight
     From dismal now and here, and dwell alone
     With new-enfranchised senses.  All day long,
     Think ye 't is I, who sit 'twixt darkened walls,
     While ye chase beauty over land and sea?
     Uplift on wings of some rare poet's song,
     Where the wide billow laughs and leaps and falls,
     I soar cloud-high, free as the the winds are free.

                          II.

     Who grasps the substance? who 'mid shadows strays?
     He who within some dark-bright wood reclines,
     'Twixt sleep and waking, where the needled pines
     Have cushioned all his couch with soft brown sprays?
     He notes not how the living water shines,
     Trembling along the cliff, a flickering haze,
     Brimming a wine-bright pool, nor lifts his gaze
     To read the ancient wonders and the signs.
     Does he possess the actual, or do I,
     Who paint on air more than his sense receives,
     The glittering pine-tufts with closed eyes behold,
     Breathe the strong resinous perfume, see the sky
     Quiver like azure flame between the leaves,
     And open unseen gates with key of gold?

     The fervent, pale-faced Mother ere she sleep,
     Looks out upon the zigzag-lighted square,
     The beautiful bare trees, the blue night-air,
     The revelation of the star-strewn deep,
     World above world, and heaven over heaven.
     Between the tree-tops and the skies, her sight
     Rests on a steadfast, ruddy-shining light,
     High in the tower, an earthly star of even.
     Hers is the faith in saints' and angels' power,
     And mediating love—she breathes a prayer
     For yon tired watcher in the gray old tower.
     He the shrewd, skeptic poet unaware
     Feels comforted and stilled, and knows not whence
     Falls this unwonted peace on heart and sense.

     Would I had waked this morn where Florence smiles,
     A-bloom with beauty, a white rose full-blown,
     Yet rich in sacred dust, in storied stone,
     Precious past all the wealth of Indian isles—
     From olive-hoary Fiesole to feed
     On Brunelleschi's dome my hungry eye,
     And see against the lotus-colored sky,
     Spring the slim belfry graceful as a reed.
     To kneel upon the ground where Dante trod,
     To breathe the air of immortality
     From Angelo and Raphael—TO BE—
     Each sense new-quickened by a demi-god.
     To hear the liquid Tuscan speech at whiles,
     From citizen and peasant, to behold
     The heaven of Leonardo washed with gold—
     Would I had waked this morn where Florence smile!

     *Written before visiting Florence.

     DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

     DON JOHN of AUSTRIA.
     JOSEF RIBERA, the Spagnoletto.
     LORENZO, noble young Italian artist, pupil of Ribera.
     DON TOMMASO MANZANO.
     LUCA, servant to Ribera.
     A GENTLEMAN.
     FIRST LORD.
     SECOND LORD.

     MARIA-ROSA, daughter to Ribera.
     ANNICCA, daughter to Ribera, and wife to Don Tommaso.
     FIAMETTA, servant to Maria-Rosa.
     ABBESS.
     LAY-SISTER.
     FIRST LADY.
     SECOND LADY.

     Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Servants.

     SCENE—During the first four acts, in Naples; latter part of the
             fifth act, in Palermo.  Time, about 1655.