Copyright fl° / f // - COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/villamirafioreOOcrow VILLA MIRAFIORE Villa Mirafiore By Frederic Crowninshield Author of '" Pictoru Carmina" "A Painters Moods,' " Tales in Metre" " Under the Laurel" Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company 1912 COPYRIGHT, IQI2, BY FREDERIC CROWNINSHIELD ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published October iqi2 SCU327488 Fair Villa Mirafiore, thy dear name I give to this my heart-engendered verse: Albeit other sites may intersperse Their inspirations, none save thee can claim So many promptings that my soul inflame, Or mine awakened energies so nurse, Or a reluctant, dreamy pen coerce To write the lines which merit praise or blame. laureled Villa! shaded by the pine And ilex dense, and where the cypress bends To odorous airs, I shall remember thee Till 'neath the west my life-light doth decline — Thee and thy loveliness, with those sweet friends Who oft in genial mood came unto me. CONTENTS IN AMERICA Confession 3 Arrived! 3 Night and Morn 4 Fair Dreams 4 Garibaldi in Rome 5 Life's Value 6 In Gloom 6 Unworthy 7 Roman Reveries 7 As She Passes . 8 Forbear! 9 By thy Help 9 Advertisement (after the Boxer Rebellion) 12 Princess Belgiojoso (on reading her Life) 13 Lilies 13 Portents 14 In Late Winter 15 As Rome? 15 Riverside, New York 16 Disillusioned 16 Preference 17 Our Embassies 17 Soft Winds 19 Harvesting 20 To a Young Actress 20 Light and Life 21 Acquiescence 22 Doomed 22 Beware! 23 Morn and Eve 24 Gaming 24 Dust to Dust 25 Not Sweet 26 viii CONTENTS Aurora Borealis 26 The Night Court 27 Larches .27 A Contest 28 The Last Page 29 Written at Election Time 30 Forearmed 30 Consolation 31 Questionings 32 Fame Assured 34 The Guerdon 34 The Motive 35 Self-Censure 36 After a Spectacle '. 36 The Night of Waterloo (at Quatre-Bras) 37 To the New Year 38 Academies 38 The Knell 39 After a Certain Exhibition 40 Certain Plays 41 The Morning After '42 Sunshine and Sadness 42 In Dreamland 43 Elders 44 Mid- June 46 The Greater Pain 46 Old Wine 47 Love for Life 47 Unheard 48 Farewell and Hail! 49 EN ITALY At Sea 53 Voyaging 53 The Island of Flores (Azores) 54 Off Trafalgar 55 A Memorable Day 55 New Rome 56 The Forum 56 On the Via Nomentana 57 In the Villa Borghese 58 CONTENTS . ix Street Scene 58 Song-Bird 59 Roman Daisies 59 In the Villa Mirafiore 60 Rome to Civita Castellana 60 At Bracciano 61 Commemorations 61 Bugle-Calls (Villa Mirafiore) 62 From Rome to Caprarola, Viterbo, Toscanella . . . . 62 A Penance 66 Laetitia (Madame Mere) 67 Avowals 68 At Rimini (Duomo Tempio Malatestiano?) 68 Temperance 69 Portugal (October 7, 1910) 69 Sleep On! 70 Grim Winter 72 De Patria 72 Song — In December 74 O Dawn 74 We Artists 75 The Statue and the Butterfly 76 South-Wind 77 The Destroyer 78 "Sailors of Old Salem" 79 The Larger Art 80 The Scar 81 To a Songstress 81 The " Cinquantenario " 82 Palermo 8$ Monreale 84 Segesta 85 Girgenti 85 Syracuse 86 Taormina 87 Farewell to Sicily 87 From Agropoli to Paestum 88 Inthe"Bosco" 89 Oppressive Beauty 89 At Vallombrosa 90 Piazza del Duomo, Orvieto 90 x CONTENTS Piazza del Duomo, Pienza 91 Piazza del Duomo, Siena 92 Return to Siena 92 Tripoli (September 29, 19 11) 96 Ninfa 96 Farewell to Rome 97 After Storm 99 Almond-Blossoms (Taormina) 100 On the Corso, Taormina 101 Halcyon Days, Taormina 102 Degradation 103 Idyll — Taormina 104 From the Theatre, Taormina 105 Night — Taormina 106 IN GREECE Nearing Greece 109 At Delphi 109 IN AMERICA IN AMERICA CONFESSION 'T is not enough that comely Art should be My only Muse, that she alone should claim My sole intent, nor be the zenith-aim Of my full-fledged aspiring energy: For though this many a year her devotee, And though I feel the warmth of her bright flame Now as of yore, and love her aye the same, Yet would I be no bondsman — nay, but free ! For perils to the faltering conscience call, And anxious Country vehemently cries To bate the golden lusts that men enthrall, To stem the villainy that law defies, To blast the knaves who on disaster wait Like carrion vultures on impending fate. September, 1907. ARRIVED! Behold our goodly work! Now let us rest: For we have crystallized the mobile sea, And surfeited the desert's thirst. And we Have scaffolded the cloud-consorting crest Towering above the perished eagle's nest: And what were wilding reaches, vast and free — The poet's joy and art's felicity — Our cunning science-mastery attest. 4 IN AMERICA Our fathers sang of the remorseless wave, And mountains virgin of our shodden feet, Of forests dusk, of the unbridled stream, Of soothing night the weary used to crave. But these were merely works of God, unmeet For our progressive, larger, wiser scheme. September, 1907. NIGHT AND MORN Last night I saw the sinking moon Alike a life that's run: This morn I felt the flaming beams; I thought my life begun. September, 1907. FAIR DREAMS How soft my soul ye woo, Fair Dreams, when laboring, dreary day Resigns to night his lingering ray! If ye were only true! So softly ye endue My sering years with youth divine, My eve with transports matutine! Dear Dreams, if ye were true ! Fond Dreams, if ye were true, The daintiest maids that sauntering go, IN AMERICA A-smiling on all weal or woe, I should with love imbue ! But ye are like the dew That takes its glamorous, skyward flight Before the all-revealing light: Oh, Dreams, ye are not true! Then must I bid adieu To visions lovelier far than truth, And commerce with sad facts uncouth? Farewell! ye are not true. October, 1907. GARIBALDI IN ROME Decades have passed; yet I remember well The Romans' wild, tumultuous cheer on cheer Hailing the chief to every freeman dear, Who years before had anguished to repel The foreigner, who heard sweet Freedom's knell, And left her lying on a bloody bier To be endungeoned in a fortress drear Till legioned Italy should ope her cell. And Italy did ope it; but how hard For him, who recognized nor king nor caste — Who loved a pauper as he loved a czar — Who was in Liberty's defense all scarred — To sacrifice his proudest, holiest past That Rome might shine his Country's guiding star! November, 1907. IN AMERICA LIFE'S VALUE One messmate less! gone on his sudden way: And we were moved but little: some one said, "Poor devil, what a godsend he is dead! For he was world- worn, broken in the fray — Soul, body, brain in comfortless decay: Not maimed enough to lie upon a bed Of torture, braving pains unmerited, Yet doomed to falter through each irksome day." Life seemed so sacred in unknowing years — Precious beyond disaster or disgrace! Dismemberment or anguish had no fears Confronted with the ghastly, coffined face. But now Death's twilight pallor touches me As doth the soothing, slumbrous, evening sea. December, 1907. IN GLOOM Stand back, Despair ! Thou shalt not always hide The sunlight of my days, nor shalt thou shade Bright aptitudes for joy. I was not made To blanch in utter gloom, nor aye abide With thee. Look out upon the heavens wide And on the gorgeous world all overlaid With beaming tincts ! Dost see yon cavalcade Of darkling clouds that o'er the azure glide — That cast dead shades upon the living earth? See, too, how quick they take their sombre flight And tensify the sunshine's second birth, IN AMERICA Making the lovely land more hued, more bright ! Then wing thy sullen way, O fell Despair, And let me bask in sunnier, saner air! December, 1907. UNWORTHY We think the glorious cause of Freedom won Because we flaunt her form of government, And deem our favored selves divinely sent To key the world to kingless unison. Delusion ! Oh, not yet have we begun To understand true Liberty's intent, To comprehend her ways benevolent, To ken the perils she would have us shun. Shame is it that we reverence brute gold — Ennoble it in this our casteless state! Shame is it that we blandly tolerate Fierce Lynch's methods — not calm Law uphold! And yet more shame that our mean white-man's pride Forbids to scatter freedom far and wide! January, 1908. ROMAN REVERIES Thank God that I was there in those last years Of papal Rome. Their colored memories fill My soul with bliss, and every fibre thrill, As with pressed lids their pageantry appears. 8 IN AMERICA Now sacred Music breaks upon my ears At dawn-time when the wintry air is still, And now I see upon the Pincian Hill Prince-cardinals in red that domineers Even the poppy's flame. And artists gay With garb and manners of a rich Romance, Pilgrims from England, Germany, and France — From every realm — but stay, my pen, oh, stay! For when the cannon woke Rome from her trance, In Freedom's name I blessed that glorious day. January, 1908. AS SHE PASSES Not that fair damsel would I take to wife, Though fresh as opalescent dawn she be, With eyes like bluets on the emerald lea, And fragrant as the blooming springtide life With which the quickening hills and dales are rife — E'en would she deign to smile consent on me. No, not that Helen- wonder, nay, not she! For with the glory I behold the strife, And yond the beauty I descry the lure, And underneath the fateful, studied scheme Of glamouring garb, revealing forms Greek-pure, I see too clear a vanity supreme, And love of mundane gauds insatiate. Nay, not for Ormus should she be my mate! January, 1908. IN AMERICA FORBEAR ! A brilliant wintry sun illumes the street, And in the shine extravagantly dressed Sport children of the rich with radiant jest; While toward them sorely fares on faltering feet Beneath her faggot-load a maiden sweet — Neither with raiment warm nor leisure blest — And lays her burden down to take short rest Upon the stony curb — a grateful seat. A moment's breath, and then upon her head, So nobly crowned with coils of glorious hair, She balances again her crushing weight And staggers on. Alas ! if wiles were spread Before those lovely eyes. O friends, forbear, If she should choose a less inclement fate! January, 1908. BY THY HELP Sweet guardian Muse who hast our souls in care, Kind consort of the laureled, ardent few Who strive to deck thy shrine with garlands new — Oft high in hope, yet oftener in despair Deep drowned — dost thou not view In somewhat of dismay A puissant people on its groveling way To clarioned wealth, the Goddess of the day? Whose garish handmaids are, Not virtues shining as a modest star, io IN AMERICA But vices vulgar as an artificial light Compared to sky-born beacons of the holy night. Surely thy presence pure With its investiture Of elevating thought and sanctified design (For that which raiseth is not undivine) Should chaster, loftier life assure, Should our coin-callous hands refine, And chivalry with lawful gain combine. I gaze upon a lovely scene, It may be on a summer eve serene, When cornfields softly clatter in the breeze ; And what an hour since was lushest green Is now all gilded by day's abdicating lord — A sight to please Censorious eyes, and harbinger heart's-ease, Because of its accord. I look upon a nobly moulded face Soul-eloquent, of ivory hue Beneath jet hair that snares sharp glints of blue — A face that diadems a form all grace, Worthy to take a proud immortal place Among the flawless few, The goddesses of pure Olympian race, Who as the ages wane their blooming youth renew. Yet if a shrilling color-note should mar That comely landscape's sweet concording scheme All mellowed by the sinking sun's last beam, Awhile the evening star IN AMERICA ii Upon its roseate couch doth palely gleam; Or if some influence indign Should disconcert that faultless form divine — Distort the tuneful play of line, Should I not grieve At loss of beauties that inweave Their silken strands with mine, And curse the powers that thus bereave My eyes of Heaven's design? So when I note the ugly deed Of soulless men who in their purblind speed Would pyramid pure gold, Or hear their coarse untutored speech Discording with the strains the sages teach, Whose aims all lie within a pagan's reach, I chant into the world my poet's creed That would fair things uphold. O Beauty of the perfect thing! Be it of hue, or line, or speech, or deed, O gracious Muse, wilt thou not kindly lead A potent nation to thy pure Castalian spring? That it may quaff those magic draughts which bring An aye-abiding sense Of what is true, refined, and high — Of those amenities that never die — And towering eminence In full benevolence To all mankind through all this rloreate earth. We lack not will nor strength; nor is there dearth Of ample, sating wealth: 12 IN AMERICA But give, sweet guardian Muse, that which is worth All else — that hath been thine since thy Pierian birth — Harmonious health. January, 1908. ADVERTISEMENT (After the Boxer Rebellion) Come, buy! At unrestricted public sale Antique and modern porcelains will be sold, Carved ivories, brocades of silk and gold, Soft bells that tinkled down some Orient dale, And battle-flags that crimsoned on the gale, Lacquers and brazen Buddhas — new and old — Rich royal dragoned vestments manifold, And jades with inlaid things of quaint detail. Come, buy, come, buy! collectors of the West, These peerless treasures of the helpless East — A chance unique to share the splendid loot. Come, bid and buy! and do not shudder, lest Ye dream of blood on it; the blood has ceased, The inconvenient death-shriek long been mute. February, 1908. IN AMERICA 13 PRINCESS BELGIOJOSO (On reading her life) Lady of the lovely name, farewell ! O Princess strong and strange and large of heart — And stately in the classic vein of art — No despot could thy naming spirit quell! Where'er an exile thou wert forced to dwell — On Frankish soil or by some Asian mart — ■ There nobly didst thou play the patriot part, In alien lands thy country's sentinel. But yet throughout thy long dramatic life, One scene there is that domineers the rest: When Freedom was entangled in the net Of Tyranny, when Rome was red with strife, Thou wert the angel nurse, and with thee, blest By all, was our New England Margaret. 1 February, 1908. LILIES Behold the pompous lilies, creamy white, And gold, and orange-flecked, and palish green, Crowning their speary sheaves in state serene, Gleaming like cloudlets in an opal light, 1 Margaret Fuller. i 4 IN AMERICA Or as those solemn angels benedight, Shining on azure apses Byzantine, Or those rare women of majestic mien Who have at blessed moments blest my sight ! And oh, the fragrance! wilderingly sweet, A sweetness overwhelming — nearing pain — That bodeth evil while it doth beguile. Transcendent lilies ! with all joys replete, Beneath your loveliness there lurks a bane, As venom ambushed by a luring smile. February, 1908. PORTENTS Alas ! O Heart, those were ominous days, When the reek of the flaming forests hung low, And over the land sagged a pungent haze, Mantling the Autumn's sumptuous glow, When the might from the sun had fled, And his face was naught but an impotent ring - A passionless, cold, unprocreant thing That harmlessly droned in a dim gray sky, A dangerless disk to the insolent eye. Ah, what, O Heart, did they bring — The reek and the blaze and the impotent sun, That cold, painted globe of red? They brought thee pain for a joy undone, A tragedy wrought from a bliss begun, And the land was veiled for a life that was run, While the Orb in the heavens bled. February, 1908. IN AMERICA 15 IN LATE WINTER O long white clouds that streak the southern sky, And canopy the city's roof-tree gray, Have ye, O dazzling ones, for me no ray That this grim city thus do glorify? Yon house-tops ye illume till they outvie Italian domes, and Frankish spires, and gay, Tiled mosques, and storied temples of Cathay: Then do not to my night your beams deny. Come, white Ones, come! and lift my lowly soul ' All prostrate with the pains of winter drear. The lengthening, quickening days move on apace, And verduring, breezy billows hither roll : Come! lift me, then, for Spring is almost here, And I would greet her with a cheerful grace. March, 1908. AS ROME? Whene'er I brood upon our vaulting pride, Our love of wealth and vulgar luxury, With anxious voice I ask, "Oh! can it be That we unwary freemen — we shall glide Like Rome of old adown the glossy tide Into a turbulent, anarchic sea Engulfing every sacred liberty, Awhile a few severely, vainly chide?" Or does our gilded restlessness forestall A whiter life, and manners more austere, With simpler, saintlier ways? Fierce Boreas blows, 16 IN AMERICA And all the glamoured gauds of Autumn fall: But sweeter Auster wafts the new, green year. Will time renew our hearts? God only knows. April, 1908. RIVERSIDE, NEW YORK It seems incredible when springtide calm Is swooning on yon cliff and pale gray stream — Upon whose lap white war-ships gayly gleam — When buds bring hope, and fragrant airs waft balm, When all the world is one melodious psalm, That storm should e'er disturb this peace supreme, That truth should ever mar this perfect dream, That pain should ever claim the martyr's palm. fond Delusion, yet a moment bide! And thou, O Memory, close thy ponderous gate! And thou, too, Future, thy decretals hide, Screening with golden web remorseless fate ! For I would linger on the unruffled tide As those white war-ships in their gala state. April, 1908. DISILLUSIONED Unhappy was that day when first I learned To see the sad, unveiled, unwelcome truth, And all the glamour of ingenuous youth Fade into ash. On that dark day were burned IN AMERICA 17 My full-rigged argosies; that day were urned My sweet ideals — stark dead; that day for- sooth The fondest, loveliest things became uncouth, And all my gods to mannikins were turned. Once statesmen were to me the embodiment Of wisdom high, and their fair speech seemed frank, And noble were the warriors girt to slay, And once to me was Law equivalent To Right. Yet now I see the mountebank Where once I saw — but more I must not say. May, 1908. PREFERENCE Not, not for me white wolds and winter-woe, But Maytime mild, and fall of blossom-snow. May, 1908. OUR EMBASSIES The years sweep on apace, and yet we do not grow In virtue, for our blazoned wealth is all we have to show: And uncontent at home to spread our glittering hoard, We now would ship it overseas to publish it abroad. 1 8 IN AMERICA Alack! there was a time when at our Nation's birth We stood for rugged Liberty, and heartened all on earth Who yearned for equal rights, who scorned the gauds of kings, Who loathed their mean bedizened courts and shameless lackeyings. But legates now we crave to ape the tawdry way Of tinseled folk who deem it strength to flaunt their rich array, Forgetful of the past when resolution gained For envoys the respect of all, and character sustained Our puissant Nation's rank, the peer of any throne, Because the homely life meant power; because that we alone Were hailed in every land the type of what should be When caste is broken on the wheel, when no man bends the knee; Because we stood for health, and forwarded the trend Toward universal peace and love, toward gifts the gods protend. Alas ! what would we now? to lower our lofty flight? To wing on less ideal plane? What profit, then, the fight IN AMERICA 19 If we descend to earth from our rough eagle-crest, And with the pampered, flightless fowl brood in a gilded nest? Nay! Chasten, chasten life, all fripperies give o'er, And let the peacocks strut below, awhile we skyward soar! May, 1908. SOFT WINDS Soft-sighing, soughing winds, Ye waft from off warm seas The mildest, pearliest mists That veil the virid leas, the brake, and bourgeoning trees. Soft-sighing, soughing winds, How tunefully ye play With fresh-born, golden greens, Through budding branch and spray — that answer to your lay! O sighing, soughing winds, What sweet content ye bring To heart-chords winter-worn ! What soothing songs ye sing — low lullabies of Spring! May, 1908. 2o IN AMERICA HARVESTING The keen steel blades of the mower whirr, While the west winds blow, And over the tawny reaches err: Wherever they go The grasses bend low And to their frolicsome swirls defer. Meek grasses tall So soon to fall! Oh, what a day for the harvester! June, 1908. TO A YOUNG ACTRESS O golden-haired one, thou of triumphs hereafter, List to my warning! O Goddess of Spring and of joy, Goddess of laughter, Yet in thy morning! Blue-eyed as the zenith, lithe as the bank-clinging willow, Remember, remember, When thou hearest the shouts of applause, surging billow on billow, Thy certain December! July, 1908. IN AMERICA 21 LIGHT AND LIFE What heavenly peace there is this splendent morn ! Dark larches pinnacle the violet-blue Of unrlecked skies: the white-branched birches strew On sun-sprent lawns cool shades : the bladed corn Glints sharp beneath the waxing rays adorn With shimmering dew. How full of living light this brilliant day! Yon distant hills are laved in dreamy mist; Their slopes take on the hue of amethyst; The fragrant fields are stacked with golden hay, While joyous birds scale out their roundelay, And make sweet tryst. Look now aloft! A wonder-cloud pure white Lifts languidly upon the larch-pierced sky, And heaven's deep violet-blue doth glorify, Making the golden meads supremely bright With its contrasting shade — a radiant sight, Yet doomed to die: For evening comes, when bird and sun will nest, And larch and birch and corn will slowly blend In one dim-margined mass, and dark descend Upon the aureate fields; while in the west The hills on glooming skies will faintly rest, And all will end. 22 IN AMERICA Look now abroad again ! once more on high The blinding cloud, once more below I see The erring shade upon the glowing lea. Oh, why not always living morn? I cry, Oh, why not always deathless light? I sigh . . It cannot be. July, 1908. ACQUIESCENCE To sever self from fateful circumstance, To lead the longed-for, perfect life apart, To make of every act a thing of art, Were but the fabric of a dear romance. We are mere puppets to a heedless chance, The victims to another's tender heart, The bondmen to a homestead or the mart, Despite our constant, utmost vigilance. I hear without the moaning of the gale, Dark clouds rush o'er the uncongenial sky, The grasses cringe beneath the storm-king's flail. How can a leaflet his fierce thews defy When all the supple branches bend and quail? Who can resist fell fate? Can you, or I? July, 1908. DOOMED The solemn shadow of Death's sable wing Is slowly stealing o'er my neighbor's home, Like lengthening shades that ominously roam Over the evening fields, dark scouts that bring IN AMERICA 23 An utter, toneless night to everything, Tingeing the minster spire, the stately dome, The humbler hut to one swart monochrome. But why, O Death, dost thou my life-chords wring? Is it because I love my neighbor so That loss of him would draw the mourning tear From sources sweet with love of long ago? But think, O craven Heart, thou art his peer In livelong years ! Oh, can it be? — no, no ! — That thou dost grieve because thy death is near? July, 1908. BEWARE! What have the plumaged rich to offer us, Retainers of the pen, the brush, the lyre? Can they fulfill the flaming heart's desire? Can they be aught than mortal incubus? Too poor the richer topics to discuss, They only prate of what is low or higher Within the market-place, or else attire Their vapid talk with gewgaws scandalous. What can they offer but a sumptuous board? We'll none of that — the plainer fare is best: What can they give? a dole from their vast hoard? We'll none of that; for peril is there, lest We should be truckling to some overlord. Oh! let us leave them to their sleek unrest. July, 1908. 24 IN AMERICA MORN AND EVE When o'er the hill-top lifts the shining morn, When hope and thought and strength are newly born, When of all yester-ill the soul is shorn, Ah! then, 't is sweet to stay. But in the solemn shade of mournful eve, When glamouring splendor doth no more deceive, And hopes and airy fancies take their leave, Who would not wing away? July, 1908. GAMING So fair Thy world ! And yet these gamesters pass The shining hours of high enameled noon, Or lower lustre of the gentler moon, Within four lifeless, viewless walls. Alas ! They neither gaze on summer's tasseled grass, Nor those white flocks that on blue fields are strewn, Nor moonlit mists that on dark heavens swoon : Nay! all Thy gold is but as sounding brass. 'T is not the vulgar, coarser crew I mean, Who haunt the dayless, stifling, garish hell Where Babylon her world-old traffic plies: But those of gentler breeding who, I ween, Example's force should comprehend too well Their coin to stake before pure children's eyes. August, iqo8. IN AMERICA 25 DUST TO DUST In Norseland there was lately oped a mound — Not far from where cold Ocean curls his wave — And lo ! it proved an ancient sea-queen's grave. Therein companioned with the corse were found Her gala barge that o'er glad crests did bound, Her four-wheeled car that on high days she drave, Her horses, sleighs, and all those objects brave Which royal dames in royal guise surround. . far-off Princess ! were these trinkets dear, These regal implements, inhumed with thee That thou mightst use them in another sphere — Some land beyond — some smooth ulterior sea? Not so, they say: these things were buried here Lest alien hands should mar their sanctity. ii Respectful custom! would it were our own To draw from man's contaminating reach Those loved, familiar relics that beseech Our living care, but yet so often thrown Upon a world whose sentiment is stone ! Would they were mounded on some northern beach Where breakers plunge and dark green billows bleach, Where sad storms sigh, and wind-worn pine- tufts moan, — 26 IN AMERICA But mounded deep, unfathomably deep, Beyond the farthest desecrating thrust Of man's long arm. Nay! better yet a heap Of ash ■ — a pile of gray dispersive dust. For what, or who, can undented sleep Within the pale of keen, exploring lust? August, 1908. NOT SWEET Oh, yes, I know a girl Who is not sweet. Her cheek outvies the rose, And her smile outgleams the pearl, And her form is lithe and neat: But when her lip doth curl No charm doth predispose My foolish heart to beat, — No, no, she is not sweet! August, 1908. AURORA BOREALIS Impressive was that chill September night, When in an earnest, reverential mood, With all the sanctity of dusk imbued, I gazed transported on the Northern Light, Shooting great shifting beams — so softly bright - From out the distant mass of darkling wood Up to the swart, stupendous altitude Of loftiest stars — a wondrous, moving sight! IN AMERICA 27 Imposing harmony! to sate the soul, And meet the want of our supremest taste, Or e'en of those who wear the aureole. With this illumination, full yet chaste, Man's more emphatic, vaunted rays compare, That scale into the void their vulgar glare! September, 1908. THE NIGHT COURT Some fourscore women nightly — so they say — Who walk like zealous barterers the street, Eager a full-pursed purchaser to greet, Ere rlameless avenues announce the day! They come before the judge, — then pass away; The hardened to a cell ; the tenderer meet With kindly counsel from a matron sweet Whose office is to care for them that stray. Yea, lust is lust, and so will ever be, And virtue aye will try the ill to cure, And poverty be ever poverty, While gold will always bitter want allure. But what can I, resourceless singer, do, Other than sing the ghastly tale to you? September, 1908. LARCHES Lace-like larches! last to turn Into airy webs of yellow While the oaks no longer burn, Maple leaves no longer mellow On the ridges stern. 2% IN AMERICA Clouds are building on the blue, Doleful winds are weirdly sighing, Gray and lonesome is the view O'er the meadows slowly dying, Where sweet grasses grew. All has lost its color-bloom Save the lovely lace-like larches Gleaming on the dead brown gloom 'Neath the lowering sky that arches Over Summer's tomb. Golden larches! like a hope That doth shine when life seems waning, Like the light, when one doth grope Through the gloom, his soul-sight straining, And the Heavens ope. October, 1908. A CONTEST What need, O Painter, of superb brocade, Of sumptuous damask, webs that spell the eyes, Or jeweled arms, or mellow ivories, Or carven woods with gold-leaf overlaid To still thy fretful brush? See what parade Autumnal foliage makes ! What splendor lies Upon the wolds, beneath the quivering skies! What incandescent light; what deep-dyed shade! IN AMERICA 29 Behold yon great bouquet of gorgeous trees — Huge burning maples, flaming red and gold — The vinous oaks upon the tawny leas! Look, how they glow! Up, now, Venetians bold! Bring forth your canvases of richest hue, And I will match them with this splendid view. October, 1908. THE LAST PAGE Much as thou hast, O eager, youthful friend — The strength to crown with gold thine ardent will, The power thy zest for venture to fulfill, The force that even adamant can bend To thy desire, and what the past may lend Of wisdom, what sage volumes may instill Into the curious mind of good or ill — Yet not to mastery canst thou pretend. For thou hast not by heart that better book — The Book of Life, wherein alone are writ The wisest saws. As yet thou canst not look Upon its final page, whose words outwit Thy braggart strength and thine acquired lore — That final page which sums what goes before. October, 1908. 30 IN AMERICA WRITTEN AT ELECTION TIME That I must cease to be, full well I know; And as the nearer I approach the end, So doth the lessening of life's measure tend To turn the eye upon the splendid glow Of large ideas — to follow up the flow Of altruistic streams, and thus ascend To springs of actions which the gods commend, That countervail the meaner deeds below. Wise Teacher, Death ! Oh, what are they to me, ■ These paltry wranglings of a selfish horde, These trite harangues of men who thirst for power, These tonguester-jousts devoid of chivalry? Oh, what are they to me, these things deplored, That my full-petaled life-growth would deflower? October, 1908. FOREARMED I hear the sad rain falling And the dank winds sighing, sighing, As day to night is dying, And my heart it sinks with pain. I hear sad spirits calling Above the storm-throes wailing, O'er sweet content prevailing — Aye, sadder than the rain. IN AMERICA 31 Oh, why are ye forestalling With your grim, prophetic singing The end the Fates are bringing, While I in life remain? For Death is not appalling, And I am aye preparing To front his glance unsparing As though it were a gain. October, 1908. CONSOLATION After storm there cometh Weather fair, Then glad Nature summeth All the sweets of air. Larkspurs blue as ocean Stately rise, And with lordly motion Flick the skies. Silvery, glinting willows There abide Where the ripe grass billows On the wind's soft tide. In the garden growing Berries red On their green leaves glowing Luscious splendor shed. 32 IN AMERICA Yet I miss a flower, — Ah! so sweet, — Whom at this fond hour I was sure to meet. Blue as very ocean Were her eyes, Stately was her motion As larkspurs on the skies. After storm there cometh Weather fair, E'en the reft heart summeth All the sweets of air. November, 1908. QUESTIONINGS Is it worth while to do the sterile thing, To pass the hour in unremitting deed * That neither garners grain, nor plants the seed Whence sweet ulterior joyances may spring And unto unknown men some thrill of pleasure bring? This question oft I ask when I prepare To gird myself for some unpregnant task Claiming its toll from life; yea, then I ask, Were it not well such service to forbear And hold the force in leash for some emprise more fair? IN AMERICA 33 For that which I propose another can With defter hand and less of labor do, And with a heartier zeal the work pursue, While animating airs his efforts fan, And heaven and earth conspire to actuate his plan. Yet if a man on no attempt embark That is not suited to his native bent, Or fitted to his wayward temperament, How shall he shun the overwhelming dark Of dreary, idle hours unkindled by the spark? For well I know what natural task is mine, Wherein doth lie the vantage of a strength, Deploring not the working day's long length — The task on earth that nearest is divine, The task whose choicest fruit the earthly most decline. Again I question self: which shall it be, — The fruitful labor with its untouched fruit That chills the ardent song, that rifts the lute; Or barren toils that sweep the long days free From fevered dreams like winds from off the desert sea? December, 1908. 34 IN AMERICA FAME ASSURED In sooth, old sceptic friend, my verse will live, Because some keen-nosed grubber in the soil Of literature — still-born or fugitive — Will use his college-woven, fine-meshed sieve, Not to retain the grains of larger song — For these would scarce remunerate his toil — But to heap up the long-forgotten throng Of bards minute, from which he may abstract From time to time (my very self in fact) Some tinkling particle, — a worthy act Eliciting the plaudits loud and long Of brother grubbers, who in truth exact This moilsome test of rare discrimination To hoist him to his proper elevation. December, 1908. THE GUERDON Why should we yearn for distant Paradise, Or strive for some far-off, immortal prize? The urgent moment's duty to fulfill, To hail the good, to ward the pending ill, Ah! should not that suffice? Why should we dream of bright, ulterior skies, Of high celestial light that never dies? The gleam from some unselfish act well done, The glow from daily hours serenely run, Oh! should not that suffice? IN AMERICA 35 Why should we crave a Life which but implies A dastard fear of Death? A sweet emprise That may, perchance, endure adown the years, And balm some pain, or cool some burning tears, In sooth, that should suffice. To give the kindly word, to sympathize, To bring the joy into another's eyes, To mould the good, to make the better best, Until we be a Kingdom of the Blest, Ah! that — that should suffice. December, 1908. THE MOTIVE When wintry winds prevail and skies are dim, I dream of them, who leaving home and ease Embarked upon the savagest of seas To praise their God — perhaps the friends of him Who sang of Paradise and Seraphim, And faltering Man. Oh! what to such as these Were barren wolds, or swirling blasts that freeze, Or white-locked shores, or forests swart and grim? How different were they who braved not cold, But equatorial heat and fever-flame, To clutch the unoffending Incas' gold — Conquistadors, so called, a gory name! And we? Are we yet of our fathers' mould? Or do we share the lustful Spaniard's shame? December, 1908. 36 IN AMERICA SELF-CENSURE Why dost thou blame thyself, O fair-souled friend, And dull the splendor of thy brilliant day? Armed cap-a-pie thou enterest the fray And to the stirring, turmoiled contest lend Thy head and hand and heart: but when the end Doth bring thee laureled triumph, thou dost say, "It was ill done," — dost cast the praise away, Because thy dream thine exploit did transcend. Blame not thyself ! nor note the meagre fault ! The world will only heed thy goodly fight And crowned mastery. Thou shouldst not halt To count the darkened spots upon the light: Think! e'en thy faultful victory may be A beacon o'er Eternity's wide sea. December, 1908. AFTER A SPECTACLE The wintry wind from off the sea is blowing, And roofs and streets are white; The heavens are dark, yet all beneath is glowing With a contrasting light. Man plays his play, awhile the gods are frowning Upon this tinseled earth: IN AMERICA 37 " The gods be cursed," he coarsely cries whilst drown- ing His cares in vulgar mirth. And must I with this ribald rout be faring? Or shall I bide apart With a loved few, together all things sharing In purity of heart? January, 1909. THE NIGHT OF WATERLOO (At Quatre-Bras) What scenes of godless passion there that night Which should have languished to the peace of June! Foot, horse, and guns, hussar, and steeled dragoon Fled crazed before the Prussian appetite For blood. Beneath the spectral, flitting light Of a cold-hearted, unrelenting moon The naked, mangled dead were thickly strewn, Stark, untombed victims of the earlier fight. And He? Hard-by within a shot-pruned wood, He — who in battle-fume had sought his rest — Paler than those wan corpses mutely stood With folded arms upon his laboring breast: But his moist eyes were turned to where he threw His desperate stake — to fateful Waterloo. January, 1909. 38 IN AMERICA TO THE NEW YEAR Apart I stand from off the moment's roar, Away I turn from what has gone before; O coming Year! ope, ope thy mystic door, That I may clearly see In thy great garnered halls whate'er may be Of pain or joy — if thou dost hold in store Or living bay, or yew and cypress tree. Nay! Open not thy port, O welcome Year; For neither would I know of smile or tear, Of long and anguished hours, or short-lived cheer; Since aye elate, And with high purpose animate, I would sweep bravely on to an uncertain fate. January, 1909. ACADEMIES Academies avail not but to sate A paltry vanity. They cannot raise The lofty by bestowal of their bays: They lift the little, but they lower the great. January, 1909. IN AMERICA 39 THE KNELL Speak low ! I hear the dirge of the bells as they toll, It lifts aloud with the wind, with the wind it dies ; It floods and ebbs o'er the meads, o'er the hills as they roll Out to the dimming west, to fainting skies. Whose life is knelled? Whose lids are closed by the hand That grooms for Death? But yet it is one to me If the dead be a czar, or merely a clod of the land; Small matter so long as an o'ertired soul be free. Free from what? From the rack of life and its miserly meed: The pain outvalues the praise, more keen the sting; The praise we take as our due — it is right to suc- ceed — We are fledged to rise, not to fall, on a hardy wing. But a pinion is sure to droop, if we speed to our best, — And speed to our best we must, if conscience spur; — Then downward we flutter in shame to some low- lying nest, Where tainted miasmas creep, where the soulless err. 40 IN AMERICA And there we lie in our plight, rehearsing defeat, Till defeat be overtold, and the ill be run : Yet if we be strong of heart, again shall we fleet To the uplands of blue — again to fall undone. Such is the span of alternate up and adown! The down outlingers the up — and that is well ; For as we lie prone we plan to gather the crown By an instant's rush to the crests where the guerdoned dwell. Not heeding the fall that we know must follow the flight, So once we arrive. Yet I would 't were the same to me This ever up and adown — the dark and the bright ! Then might I rest, and my soul serene would be. For I fear not the solemn dirge of the bells as they toll; Let it lift aloud with the wind, and let it die; Let it ebb and flood through the boughs that shadow the knoll Where I in the peace of the dead with my kin shall lie. February, 1909. AFTER A CERTAIN EXHIBITION Sweet Muse, whom I have homaged all my days Enraptured by thy chaste, Hellenic grace, Enchanted by the bloom of thy fair face, By thy pure smile, by thine exalting gaze, IN AMERICA 41 Must I abjure thee for a passing craze That rank deformity would coarsely trace, And frontless brows, and hagdom's foul grimace, And all those things which thou dost aye dis- praise? Let those who will depict our fallen state, The lecher's lust, the cyprian's jaded cheek, Distempered brains that congruously mate With palsied forms, and garish hues that shriek, — Aye, let them as they will! Yet I shall be Ever a bondsman true, dear Muse, to thee. March, 1909. CERTAIN PLAYS Oh, stimulate them not, the moods that craze, That make God-imaged man so undivine, That draw the human closer to the swine! Oh, fan not up the passions till they blaze A terror to the chastened ones who gaze Appalled! God knows the natural incline To dark desires: Why, then, with base design Should we this native, low-born proneness raise? Some cloak indecencies with Art's fair name — Aye, those lascivious ones who know not Art, Who would her lovely chastity defame; But what of those who have a virtuous heart — Sweet womankind? Alas ! alas ! what shame That they these vicious dramas should acclaim! March, 1909. 42 IN AMERICA THE MORNING AFTER As sweet it is to feast with frugal friends, So drear is it to pass a sumptuous eve With plutocrats who solemnly believe That gorgeousness a zest to pleasure lends, Or that a rank profusion makes amends For starving talk, that lucre can achieve A triumph of rare wit, nor yet perceive The brooding dullness which all thought tran- scends. Oh, what self-hatred follows on such nights When one awakes to greet the glorious morn, To meet the flooding sunshine that incites To purest deed, to breathe the air fresh-born. Oh, heaven ! How luring seem the day's delights, And how one holds the yester eve in scorn ! March, 1909. SUNSHINE AND SADNESS How gayly the sunshine doth taunt me To banish the thoughts that are blighting, To Nature's pure joyance inviting ! Sadness, Sadness, why haunt me, When all the fair world is beguiling, When ocean and islets are gleaming, When meadows and mountains are beaming, And loveliness everywhere smiling? IN AMERICA 43 Yet ever is Sadness betiding, Though sunlight doth gladden the reaches, And though the clear skies are presiding O'er calm, and the white glowing beaches. Yes ! Ever is Sadness abiding, And ever mortality teaches. March, 1909. IN DREAMLAND I talked with Berenice in a dream, Gazing into her lustrous eyes: and though The passioned fire was faint, and the fierce glow Of Love was dim and pale, yet did it seem A solace sweet, this gentle after-gleam From a consuming flame of long ago, — Aye, gentle as the imaged stars that strow The bosom of a still, nocturnal stream. Oh, might an earth-sore mortal humbly dare To hope that all futurity may be One blessed dream on dream? That he may share In converse calm the eternal hours — free From stress, from pain, from never-ceasing care — With a beloved and godlike company? April, 1909. 44 IN AMERICA ELDERS For us to whom few years remain, Could we but pass them not in vain, Could we amass what would be gain To poor mankind, We might in sooth live on content, And blink the pain with pleasure blent, And while sweet hours benevolent In love enshrined; For we should fare upon our way, And scatter largess day by day, Whilst men in gratitude would say, "Long may they live!" And from our life-long garnered store Of rubrics rare, of precious lore, Of nuggets from the grosser ore Profusely give: Or do some glorious marvel-thing That only from ripe years can spring, Soaring aloft on veteran wing That all may see, And wonder at the craft, and praise The head, the hand, awhile they gaze, And prayer to heaven loudly raise — "Long may they be." IN AMERICA 45 Alas ! more often is the cry "Their task is o'er, they cannot fly, Their pinions droop — well, let them die, 'T is better so; "For we shall profit by their fall, To us will come their hoarded all, To us shines white their funeral pall As gleaming snow. "Or if their work be rarely done, 'T is ours their broken course to run, To gather in the prize they won Through length of year. "Since we inherit what they knew, Of life we have their widest view, Adding our younger span thereto Without a tear." Enough! the sun is setting fast, The falling night may be our last; Oh, why should we the dawn forecast, Or rack the soul With what hath been, with what may be? . But hush! there floats across the lea So soft as murmurs of the sea The evening knoll. April, 1909. 46 IN AMERICA MID-JUNE June, 1909. Look! how the North-wind, Now breezing, now blowing, Romps through the rye-fields Like wild water flowing. Swift clouds o'er the welkin In triumph are racing, Their deep purple shadows Gold sun-flecks are chasing. A maiden is winding Her way through the billows Of red-tufted grasses Beneath the soft willows. O Maiden, O Maiden, Your charms quickly perish As the red- tufted grasses! But the picture I cherish. THE GREATER PAIN Not these, not these the days of cruel pain, As here I lie beneath pale faces bowed In sympathy; but when amid the crowd I was alone, and bore the steady strain Of self-possession with a well-feigned mien, IN AMERICA 47 And caught its gayety , and laughed as loud ! What measure could it take of things unseen, Or yet divine What writhed beneath a masking so benign? June, 1909. OLD WINE As amber wine expressed from grapes that grow Upon the island nesting on the wave — Which parched Morocco's golden beaches lave — Is at its best whene'er its 'lurements flow From some long-slumbering flask, whose gray flanks show The dust age-gathered in their cobwebbed cave, And causeth nicest epicures to crave The draughts that to full years their flavor owe: So those rare words that from experience fall — Ripe words all garnished with the crust of time, The patina of age — of weal and woe — Should savor best. Come, then, O seneschal, Give us good cheer ! and toast old age in rhyme And amber quaffs enflasked long years ago ! July, 1909. LOVE FOR LIFE E'en as Saint Francis loved all living things That course clear streams, or cleave the buoyant air, That creep on earth, or haunt their bosky lair, So now to me — when youth no longer brings 48 IN AMERICA The fierce desire to kill — there daily springs Within my gentler heart a tender care For harmless lives, ill-favored or yet fair, That humbly crawl, or soar on purfled wings. Oh, soften, Lord, the hardened souls of men ! Leave not to Age the love of Life to teach! Oh, make them now as kind to brutes as when In Paradise! What use for me to preach, So soon to go, and only one? But Thou? Wilt Thou man's overt cruelties allow? July, 1909. UNHEARD Oft when I lie in great, unuttered pain, I crave the quiet tendance of past years, The soothing hand, the wakeful ear that hears Unspoken agonies, the eyes that rain Compassion sweet. Oh, come to me again! Oh, come with love, and warm, remedial tears, With gentle touch, and dulcet voice that cheers, Oh, let me not invoke thy shade in vain ! Alas! dear Soul, thou hearest not my cries, And none among the quick may act for thee. I look upon the unresponding skies So heavenly blue, upon the fragrant lea, So rlowerful, yet mute. What sympathies Have they? What sure maternal love for me? August, 1909. IN AMERICA 49 FAREWELL AND HAIL! Fair land of verdure, land of lushest green, With downcast soul I take my leave of thee, Of thy dense-wooded hills and daisied lea, Thy pallid willows trembling in the sheen Of silvery noontide light, — that arching screen The dimpled brooks through meadows winding free, — Thy sombre pine and white-limbed birchen tree, And all the beauties of thy sweet demesne. Farewell, O cherished land! And now I go To alien shores, but yet to me a home; For there long since in youth's romantic glow I wrought and loved beneath the soaring dome, Overtopping it with spiring dreams. And lo ! Once more I hail thee, everlasting Rome. September, 1909. IN ITALY IN ITALY <£ AT SEA Oh! not for me The drear monotony Of the vast, unverdured sea, Never a flowerful mead, Never a garnished tree, Nor a bosky hill, Nor a purling rill, As over the waves we speed; Naught do I heed But thy grim monotony, O vast gray sea ! September, 1909. VOYAGING In the soft salt mist I he and I list To the flow of the dull gray sea, Forever singing And always ringing A strange new harmony; Forever changing And ever ranging 54 IN ITALY O'er days and doings to be; The past effacing As the prow is racing To the blue of Italy. September, 1909. THE ISLAND OF FLORES (AZORES) Fair Flores ! lifting from the deep blue wave, Bright floweret of the sea ! A shining cloud, That languishes upon the sky, doth shroud Thy peaks, and thy green wooded vales doth lave With pearly cataracts. So lovely ! save Those angry, foam-scourged reefs that danger- ous crowd Around thy cliffs, where many a vessel proud Hath swept her glories to a seething grave. But thou art fair, O Blossom of the sea, And myriad pastures crown thy cruel shore, All dappled with white farms; and grateful, too, To wave- worn souls who crave fertility. So like a joy 'mid sorrows long and sore That sudden looms on a bewildered view. October, 1909. IN ITALY 55 OFF TRAFALGAR We pass a sandy cape — a golden shred Upon the ocean's blue. Then some one said, "Trafalgar." Oh, that memorable name, Proud England's glory, and the Frenchman's shame! October, 1909. A MEMORABLE DAY (October 6, 1909) The flaming sun was surging from the sea As we approached the incomparable bay, And pure perfection ushered in the day. Then Procida and Ischia on our lee Flushed in a wondrous light that seemed to be The very light of Heaven, and Naples lay In rosy sleep beneath the morning's gray Of fell Vesuvius in tranquillity. And when the orb was wending to the west, We took our lovely way 'twixt pearly peaks Mottled with sage-like green and shadows blue, And climbing towns that 'neath drear castles nest; Then from the plain which with grim history reeks, Of far-off Rome we caught the longed-for view. October, 1909. 56 IN ITALY NEW ROME It is not that fair Rome which once I knew: Where picturesqueness wantoned, now there grows Nor flowering shrub, nor sweet monastic close, But streets and squares and stuccoed walls in lieu Of greenery — such things as artists rue — And trim villini in their gleaming rows, And vast embankments where the Tiber flows, And Trade's emblazonry to mar the view. Yet I regret it not, since now I gain A comelier view of Liberty and Right, And nobler aims, and Government more sane, And what will bear a fuller flame of light. I would not have it else: for I am fain To see white dawn emerging from swart night. October, 1909. THE FORUM The Forum! Oh, what changes there have been! Among the marble shards I feel my way, Each one a monument ! Now white, now gray, They take the splendor of a light serene That rays from western skies. And yet, I ween, The loveliness is less than on that day, When all uncaverned long ago it lay Beneath my gaze from the Capitoline. IN ITALY 57 But what an ecstasy of joy I feel As I look upward on the imperial hill — Huge mass on mass ! Oh, what a note austere In the mild light ! What russet-reds reveal The up-piled walls! — low harmonies that thrill, Beneath the darkling ilexes severe. October, 1909. ON THE VIA NOMENTANA I pause in mid-Campagna: all around Roll waves of low-browed hills subdued and bare — A waste untenanted, save here and there An ancient tower upspringing from the ground, Or spreading pine, or farmstead. Not a sound Ruffs the sweet stillness of the October air. But oh, what shrieks beneath that surface fair ! What depths of infamy, what deeds renowned! Gennaro smiles, bedecked with shadows blue, Oblivious of the ghosts. The Alban height Broods not on crimes, but glads the southern view With purple tints, and townlets gleaming white. While from the western sky St. Peter's, too, Could waft its woe . . . But what a splendid sight! October, 1909. 58 IN ITALY IN THE VILLA BORGHESE Gay sunlight glinting on the mellowing leaves ; A sky clear turquoise, from all vapors free (No gem could mate it in transparency) ; A fountain's jet that sweetly interweaves Its silver with the hues its niche receives From rays of purest gold — these joys to me Mean gratitude for sight. Ah, Italy Alone such triumphs of the eye achieves! But just aside, beneath the deepest shade Of bronzed ilex, — pale and dark and lean, — I note a bearded monk in robe of brown, Pacing with solemn step the gloomy glade. Oh, what to him does all this glory mean That gilds new Rome? The answer is his frown. November, 1909. STREET SCENE "Somebody down" In a broad and regal street Lying 'gainst the palace wall: And I saw the quivering feet And a ghastly face withal, While I heard the passers call, "Somebody down!" IN ITALY 59 " Somebody down," But who? Was it nobleman or clown? I passed and never knew. It may come to me or you To-morrow or to-day In a wide frequented way, And some careless passer-by In mere indolence may cry, "Somebody down!" December, 1909. SONG-BIRD The day was harsh and hard and long; But when the sun was set I heard The warbling of a gentle bird That sweetened all the night with song. January, 19 10. ROMAN DAISIES Rose and white and golden-hearted, Like a maiden in her prime : Ah! the pain when I have parted: Soul-chilled in a wintry clime! February, 1910. 6o IN ITALY IN THE VILLA MIRAFIORE To live and hear the South- wind blow — although The heart is mute; merely to be, and see A noble cypress bend and sway dark gray Against the stormy clouds that fly on high; One stressful day I thought was worth all Earth. February, 19 10. ROME TO CIVITA CASTELLANA With Memory standing near can I refrain From praising all the beauties of the day We fared along the old Flaminian Way, And saw Soracte surging from the plain, Its base all green with quivering, quickening grain, Its summit hoary with an ashen gray, While all around the stern Campagna lay, Yet now so genial from the springtide rain? We journeyed on and touched the Etrurian town Boasting a porch divine that hath no mate For inlaid art. Its age-worn buildings crown A hill deep-gorged which none may violate; While distant ranges on the heavens crowd Empurpled 'neath a white, convolving cloud. May, 1910. IN ITALY 61 AT BRACCIANO From out the gloom of many a frescoed hall — Where Ruthlessness walked hand in hand with Art — In liberated mood, with lighter heart, I mount the topmost, battlemented wall. Oh, view of views ! what miracles enthrall My startled eyes ! Soft azure mists impart A heavenly tone to hill-slope, tower, and mart, And the fair lake — and my dark soul withal. world! I grovel through thy sombre ways, Thy darkling deeds, and all the fret that brings Depressing nights and drear, discouraged days : Yet sometimes do I rise on stalwart wings, And through the future's gleaming, hopeful haze Behold a nigh celestial state of things. May, 19 10. COMMEMORATIONS If on this fateful day thy hero died, Commemorate him not with trumpet blare, Nor fulsome speech; but to the listening air Thy quiet praise and reverence confide — Either when white-robed, chastest Dawn doth glide From out the dark ; or when the silvery glare Of Noon doth shine; or when soft Eve doth wear Her golden gown ; or Stars in heaven preside. 62 IN ITALY For perfect homage should be wholly free From florid phrase, nor ever bear the taint Of loud, discordant, ill-wrought pageantry. So chant thy modest praise o'er land or sea, When noon is high or when the light grows faint, Alone, alone, in Nature's company! June, 1910. BUGLE-CALLS (Villa Mirafiore) When after slumbers of the night, I wake to greet the day new-born, Though half in dream-land, I delight To hear the bugles of the morn That waft through flowerets which adorn My terrace sweet, that knows no blight. June, 1910. FROM ROME TO CAPRAROLA, VITERBO, TOSCANELLA Resplendent was the sunlight of the day And fresh the air. The great Campagna lay A wealth of hue. Soft cloudlets gently rolled Their bluish shades upon the mountains gray, While nearer hills were lined with living gold — The gold of bourgeoning flowers Making so fair the hours IN ITALY 63 Of morning, when to live is highest pleasure, When seeing seems to be our choicest treasure. Then Caprarola rose, a noble pile, Before prepared eyes, yet unprepared For playful grandeur in so pure a style, For lovely liberties that few have dared Within the classic pale. Did those who fared From venerable Rome To this gay, new-born home Thrill to the sight as e'en that day did I, When years on sobering years had wandered by, Leaving their patina divine? Yet would the lot were mine To see the gay attires — Satins, and silks, and gold, and flickering fires Of gems, and blades of wary, treacherous steel — Take up the splendor of the frescoed wall In all its garishness — a color carnival ! Are modern eyes less hale, or do we feel More tenderly That we prefer what years but half reveal? Perhaps, since sweet it was for me To gaze through graceful, gray arcades At fading arabesques on mellowing white, And hear the soothing song of old cascades And view Soracte in the noontide light Beyond the fruitful, undulating plain — A sea of bosky green and ripening golden grain. Great author 1 of these wondrous things, Great master of thy craft from which there springs 1 Vignola. 64 IN ITALY The inspiration of to-day, Canst thou not hear my lay? Dost thou not hear men say That often they have soared upon thy helpful wings? Fair villa Lante ! from whose leafy height — Where shades are scarcely flecked by glints of light — The freshest streams, almost articulate With fluent verse, do rapturous flow From mossy bowl to bowl until below They gush from out a fount of sculptured state, Where bronzed lions with bronzed athletes mate, Cooling the aromatic air That swoons above the formal, flowered parterre. Ah! but I find it well When all is glare, and shrill cicalas tell Of torrid heat, in such deep shades to dwell For a few hours: and if the centuries' grays, The dark-green oozing moss, The crumbling masonry proclaim the loss Of what were once high gala days, They do not sadden, Rather they gladden These artis tries of age — these fair decays. Viterbo ! how thou loomest black Against the Ciminian mount. If other towns Gleam gay and bright, or strike a livelier chord, If flooding light their by-gone horror drowns, Thy sombre towers and battlements bring back A dark, despotic past that ever warred On undefended right. Yet thou wert great And gorgeous when proud pontiffs held their state IN ITALY 65 Within thy halls, when prelate, knight, and lord Paraded in their sumptuous pageantry. All gone — all gone — and now I see Naught but thy blackness. Yet thou hast for me One living, graphic tale writ by a hand Long dead 1 — a painter's hand of thine own land — One vital tale upon a crumbling wall. Oh! what more clearly could recall Thine evanescing, local past Than that procession vast Of portraitures limned to the very life. O reader, wouldst thou know the ways Of those old folk — their love of pomp, or gold, or strife — The great or little of their days, Look on that frescoed wall Which telleth all! How fair it was to cross the Etrurian plain When spirit and the morn were high! What quiet joy to sweep the practiced eye O'er the great tawny reach up to the chain Of wooded hills ! What pleasure to descry Red-kerchiefed women reaping in the fields Like poppies in ripe grain; To note the laboring wain; To sight the glowing broom that neither yields To saffron nor sheer gold; And then behold Quaint Toscanella crowning craggy heights All olive-sprent ! What sparkling, mellow lights The crumbling stones do fling upon a sky That challenges the sea for purity! 1 Lorenzo da Viterbo. 66 IN ITALY Oh ! mark those ancient shrines so picturesque — The rich arcade — the rose — the beasts grotesque — All girt with massive towers. For then and there Not e'en in prayer Was one secure from grim, malignant powers. Abandoned shrines! No more the need! How can an earnest spirit heed A disused House of God, whether he be Of that or alien faith without despondency! Is all religion dead? "So it would seem," I said, "And as humanity increases The growth of holy-places ceases." Enough, enough! The road now southward trends Through towns that crest the hills, and thence de- scends Into a wild ravine, whose shades defy The intemperate sun: I lift my gaze on high To see swart Sutri silhouette the sky. And now once more are glimpsed the Apennines, The great champaign all straked with gleaming lines Of myriad, urban walls — and there 's the Dome ! Yes, yes! 'T is sempiternal Rome: But even more to me — shall I say home ? July, 1910. A PENANCE One torrid afternoon in mid- July Upon the mighty flight of steps that rise Up to Maggiore's apse — so scorched that eyes Could scarcely pause thereon — I chanced to spy IN ITALY 67 A woman draped in black: nor did she try- To shun the awful heat, since in this wise She seemed some greater sin to compromise, Some carnal appetite to mortify. Perhaps the flaming morrow she was there On those vast stairs of parching travertine, Indifferent to heat, absorbed in prayer — The very torment a sweet anodyne ! O Sun! who would not court thy fiery ray Could it but burn a hateful sin away? July, 19 10. LiETITIA (Madame Mere) There is no meeter place to mourn than where The ruined Coliseum masses still Its weathered stones, or 'neath the royal hill Where lies Rome's marbled wreck. And it was there She often sat in her untamed despair — Laetitia, mother of the deeds that thrill, Sad mother of the destinies that chill, Of peerless pride, of grief without compare. O grave Imperial Mother ! thou hast heard That on a far-off, oceaned, rockbound isle The heart-beats of thy hero come more slow: Yet should the Nations give the longed-for word, Nor blindness, nor thy years, nor mile on mile Of surge would bar thee from him — thou wouldst go. August, 1910. 68 IN ITALY AVOWALS Have I labored? Ask the ever-revolving Earth, and the patient planets toiling round the Sun if they have labored. Have I loved? Ask the glowing stars that shed their radiance on up- turned, amorous eyes. Have I suffered? Thinkest thou that the myriad, martyred shades have suffered? Ask thou them! August, 1910. AT RIMINI (Duomo o Tempio Malatestiano?) Temple or Church? what should we call this fane — Alberti's miracle — unfinished shrine To sweet Isotta whom he called "divine" In God's own house, the tyrant who had slain Three lawful wives, to whom the crime of Cain Was nothingness? Yet did he intertwine The blazonry of this fair concubine With his own arms, that Christ might bless the twain. Strange brew of blood! which recognized no bound To savage treachery or cruel lust, Which groveling sought red-handed to com- pound IN ITALY 69 Its guilt with Heaven. But venerate we must Its zeal for Art, the reverence profound That brought from far-off Greece a Scholar's dust. October, 1910. TEMPERANCE I spoke the coolest words to-day When all my heart was burning, I found pacific things to say When I in wrath was spurning A blusterer's taunt, his vulgar way, Fair speech for foul returning. October, 1910. PORTUGAL (October 7, 19 10) Ofttimes some glorious news relieves the pain, Or lights the burden of a mordant wrong, And shortens hours that erewhile seemed so long, Or lifts a soul that in the dust hath lain. To-day there wafts from off the western main A cry of Liberty — a people's song Of Victory — the paean of a throng That long hath suffered from the kingly bane. Oh ! follow them, all ye who would aspire To self-respect, to catch the splendid glow Of peerdom to the best, to feel the fire 70 IN ITALY Of unrestricted strength. Oh ! be not slow To rival them, to join the waxing choir Of myriad throats that shout, "the kings must go." October, 19 10. SLEEP ON! Thou liest dead before me. Sleep thou on, Sweet soul, and sleep thou, too, O Memory! For I would never that there came to me Thine image while the living radiance shone From out thine eyes, and joy enraptured thee. Nor would I ever see again those eyes So wide and anguished, and their mild appeal Before the half-closed whitening lids did seal Their lessening light, and Death did solemnize The scene. Forever sleep, O Memories! 11 I laid thee in the noble laurel-grove Thou lov'dst so well, whose bourgeoning branches wove A canopy of lustrous leaves to ward The splendor of the sun: and if by chance I toiled nearby with Art, it did enhance Thy calm content, and perfect joy afford. And thine occasional song did well accord With the south-laden wind that softly lyred Through the great towering pines, while I was fired IN ITALY 71 By thy sweet, chaste restraint to loftier aim, Thy very calmness kindling me to flame. in For many a day I dared not see thy grave, Fearing its memories. Nor was I brave Enough to bear an agonizing sight That would rehearse the past — the vital light Fading from thy dear eyes, and the sure night Of thy sad, lowering eve. But then there came A time when to my unimpassioned grief I deemed it would confer a sure relief Were I to murmur to myself thy name Standing beside the fresh-turned, mounded earth Lying above thee — who to me were worth All Art — all Song. And lo ! a laborer's hand, Who knew my love for thee, with a fair band Of flowering plants had girdled all the mound. And so, dear Heart, in my lone pain I found Sweet, unexpected sympathy. O friend! Humble, yet high, who in sore strait didst lend Thine aid, for this thy gentle thought I send Thee mournful thanks. But thou, my Love, sleep long Below those shining berried laurel leaves! And when the kindly Fate, who daily weaves My destiny, shall say at length " 't is done," Then let me rest from Painting and from Song To lie beside thee 'neath the southern sun. October, 19 10. 72 IN ITALY GRIM WINTER Snow falls upon the peaks; and on my soul Fall the cold flakes of colorless despair. The fierce wind blows, and all the ravening air Shrills its bleak advent from the northern pole. Then my congealing spirits sadly toll Their death in life — that were so summer- fair — Their chill repose within grim winter's lair, Awhile my days fleet onward to their goal. Ah! could my being fly to palmy isles That couch upon a sultry, azure sea, Like flocks that warp their flight from arctic climes To carol in some genial realm which smiles Beneath a tropic sun, — oh, then to me Might come gay moods to color these wan rhymes! November, 1910. DE PATRIA My Country, what high hopes I have for thee! What consummations of my loftiest dreams ! What radiance fair beneficently beams From out thy Star of pure Democracy! IN ITALY 73 Yea, thou shouldst be a guide to all the free — A holy beacon-flame that brightly gleams To groping man — a blessed land that teems With peaceful arts — a land of jubilee. Yet when I see thee falter on thy way To sweet perfection, or whene'er I hear From alien lips that thou dost not maintain Thy standard high, and when thy critics say That thou from thy true course dost sadly veer, Oh, then I feel unutterable pain ! November, 19 10. II I look upon the wide unfolding view Of classic plain and cloud-flecked Apennine — A scene of desolation, yet divine In soft gradations of the loveliest hue — So old and story- worn ! yet ever new To feeling eyes. Alas ! it brings to mine The great Republic's rise, and sure decline When o'er its hills the imperial eagle flew. My countrymen ! 't is not those faults I fear That time and growing wisdom may correct Despite their gravity: but most I dread That One the multitude should domineer. Oh! be ye ever stanch and circumspect To guard the rights for which our Fathers bled! November, 19 10. 74 IN ITALY SONG — IN DECEMBER When the winds are high, And the swart clouds fly, When all things seem awry, awry; When the days are cold And the storm-fiends bold, Then my thoughts remain untold, untold. But who shall say If a summer's day Might my winter dreams betray, betray, And the latent fire Of my heart's desire Might find its voice on my lyre, my lyre? December, 1910. O DAWN Be thou, O chastest Dawn, my constant bride! I love thee for the rosy light that shines Beyond the ridges of the Apennines Yet mantled with the night, that now divide IN ITALY 75 Us from the day. The day? What shall betide Ere the great Sun upon the wave declines? I know not — none but God himself divines: But rest thou ever, Sweetest, by my side: For thou art Hope, beloved, purest Dawn, And thou dost rouse me after grateful sleep, And I am heartened by thy waxing light That sparkles on the wakening, dew-sprent lawn, That puts to rout night's boding shadows deep, That maketh all the coming hours seem bright. December, 19 10. WE ARTISTS Do we who dream of lovely things, Who shun the foul, who court the fair; Do we who soar on irised wings To breathe a purer, heavenly air; Do we who haunt Castalian springs Endure without a soul-drawn sigh The wonder-works of sordid men? Do we the poor, who deify Sweet Nature's realm, admire the den Of Mammon's whelps? We live and die To give the world a comelier face, To amplify man's happiness; Can we abide the avid race That adds and adds yet makes it less For selfish ends? We would replace 76 IN ITALY The thorns that agonize life's way With velvet greens and fragrant flowers; And yet the sons of Traffic say We are not wise! — But be it ours To keep aflame the eternal fray For what will turn the years more bright To those who live with longing eyes, To those robbed souls who hold the right To see fair things, whose paradise Is not grim gain — the fool's delight. December, 19 10. THE STATUE AND THE BUTTERFLY On one of those resplendent Roman days, When dark-green foliage gleams, when skies are clear, And far-off, snow-capped Apennines seem near, I saw a butterfly with scarlet rays Alight upon a statue all ablaze With genial beams — a thing of brief career Upon an ancient waif of mien austere, Yet lovely, too, with flecks of gold and grays. Moreover I, the creature of an hour, Do love to bask in this old ruined Rome, To dream beneath the ilex, and the pine, And russet wall, that Time doth ne'er deflower: For 't is my goddess Beauty's classic home, And I would linger in her haunts divine. January, 191 i. IN ITALY 77 SOUTH-WIND soft South-wind that kindly cloudest wintry skies, Bring thou me health! Mild, gray South-wind that comf ortest my tired eyes Blinded with wealth Of unveiled hues, oh, pour into congealing veins The lymph of life! Bring with thee, warm South-wind, those calm, per- suasive rains That lay the strife Of North-born gales which sway the cypress and the pine Upon the vault Of heaven, deep blue as on a rich Byzantine shrine! Oh come! exalt My poor prone soul, and hearten me so long deprest For love of thee ! For thou dost make me think of times long past, yet blest In memory, When in a garden winter-marred — yet now so far — Where neither pine Wide-roofed, nor cypress grow, but where bright Freedom's star Doth ever shine, 1 felt upon a convalescent, pallid cheek Thy touch so sweet: And though the rugged hills and reaching meads were bleak, Yet at my feet 78 IN ITALY Bloomed flowers. soft South- wind! I love thy very name — Thy pearly grays That mantle mountain snows — thy sighings that proclaim Dear springtide days. February, 191 i. THE DESTROYER In the joy, the wild exaltation, the blinding bliss of young love, I deemed it a gift of the goddess, soft fanned by white plumes of the dove; I thought it a largess unearthly that dropped from the azure above, Yet now that I gaze on its madness, its flames no tor- rent can quell Consuming the brain and the body, and when its chroniclers tell Of the wrath, of the blood, of the torture, it seemeth an issue of hell. Thank God ! my decades forbid it, that its pains for me are no more, That Eros gold-winged will not join me on my way to the deep-shaded shore: But thou, pale Pity, be with me, that I in thine ear may deplore The foredoomed wreck and destruction of the ar- dent, beautiful young On the crests with false Aphrodite — adrift with heart-strings unstrung — Some splendid promise that passeth, ere its fruitage be garnered or sung. IN ITALY 79 Why grieve, my soul? what matters whether this one or that one shall fare Or well or ill with fell Love? whether this one or that one shall dare To cleave to or flee the gold-winged? thou canst not by precept prepare The heart for its grave. Why grieve then? Oh, who can stand calm to the fate Of a being informed by the Muses, of a spirit born to create The things that raise us to heaven, to dim our terres- trial state? Not I, oh not I ! who ever the eclipse of a genius shall mourn That riseth o'er low-toned horizons like a moon which is radiantly born Of the darkling summits of mountains, or moaning breakers forlorn; I shall ever cry in my anguish, "O Love, whom I cherished of yore, Thou hast spent a flame sempiternal, hast left me to weep with no more Than a husk of inanimate flesh — of what was god- like before." March, 191 i. "SAILORS OF OLD SALEM" And are we lesser men than those of yore? " I queried, when the book was laid aside: They took the awful ocean for a bride Before their manhood came. In crafts no more 80 IN ITALY Than fluted shells they sought the uncharted shore, Braving whatever peril might betide, — The wild typhoon, the ruffians who deride Or God or man, and seething shoals that roar. No vulgar vikings were these men of old, But mariners of fortitude and sense, High disciplined upon the exacting sea, Thriving in peace, yet in the conflict bold. O Country! have we kindred sources whence To draw such sturdy life and safeguard thee? March, 1911. THE LARGER ART An "artist" am I? — not enough for me That gentle term in its restricted sense — One who would with a deft intelligence Portray material things. Although it be No poor acquirement with joy to see Some lovely fact, and with due reverence Exalt it to a beauty more intense, Yet do I often feel Art's poverty. But if by "artist," brother, thou dost mean One who doth note man's makeshift moral state, His selfish aims, the cult of all the beast In him — one who would make his soul more clean, And with ideals his spirit animate, Then gladly would I be Art's lowliest priest. March, 191 i. IN ITALY 81 THE SCAR Look at the scar upon that lovely arm, Moulded to mate a masterwork of Greece, Fair-jointed, hard, and smooth as downiest fleece — A trifling scar that gave but scant alarm When red blood flowed to dye its ivory charm. Still it is always there! The years increase But yet the blemish doth not ever cease — The Beauty always — always too the Harm. A friendship had I, perfect in its way, And comely as the arm that bears the scar: But in the course of time there came a day When some small variance did slightly mar Its harmony. "We are good friends," I say, Yet always do I hear faint notes that jar. March, 1911. TO A SONGSTRESS Resplendent woman! thou standest on the stage Like an heroic statue in its niche: From out thy noble throat pour notes so rich They might with seraphim's claim parentage. Beneath soft garment-folds enrapt I gauge The beauties of thy plastic limbs, yet which Seem swaying to thy voice's varying pitch — A child of Song ! of Love the appanage ! 82 IN ITALY Stand perfect where thou art, and come not near ! Nor would I move a hair's-breadth unto thee, Even didst thou invite; for I should fear Some blemish might reveal itself to me. Stand where thou art! since thus thou dost ap- pear Wrapt in my haloing ideality. March, 191 i. THE "CINQUANTENARIO" Oh! what to me Are all these bright pavilioned streets, The idle throng that gayly greets This pageantry? Oh! what to me The ornate speech, the long harangue, The gloss of courts, the bells that clang? All Vanity! Or yet again, What mean to me the gaudy camp, The bugle-call, the serried tramp Of peaceful men? For I can see Athwart the film of fifty years (When we were racked with hopes and fears) For Italy), — IN ITALY S3 Yea! I can see The banners stream o'er ardent men Who crowned the breach, who battled then For Victory. And I can hear The people's greeting — once more free — Their maddened cry of "Liberty" To them so dear. Ah! those the days Of sternest strife and sacrifice, Of deeds that souls immortalize Beyond our praise. And so to me This pageantry seems mock and mean: It is not so — but I have seen Reality. April, 191 i. PALERMO Had will the power perfection to devise It would have made the morn that blessed mine eye When first it scanned the pearly walls that lie Upon soft blue. Bright golden cliffs arise 84 IN ITALY lrom slopes of olive green, while opal skies Diffuse their orient tones to glorify The dream-like view. To love — to live — to die Were all in all in such a paradise. And this the place wherein the tale is told Of ceaseless war and red envenomed strife ! The loveliness remains, the rest is run; And all is wealth of green and blue and gold. Yea, Peace prevails, and doubly sweet is life Beneath the blithe obliterating sun. May, 191 i. MONREALE The mind is dazed within this wondrous shrine — This vast receptacle of storied gold, Whose glittering walls the books of God unfold. What light and shade ! What harmonies divine ! And how the vitreous cubes supremely shine E'en in the darkest coins! Ah, they were bold, — Those skillful men, those Byzantines of old, — To dream this sumptuous, aureate design. Now come into the air, and take the view That merits well its name of "golden shell": Light, languorous vapors cast faint shades of blue Upon the girding peaks; the plain doth smell Like to a bridal wreath — so sweet the flowers That fling their odors to the springtide hours. May, 1911. IN ITALY 85 SEGESTA Far up the towering hills there flows a stream All banked with Maytime's gayest, bravest hue — Yellows that flame like suns, and radiant blue, And reds that mid the vernal grasses gleam. Beyond, a path through rising fields that teem With waving grain leads to a sudden view Of what is old, but yet is ever new To those who love all loveliness, I deem. A temple stands majestic and serene In quiet tones against a barren height, — So stately in its lofty loneliness! Oh ! many a noble ruin have I seen That took my raptured eye; but rarely sight Did ever more my marveling gaze impress. May, 191 i. GIRGENTI Rich golden brown these Doric temples rise From out the tawny crest flecked here and there With almond groves and fruitful olives fair. Below, the blue and emerald ocean lies; Above expand the riant, flawless skies. Ah, in their prime what wealth of color rare Decked architrave and frieze — alas, now bare, But sumptuous in their age-worn harmonies! 86 IN ITALY A scene of Peace, yet sealed by Destiny: Its very quietude doth seem to speak; For now I catch the Carthaginian cry And awful death-groans of the vanquished Greek. Good God ! Why ever read of times gone by, If one must always hear foul History's shriek ! May, 1911. SYRACUSE The splendor and the greatness are no more, Yet there remains the flowerful loveliness, And many a sight the tender eye to bless. A strong wind blows — one hears the sea-waves roar — Look, — how it spreads the deep blue on the shore ! And see, — what grace of line do they express, Those serried theatre-curves! If life be less, The charm, perchance, is greater than before. Ah, but the tale of those vast quarries deep O'ergrown with vines and peaceful olive-trees! And oh, what harrowing memories there sleep Within those awful tombs! Upon the breeze Methinks are borne from up those dungeons steep The captives' chanting of Euripides. May, 1911. IN ITALY 87 TAORMINA And there are ruins here; but what are they To charm the eye that rapturous sweeps a scene From snow-capped y£tna to the blue serene Of seas that bend in many a pearl-fringed bay ? And crags there are, close-ribbed with green and gray, And crowned with jagged fortresses that lean Upon a sky oft broken by the sheen Of argent clouds which o'er the azure stray. Nor is this all; for here do fruits and flowers Grow in the ease of wild luxuriance, And there are gardens filled with fragrant bowers, And all the garniture of rich romance. Ah, what a place for world- worn souls to dwell, — More meet than fields of heavenly asphodel! May, 191 i. FAREWELL TO SICILY From thee, O fair, divine Sicilian land, I take reluctant leave, and sing farewell To those dear ravishments that cast their spell On eyes that never have more beauty scanned. E'en as I rhyme I see thy blue-bound strand And shining top of thy volcano fell, But lovelier now than faltering tongue can tell, Awhile my cheeks by perfumed airs are fanned. 88 IN ITALY Adieu, adieu, I write with saddening heart; For well I know when from the north there blows An icy wind, and winter burdens me, And balmy summer-gladness doth depart, That I shall yearn for orange-bloom and rose, And all the sweets that appertain to thee. May, 191 1. FROM AGROPOLI TO PiESTUM Light clouds were hanging on the peaks of morn That margined all the dewy, reedy plain; The sea was gray; along the road a train Of women thronged to their far toil forlorn. Alas ! of beauty most of them were shorn, Showing the hollow eye of fever-bane, Or marred by cruel work. And oh ! what pain To see such life — so young and yet so worn. But when the sun broke forth and smote the face Of Neptune's temple, gilding its rich hues Upon the lights, and deepening its deep shades — A mellow mass from pediment to base — Ah, then I thought how Time with charm in- dues Unsentient things, and how it flesh degrades! May, 191 i. IN ITALY 89 IN THE "BOSCO 3 The shimmer on the ilex trees, The soothing of the western breeze, The song of birds, the plash of fountain, And in the East the misty mountain, Oh! such delights to hear and see: Yea, these the sweets that come to me! June, 191 i. OPPRESSIVE BEAUTY I find the world too fair for idle hours; The dappled, bronzed shade, the crimson flowers, The fountain-foam, the song of birds oppress By very loveliness. Sad as a dirge doth seem the soughing breeze That wafts from off the blue Tyrrhenian seas, And lutes through ilex, fir, and pine As I at ease recline Upon cool sward, and unlaborious dream, Awhile the flicker of the noon-tide beam Begems the darkness of the ivy deep That round the laurels creep. The utter beauty of the earth and sky Brings not the smile — nay, rather draws the sigh, And oft the glamour of the world doth irk : And then — " Oh, give me work ! 9 o IN ITALY I cry, — "Oh, give me work!" since therein lies The loveliest, calmest, sweetest paradise, Whose splendor nothing mundane may outshine The surest anodyne. July, 191 i. AT VALLOMBROSA In Rome I dream of Byron, Shelley, Keats, The verdured ruins that their fancies fired, The storied beauties that their hearts desired, The classic aura that no time deletes, The tawny stream, the squares, the tortuous streets, And that small room where one of them ex- pired — The youngest of the three that sweetly lyred — Who sit secure on high Parnassian seats. But here amid the gloom of towering fir And massive beech, which makes the summer sun A thing to scorn, I note the leaves that throng The Etrurian brooks, and mark the rhythmic stir Of gentle gales that through the foliage run, And muse on Milton's monumental song. August, 1911. PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, ORVIETO I saw it in the early morning light — That fine facade — that broidered web of gold, Of fretted stone, of colors manifold: And what at set of sun seemed overbright IN ITALY 91 Was softened by the lingering mists of night — A graceful, azured shadow rising cold Upon a beaming sky ! Who might withhold His ecstasies at such a glorious sight? How tranquil was the scene, how fresh the air, How lovely all those things that souls endow With utter peace and joy! It would be sweet To stand again enrapt in that small square Before its jeweled shrine, which even now Down Memory's aisles doth make my pulses beat! September, 191 1. PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, PIENZA Another cresting town! where he was born, The poet-pope who gave the place its name, And gifted it with immemorial fame In those sure eyes that love the chastened morn Of Renaissance. And if it now be shorn Of pomp and pageantry, we must not blame Deflowering time; rather should we acclaim Its mellowing touch that these pure forms adorn. And this fair square was built in three swift years ! What frenzies had those pontiffs in a life To high ambitions so inadequate! What furious haste was theirs, what harrowing fears, What harsh impatiencies, what acrid strife To make, to build, to do ere clipped by Fate ! September, 191 i. 92 IN ITALY PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, SIENA You mount a sombre, mediaeval street, Walled by a masonry deep-dyed by time, That echoes factions, revelries, and crime; You pass beneath an arch, and there doth greet Your gaze a sight immeasurably sweet — A blaze of light — an architectural rhyme Of fashioned stone — an edifice sublime, As candid as a maiden's winding sheet. And so we pass from gloom to radiant joy, From darkling ways to spaces flashing light, From depths infernal to high spheres divine: Yet even glory hath its swart alloy — Some thin dark shadow that doth streak the white, As sable marble ribs this glowing shrine. September, 1911. RETURN TO SIENA Years have rolled their burdens o'er me, but the place is much the same As it was in flush of life-time, when an ardent youth I came With the star of Hope a-gleaming, with Desire all aflame. IN ITALY 93 Still I see the stately buildings reared in mediaeval time, Gemel windows, round-arched loggias, and the shaft that soars sublime Into breezes scarce believing it to be but brick and lime. As I raise my aging eye-lids, cool against the mid-day light I behold a graceful profile banded o'er with black and white, Tinted by the brush of aeons, bettered by the cen- turies' flight. And beyond the hoary roof-tops sweeps a long fa- miliar view, Silver olives, shining villas, fields that every year renew Copious crops from constant tillage — and afar the mountains blue. Aye ! the same are those Madonnas gazing with By- zantine eyes, Throning on their golden panels o'er the saints of paradise, With the winged ones of heaven soaring on cerulean skies. And the frescoes? Oh, the marvel ! — Pinturicchio's splendid shrine, Wall and ceiling both combining to assert a work di- vine. Happy Pius! — pope and scholar — happy his im- mortal line 94 IN ITALY (Thanks to thee sumptuous painter)! What! shall I not rhyme of him 1 Who the gracious forms of women, who a swooning saint could limn, Who could paint angelic children worthy of the cherubim? But of paneled gold and cherubs, let me versify no more: I would look upon the villa — cypressed villa — where of yore Lived I with a budding household (and wherein there dwelt before Artists, scholars, aye and poets whom the world has proudly known), Trusting in exalted moments — moments that the years dethrone — I might add to their green laurels, blooming chaplets of my own. Massive walls with ample chambers! views that naught but mist can mar, Nothing to impede the vision, nothing that the eyes debar Till they rest on Amiata looming gracefully afar! There's the bosquet ever shaded through the longest summer day, Gentle laurel, sterner cypress, paths wherein I used to stray Dreaming, sketching, often watching wife and chil- dren at their play. 3 Sodoma. IN ITALY 95 Here they thrashed the grain in August, there they pressed the olive's oil, Yonder did they tread the clusters — happy peas- ants in their toil, Living on a frugal diet, reaping heartsease from the soil. Through a maze of halls I wander till I reach the music-room, Where in youth's insatiate spirits did we with gay friends presume To interpret all the Masters, while the planets broke night's gloom. Gone are many — some remaining, whose good hands I pressed to-day, Living much as when I left them; if their hairs be turning gray, Yet their centuries of breeding courteous manners still betray. Happy springtide of existence! year on year has passed since then, Happy hours of young ambitions ! would I live them o'er again? Not for almond-eyed Madonnas, not for gifts of gods or men! What is past is past forever, I love not the backward view: Hateful are its chafing errors, and the triumphs far too few; Let the old then be forgotten, and though old I hail the new! September, 191 i. 96 IN ITALY TRIPOLI (September 29, 191 1) For thy great beauty have I loved thee long, O Italy, — thy blooming, fruitful plains, Thy noble wastes o'erarched by proud remains, Thy classic vales, the comely towns that throng Thine olived hills, thine art supreme no song Can homage with its sweetest, utmost strains, Thy stately palaces, thy shapely fanes, And all those ravishments that make thee strong. So long as thou didst stand for Liberty, Wert lavish of thy blood, though destitute, My intellect and heart went out to thee: But now that thou dost choose to prosecute Thy selfish aims beyond the girding sea, My heart no longer throbs, my praise is mute. September, 191 1. NINFA There lifts from off the plain a tawny tower Oft freaked with gray: the rugged Volscian hills — Whose olived slopes the plodding- peasant tills — Indent the orient sky; while flower on flower Of lovely hue, and vagrant vines embower The grim decay that all the meadow fills: For here doth Fever brood, and here distills Her poisons from the early summer shower. IN ITALY 97 I stood upon an arch that spans a stream Clear as an arctic berg, and watched it flow Through the lush wreckage of a transient past, Taking the eternal heavens' cloud-flecked gleam: And, pondering on that life of long ago, I strove our own futurity to cast. October, 191 i. FAREWELL TO ROME I thought farewell was said long years ago, That never in the course of loitering time Should I behold again thy state sublime: Yet shifting Fortune hath not willed it so. For once again, O fair, imperial Rome, Thou drew'st me to thee from the foaming shore Beyond the separating sea. Once more Didst thou allure me from a well-loved home, Sorceress, who fosterest in thy breast The witcheries that ardent souls desire, The charms that even torpid hearts inspire, The spells that have e'en doubting eyes obsessed. Thou art not as thou wert, O Rome ! Yet oft I glimpse some lovely fragments as of yore — Some unsupporting shafts that skyward soar, Some mediaeval tower that looms aloft, Making the pulses throb. Perchance I see A roofing pine upon a crumbling wall, 9 8 IN ITALY A scutcheoned gateway by a cypress tall, Or mossy marble 'neath an ilex-tree. Or else I hear the cool, continuous flow Of waters from an old barocco fount, Or note the fluttering statues that surmount The cornice of a tawny portico. 'T is well that I have seen thee in thy grace, marvelous Campagna! Thy proud sweep Will pass. Old men thy comely past will weep When commerce shall thy classic lines deface. Yet there are moments in this noble land, Replete with all the sweets the world can give, In which it is a paradise to live — Hard moments when disconsolate I stand, An alien gazing on a frantic throng That shouts for king and "patria." Oh, then 1 yearn for fatherland and unkinged men, For speech unfettered — for untrammeled song. Such f eelings pass, and others take their place, Of gentler mood, that reverently blend With cherished memories of many a friend From almost every clime — of every race. O Rome ! through all the changes I have seen, Through those vicissitudes the years have brought Since first thy hospitality I sought, An inspiration thou hast ever been. IN ITALY 99 Now must I leave thee : the hour has come to part, Transcendent Rome! and if my eyes confess Their grief, and words be frail, it is that they ex- press The trembling promptings of a faltering heart. Farewell, a sad farewell! I cannot say If this despondent parting be my last From thee, majestic Love. Who may forecast The ventures of some undetermined day? December, 191 i. AFTER STORM A sense of sweet content there comes to me, Whether at break of day I note the glow Of roseate rays on Etna's sky-set snow, Or when her silver cone in mystery Doth soar from out the placid, moonlit sea, Or when at noon upon the high plateau I stand amid the classic stones which strow The crag that overhangs the blue-bound lea. friend! these lovely scenes inanimate — After the stresses of a racking storm — Bring to my travailed soul a grateful balm. Aye! sweet indeed they are; and if I rate Them not the all in all, yet they inform Me with a luscious mood of dreamy calm. Taormina, January, 191 2. IN ITALY ALMOND-BLOSSOMS (Taormina) O lustrous blossoms of the almond- trees ! O blushing flowers! ye are ever fair, Whether ye shine upon Ionian seas Deep blue — all barred with tones so rare Of emerald and amethyst — that pour Their waters to the far Calabrian shore, Or deck the terraced gardens orange-grown Inwoven with the citron's paler tone. O pearly blossoms of the almond-trees, Well-wedded to your branches brown and bare, Trembling upon the soft Sicilian air, Shimmering upon the tepid, languorous breeze Scent-laden with the Spring, 't were hard to say If ye be comelier in the Orb's full ray Than when ye glimmer with more modest sheen, Wrapt in the shadows of some dim ravine Whose beetling crests are tinctured with bright gold By the great westering sun. And ye are splendent, too, when ye unfold Your petals in a gleaming unison With the illumined, ruddy, ruined wall — All marbled once — where histrions did enthrall In lines heroic raptured Roman ears. Again I see ye ramping up the height E'en to the Rock — a waif from savage years — As though ye had the gentle thought to blight A cursed past with bloomings benedight. IN ITALY 101 O flowers transcendent ! soon the wind will blow, And ye will blanch the terraced slopes as snow Doth blanch wild arctic floes, And tender green will then be heir to rose. O blossoms of the rathest budding Spring! harbingers of warmth and copious flowers, How kindly do ye bring Contentment to this weary life of ours ! How sweetly do ye sing In visual song of earthly happiness ! Your floreate offering 1 take, and your fair bourgeoning I bless. February, 191 2. . ■ , ON THE CORSO, TAORMINA If you walk the narrow street Where the boisterous townsfolk meet In a nonchalance complete, You will pass an open door, And will see a pretty score Of girls who work and sing Those words that solace bring, Or a pro nobis. It is a charming sight To see these children bright, All frocked with shining white, In a room where shadows lurk At their dainty needle- work: 102 IN ITALY And as they sew they sing Those words that softly ring, Or a pro nobis. And some have features fair With the flaming auburn hair, While their azure eyes declare Their Norman sheer descent: But the gold with black is blent. And blond and dark both sing Sweet words which heavenward wing, Ora pro nobis. How oft a cult brings pain With its tawdriness profane ! But oh ! this sweet refrain That breaks upon the ear, So pure and so sincere — Those words the children sing, Their guileless offering, Ora pro nobis. February, 191 2. HALCYON DAYS, TAORMINA On such fair days I yield to lassitude, Though neither lotus-love is mine, nor ease Of uncreative hours. The languorous breeze Skims the calm sea's expanse. The springtide mood IN ITALY 103 Is on the cliffs, while vapors argent-hued Crown the slow-soaring cone. Ah! days like these Bring indolence with rain-bowed reveries And grant to strife a grateful interlude. I hear the amorous doves that softly coo Amid pale greening trees; the odors sweet From orange-bloom the willing senses woo . . . But wake ! nor slumber more with lures that cheat High aims. Yet hold! Is it not worth the while From time to time Life's turmoil to beguile? March, 191 2. DEGRADATION Two paupers passed me on the street to-day With shuffling steps, a cripple and his mate, Reduced to loathsomeness by ruthless fate, Riveled and gnarled, their flesh a ghastly gray, Incrusted with the cruel years' decay. Oh ! scarcely could my heart commiserate Their awful plight, their foul, revolting state, So hideous that I turned mine eyes away. Thou, who mad'st yon sea of celadon Laving the curving shore, those oiiTs of gold, Those reaches fair whose sight is very bliss, — Why didst thou fashion mortal man upon Thine image pure? Why cast him ;n thy mould If he can sink to such a depth as this? March, 191 2. io 4 IN ITALY IDYLL— TAORMINA 'T is afternoon in budding spring, And o'er his realm the genial king Sheds rays that quicken everything On peak and sea-girt lea. I stand upon a parapet Time-crumbled, impotent but yet A sparkling, cliff-crest coronet, And far away I see A shepherd piping on a hill To browsing flocks; the air so still That one can hear the liquid trill Across the deep-set vale Immersed in opalescent shade: Beyond the violet ridges fade Into soft argent clouds arrayed 'Neath ^Etna's summit pale. I hear the distant soothing song Of breaking waves on beaches long Which drowns the poverty and wrong Of this too lovely isle. Ah me! such blessed, heavenly hues — The purple that the mount imbues, The gems that stud cerulean blues — Would rebel eyes beguile. IN ITALY 105 And on the nearer slopes serene Are climbing clustering almonds green. Forsooth, is this not such a scene As sang Theocritus? Perchance, perchance: yet well I trow Life then was not as it is now, Unless with gloss he did endow His verse mellifluous. Howbeit, the setting is the same Through all these years of blood and shame: Fell iEtna roars, the seas proclaim A beauty absolute, Which lifts one to a loftier sphere, To higher aims that domineer All baser schemes — that soothe, that cheer, And our mean plaints confute. April, 1912. FROM THE THEATRE, TAORMINA 'T was on the morning of a silvery day, When all the firmament was laved in light, I stood upon the famed Sicilian height Crowned by the massive glowing red decay Of Roman masonry. Beneath me lay A glorious expanse supremely dight, A sea of lazuli and malachite Engirdled by fair cliffs of golden gray. 106 IN ITALY Yet even as I gazed on thee, O blue, O heavenly sea, in thine alluring guise, Thou didst enact a tragedy that drew The world's hot tears — not there beneath mine eyes, But where the cruel, gelid bergs pursue Their pallid way below cold northern skies. April, 191 2. NIGHT — TAORMINA Sweet is thy quietude, O holy Night, That shroudest all the obvious wares of Day, Or beautiful, or mean. No rich display Mak'st thou of sapphire sea, or flowers bright As orient gems, or opalescent height, Or fruitful plain — a jeweler's inlay Of green and gold. No ! naught dost thou betray Beneath thy masking mantle benedight. Yet on thy vaulting shine the lovely stars, Soft-beaming brilliants on a deep blue field. Beacons of Hope! emblems of what is sure And durable and high ! Their radiance jars Not, and to them all mundane lights do yield Supremacy — so chaste they are and pure. May, 1912. IN GREECE IN GREECE NEARING GREECE We rounded Sappho's rock — lo, there was Greece! Upon the right Ulysses' island lay- Deep leafy-green, gay-seamed with glowing clay; Eastward there languished clouds of golden fleece On Acarnanian peaks — a god's caprice; The wavelets took a blue that might dismay A porcelain craftsman from far-off Cathay, While sea and earth and sky bespoke sweet peace. Though leafy-green the isle and blue the wave, And languishing the clouds of golden hue, Such ravishments did not desire sate; Mine eager eyes were bent on surfs that lave Fell Missolonghi, where fair Freedom drew The wilding bard to a disastrous fate. May, 1912. AT DELPHI I sat within the cool Parnassian shade Cast by romantic cliffs, and at my feet Flowed the Castalian stream whose waters sweet Sparkled their way in musical cascade no IN GREECE Into a solemn olive-girdled glade. Pure was the air, and all the land replete With mystery. Ah! nothing can delete The impress which that classic ambient made. Castalia! Parnassus! not in vain To us your aeon-sanctioned names appeal: For though the visual godhead may no more Roam your delicious haunts, or no more deign To inspire, yet your sane influence we feel, And at your shattered shrines we still adore. May, 1912. PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO. CAMBRIDGE, MASS. U. S. A. 'OCT 21 191?