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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
"WHEN ANY MASTER HOLDS 
 'twixt CHIN AND HAND A VIOLIN OF MINE, 
 HE WILL BE GLAD THAT STRADIVARI LIVED." — Page 141. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 GEORGE ELIO 
 
 7 
 
 ^-4^3^ 
 
 NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION 
 
 r ■ 
 *) C 7 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
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 Copyright, 1893, 
 By Frederick A. Stokes Company. 
 
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CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL, ... 7 
 
 AGATHA, 35 
 
 ARMGART, 5 1 
 
 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING, . . 95 
 
 A MINOR PROPHET, .... II7 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER, . . . 1 29 
 
 STRADIVARIUS, I39 
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, . . 147 
 
 TWO LOVERS 175 
 
 SELF AND LIFE, 179 
 
W CONTENTS. 
 
 "sweet evenings come and go, love," 185 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES, . . . l8g 
 
 ARION, 196 
 
 " O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE," 20I 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 When Cain was driven from Jehovah's land 
 
 He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand 
 
 Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings 
 
 Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, 
 
 To feed the subtler sense of frames divine 
 
 That lived on fragrance for their food and wine : 
 
 Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly, 
 
 And could be pitiful and melancholy. 
 
 He never had a doubt that such gods were ; 
 
 He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. 
 
 Some think he came at last to Tartary, 
 
 And some to Ind ; but, howsoe'er it be, 
 
 His staff he planted where sweet waters ran, 
 
 And in that home of Cain the Arts began. 
 
 Man's life was spacious in the early world : 
 It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled 
 Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled ; 
 Beheld the slow star-paces of the skies, 
 And grew from strength to strength through cen- 
 turies ; 
 Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs, 
 And heard a thousand times the sweet birds' mar- 
 riage hymns. 
 
 In Cain's young city none had heard of Death 
 Save him, the founder ; and it was his faith 
 That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law, 
 Man was immortal, since no "halt or flaw 
 In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years, 
 But dark as pines that autumn never sears 
 
8 THE LEGEND OE JUBAL. 
 
 His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame 
 Rose like the orbed sun each morn the same, 
 Lake-mirrored to his gaze ; and that red brand, 
 The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand, 
 Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye, 
 Its secret firm in time-fraught memory. 
 He said, " My happy offspring shall not know 
 That the red life from out a man may flow 
 When smitten by his brother." True, his race 
 Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face 
 A copy of the brand no whit less clear ; 
 But every mother held that little copy dear. 
 
 Thus generations in glad idlesse throve, 
 Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove ; 
 For clearest springs were plenteous in the land, 
 And gourds for cups ; the ripe fruits sought the 
 
 hand, 
 Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold ; 
 And for their roofs and garments wealth untold 
 Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves : 
 They labored gently, as a maid who weaves 
 Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft 
 And strokes across her palm the tresses soft, 
 Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly, 
 Or little burthened ants that homeward hie. 
 Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
 There was no need for haste to finish aught ; 
 But sweet beginnings were repeated still 
 Like infant babblings that no task fulfil ; 
 For love, that loved not change, constrained the 
 
 simple will. 
 
 Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy, 
 Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy. 
 And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries, 
 And fetched and held before the glazed eyes 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 9 
 
 The things they best had loved to look upon ; 
 But never glance or smile or sigh he won. 
 The generations stood around those twain 
 Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain 
 Parted the press, and said, " He will not wake ; 
 This is the endless sleep, and we must make 
 A bed deep down for him beneath the sod ; 
 For know, my sons, there is a mighty God 
 Angry with all man's race, but most with me. 
 I fled from out His land in vain ! — 'tis He 
 Who came and slew the lad, for He has found 
 This home of ours, and we shall all be bound 
 By the harsh bands of His most cruel will, 
 Which any moment may some dear one kill. 
 Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last 
 We and all ours shall die like summers past. 
 This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong ; 
 I thought the way I travelled was too long 
 For Him to follow me : my thought was vain ! 
 He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain, 
 Pale Death His footprint is, and He will come 
 
 And a new spirit from that hour came o'er 
 The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more, 
 But even the sunshine had a heart of care, 
 Smiling with hidden dread — a mother fair 
 Who folding to her breast a dying child 
 Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness 
 
 mild. 
 Death was now lord of Life, and at his word 
 Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, 
 With measured wing now audibly arose 
 Throbbing through all things to some unknown 
 
 close. 
 Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn, 
 And Work grew eager, and Device was born. 
 
I O THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 It seemed the light was never loved before, 
 Now each man said "'Twill go and come no 
 
 more." 
 No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, 
 No form, no shadow, but new dearness took 
 From the one thought that life must have an end , 
 And the last parting row began to send 
 Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss, 
 Thrilling them into finer tenderness. 
 Then Memory disclosed her face divine, 
 That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine 
 Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, 
 And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, 
 No space, no warmth, but moves among them all ; 
 Gone and yet here, and coming at each call, 
 With ready voice and eyes that understand, 
 And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. 
 
 Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 
 Of various life and action-shaping need. 
 But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings 
 Of new ambition, and the force that springs 
 In passion beating on the shores of fate. 
 They said, " There comes a night when all too 
 
 late 
 The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand , 
 The eager thought behind closed portals stand, 
 And the last wishes to the mute lips press 
 Buried ere death in silent helplessness. 
 Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, 
 A.nd while the arm is strong to strike and heave, 
 Let soul and arm give shape that will abide 
 And rule above our graves, and power divide 
 With that great god of day, whose rays must bend 
 As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 
 Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, 
 When we shall lie in darkness silently, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 1 1 
 
 As our young brother doth, whom yet we see 
 Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will 
 By that one image of him pale and still." 
 
 For Lamech's sons were heroes of their race : 
 
 Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face 
 
 The look of that calm ri\er-god, the Nile, 
 
 Mildly secure in power that needs not guile. 
 
 But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire 
 
 That glows and spreads and leaps from high to 
 
 higher 
 Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue ; 
 Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew, 
 His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew, 
 Such granite as the plunging torrent wears 
 And roaring rolls around through countless years. 
 But strength that still on movement must be fed, 
 Inspiring thought of change, devices bred, 
 And urged his mind through earth and air to rove 
 For force that he could conquer if he strove, 
 For lurking forms that might new tasks fulfil 
 And yield unwilling to his stronger will. 
 Such Tubal-Cain. But Jubal had a frame 
 Fashioned to finer senses, which became 
 A yearning for some hidden soul of things, 
 Some outward touch Complete on inner springs 
 That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain, 
 A want that did but stronger grow with gain 
 Of all good else, as spirits might be sad 
 For lack of speech to tell us they are glad. 
 
 Now Jabal learned to tame the lowing kine, 
 And from their udders drew the snow-white wine 
 That stirs the innocent joy, and makes the 
 
 stream 
 Of elemental life with fulness teem ; [hand, 
 
 The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding 
 
1 2 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 And sheltered them, till all the little band 
 Stood mustered gazing- at the sunset way 
 Whence he would come with store at close of day. 
 He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone 
 And reared their staggering lambs that, older 
 
 grown, 
 Followed his steps with sense-taught memory ; 
 Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be 
 And guide them through the pastures as he 
 
 would, 
 With sway that grew from ministry of good. 
 He spread his tents upon the grassy plain 
 Which, eastward widening like the open main, 
 Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning 
 
 star ; 
 Near him his sister, deft, as women are, 
 Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought 
 Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught 
 Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals white, 
 The golden pollen, virgin to the light. 
 Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, 
 He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent, 
 And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young 
 Till the small race with hope and terror clung 
 About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood, 
 Remoter from the memories'of the wood, 
 More glad discerned their common home with 
 
 man. 
 This was the work of Jabal : he began 
 The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be, 
 Spread the sweet ties that bind the family 
 O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's 
 
 caress, 
 And shared his pains with patient helpfulness. 
 
 But Tubal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire, 
 Voked it with stones that bent the flaming spire 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. I 3 
 
 And made it roar in prisoned servitude 
 
 Within the furnace, till with force subdued 
 
 It changed all forms he willed to work upon, 
 
 Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won. 
 
 The pliant clay he moulded as he would, 
 
 And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it 
 
 stood 
 Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass 
 That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass, 
 He drew all glowing from the busy heat, 
 All breathing as with life that he could beat 
 With thundering hammer, making it obey 
 His will creative, like the pale soft clay. 
 Each day he wrought and better than he planned, 
 Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand. 
 (The soul without still helps the soul within, 
 And its deft magic ends what we begin.) 
 Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield 
 And seem to see a myriad types revealed, 
 Then spring with wondering triumphant cry, 
 And, lest the inspiring vision should go by, 
 Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal 
 Which all the passion of our life can steal 
 For force to work with. Each day saw the 
 
 birth 
 Of various forms which, flung upon the earth, 
 Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, 
 But were as seeds instinct with hidden power. 
 The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain, 
 Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain ; 
 And near them latent lay in share and spade, 
 In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved 
 
 blade, 
 Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home. 
 The social good, and all earth's joy to come. 
 Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal ; and they 
 
 say, 
 
14 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Some things he made have lasted to this day , 
 As, thirty silver pieces that were found 
 By Noah's children buried in the ground. 
 He made them from mere hunger of device. 
 Those small white discs ; but they became the 
 
 price 
 The traitor Judas sold his Master for ; 
 And men still handling them in peace and war 
 Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite, 
 And lurks and clings as withering, damning 
 
 blight. 
 Hm; Tubal-Cain wot not of treachery, 
 Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be, 
 Save the one ill of sinking into nought, 
 Banished from action and act-shaping thought. 
 He was the sire of swift-transforming skill, 
 Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will ; 
 And round him gladly, as his hammer rung, 
 Gathered the elders and the growing young : 
 These handled vaguely and those plied the tools, 
 Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules, 
 The home of Cain with industry was rife, 
 And glimpses of a strong persistent life, 
 Panting through generations as one breath, 
 And filling with its soul the blank of death. 
 
 Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes, 
 
 No longer following its fall or rise, 
 
 Seemed glad with something that they could not 
 
 see, 
 But only listened to— some melody, 
 Wherein dumb longings inward speech had 
 
 found, 
 Won from the common store of struggling sound. 
 Then, as the metal shapes more various grew, 
 And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew, 
 Each gave new tones, the revelations dim 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 1 5 
 
 Of some external soul that spoke for him : 
 The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom, 
 Like light that makes wide spiritual room 
 And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought, 
 To Jubal such enlarged passion brought 
 That love, hope, rage, and all experience, 
 Were fused in vaster being, fetching thence 
 Concords and discords, cadences and cries 
 That seemed from some world-shrouded soul to 
 
 rise, 
 Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage, 
 Seme living sea that burst the bounds of man's 
 
 brief age. 
 
 Then with such blissful- trouble and glad care 
 For growth within unborn as mothers bear, 
 To trie far woods he wandered, listening, 
 And heard the birds their little stories sing 
 In notes whose rise and fall seemed melted 
 
 speech — 
 Melted with tears, smiles, glances — that can 
 
 reach 
 More quickly through our frame's deep-winding 
 
 night, 
 And without thought raise thought's best fruit, 
 
 delight. 
 Pondering, he sought his home again and heard 
 The fluctuant changes of the spoken word : 
 The deep remonstrance and the argued want, 
 Insistent first in close monotonous chant, 
 Next leaping upward to defiant stand 
 Or downward beating like the resolute hand ; 
 The mother's call, the children's answering cry, 
 The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high ; 
 The suasive repetitions Jabal taught, 
 That timid browsing cattle homeward brought ; 
 The clear-winged fugue of echoes vanishing ; 
 
1 6 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 And through them all the hammer's rhythmic 
 
 ring. 
 Jubal sat lonely, all around was dim, 
 Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him : 
 For as the delicate stream of odor wakes 
 The thought-wed sentience and some image makes 
 From out the mingled fragments of the past, 
 Finely compact in wholeness that will last, 
 So streamed as from the body of each sound 
 Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found 
 All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound, 
 Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory, 
 And in creative vision wandered free. 
 Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised, 
 And on the dark with eager eyes he gazed, 
 As had some manifested god been there. 
 It was his thought he saw : the presence fair 
 Of unachieved achievement, the high task, 
 The struggling unborn spirit that doth ask 
 With irresistible cry for blood and breath, 
 Till feeding its great life we sink in death. 
 
 He said, "Were now those mighty tones and 
 
 cries 
 That from the giant soul of earth arise, 
 Those groans of some great travail heard from far, 
 Some power at wrestle with the things that are, 
 Those sounds which vary with the varying form 
 Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm 
 Fill the wide space with tremors : were these wed 
 To human voices with such passion fed 
 As does put glimmer in our common speech, 
 But might flame out in tones whose changing 
 
 reach, 
 Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense 
 With fuller union, finer difference — 
 Were this great vision, now obscurely bright 
 
" Then Tubal poured his triumph in a song." — Page 17. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. J J 
 
 As morning hills that melt in new-poured light, 
 "Wrought into solid form and living sound, 
 Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound, 
 Then — Nay, I Jubal will that work begin ! 
 The generations of our race shall win 
 New life, that grows from out the heart of this, 
 As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss 
 From out the dull unknown of unwaked energies." 
 
 Thus he resolved, and in the soul-fed light 
 Of coming ages waited through the night, 
 Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray 
 Showed but the unchanged world of yesterday ; 
 Where all the order of his dream divine 
 Lay like Olympian forms within the mine ; 
 Where fervor that could fill the earthly round 
 With thronged joys of form-begotten sound 
 Must shrink intense within the patient power 
 That lonely labors through the niggard hour. 
 Such patience have the heroes who begin, 
 Sailing the first to lands which others win. 
 Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, 
 Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare, 
 And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous quire 
 Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. 
 He made it, and from out its measured frame 
 Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came 
 With guidance sweet and lessons of delight 
 Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right, 
 Where strictest law is gladness to the sense 
 And all desire bends toward obedience. 
 
 Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song — 
 The rapturous word that rapturous notes prolong 
 As radiance streams from smallest things that 
 
 burn, 
 Or thought of loving into love doth turn. 
 
1 8 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 And still his lyre gave companionship 
 
 In sense-taught concert as of lip with lip. 
 
 Alone amid the hills at first he tried 
 
 His winged song ; then with adoring pride 
 
 And bridegroom's joy at leading forth his bride, 
 
 He said, " This wonder which my soul hath 
 
 found, 
 This heart of music in the might of sound, 
 Shall forthwith be the share of all our race 
 And like the morning gladden common space : 
 The song shall spread and swell as rivers do, 
 And I will teach our youth with skill to woo 
 This living lyre, to know its secret will, 
 Its fine division of the good and ill. 
 So shall men call me sire of harmony, 
 And where great Song is, there my life shall be." 
 
 Thus glorying as a god beneficent, 
 
 Forth from his solitary joy he went 
 
 To bless mankind. It was at evening, 
 
 When shadows lengthen from each westward 
 
 thing, 
 "When imminence of change makes sense more 
 
 fine 
 And light seems holier in its grand decline. 
 The fruit-trees wore their studded coronal 
 Earth and her children were at festival, 
 Glowing as with one heart and one consent — 
 Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radi- 
 ance blent. 
 
 The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground, 
 The various ages wreathed in one broad round. 
 Here lay, while children peeped o'er his huge 
 
 thighs, 
 The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; 
 Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. I Q 
 
 Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng 
 Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement 
 
 too — 
 Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew, 
 And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew. 
 For all had feasted well upon the flesh 
 Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh, 
 And now their wine was health-bred merriment, 
 Which through the generations circling went, 
 Leaving none sad, for even father Cain 
 Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. 
 Jabal sat climbed on by a playful ring 
 Of children, lambs, and whelps, whose gambol- 
 ling, 
 With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feet, 
 Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub 
 
 meet. 
 But Tubal's hammer rang from far away, 
 Tubal alone would keep no holiday, 
 His furnace must not slack for any feast, 
 For of all hardship work he counted least ; 
 He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream 
 Made his repose more potent action seem. 
 
 Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was 
 
 blent, 
 The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent, 
 The inward shaping toward some unborn power, 
 Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower. 
 After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes, 
 The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs. 
 Then from the east, with glory on his head 
 Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread, 
 Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng, 
 Where the blank space was, poured a solemn 
 
 song. 
 Touching his lvre to full harmonic throb 
 
20 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 And measured pulse, with cadences that sob, 
 Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep 
 Where the dark sources of new passion sleep. 
 Joy took the air, and took each breathing soul, 
 Embracing them in one entranced whole, 
 Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends, 
 As Spring new-waking through the creature sends 
 Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life 
 Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife. 
 He who had lived through twice three centuries, 
 Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees, 
 In hoary forests, stretched a backward maze, 
 Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days 
 Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun 
 That warmed him when he was a little one ; 
 Felt that true heaven, the recovered past, 
 The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast, 
 And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs 
 Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which 
 
 swims 
 In western glory, isles and streams and bays, 
 Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. 
 And in all these the rhythmic influence, 
 Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense, 
 Flowed out in movements, little w r aves that spread 
 Enlarging, till in tidal union led 
 The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed, 
 By grace-inspiring melody possessed, 
 Rose in slow dance, with beauteous floating 
 
 swerve 
 Of limbs and hair, and many a melting curve 
 Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm : 
 Then Jubal poured more rapture in his psalm, 
 The dance fired music, music fired the dance, 
 The glow diffusive lit each countenance, 
 Till all the gazing elders rose and stood 
 With glad yet awful shock of that mysterious good 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 2 I 
 
 Even Tubal caught the sound, and wondering 
 
 came. 
 Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame 
 Till he could see his brother with the lyre, 
 The work for which he lent his furnace-fire 
 And diligent hammer, witting nought of this — 
 This power in metal shape which made strange 
 
 bliss, 
 Entering within him like a dream full-fraught 
 With new creations finished in a thought. 
 
 The sun had sunk, but music still was there, 
 And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air : 
 It seemed the stars were shining with delight 
 And that no night was ever like this night. 
 All clung with praise to Jubal : some besought 
 That he would teach them his new skill ; some 
 
 caught, 
 Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet, 
 The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat : 
 'Twas easy following where invention trod — 
 All eyes can see when light flows out from God. 
 
 And thus did Jubal to his race reveal 
 Music their larger soul, where woe and weal 
 Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance, 
 Moved with a wider- winged utterance. 
 Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a song 
 Raised echoes new, old echoes to prolong, 
 Till thing9 of Tubal's making were so rife, 
 " Hearing myself," he said, " hems in my life, 
 And I will get me to some far-off land, 
 Where higher mountains under heaven stand 
 And touch the blue at rising of the stars, 
 Whose sotig they hear where no rough mingling 
 
 mars 
 The great clear voices. Such lands there must be. 
 
2 2 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Where varying forms make varying symphony— t 
 Where other thunders roll amid the hills, 
 Some mightier wind a mightier forest fills 
 With other strains through other-shapen boughs ; 
 Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or 
 
 browse 
 Will teach me songs I know not. Listening there, 
 My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair 
 That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller 
 
 fruit each year." 
 
 He took a raft, and travelled with the stream 
 Southward for many a league, till he might deem 
 He saw at last the pillars of the sky, 
 Beholding mountains whose white majesty 
 Rushed through him as new awe, and made new 
 
 song 
 That swept with fuller wave the chords along, 
 Weighting his voice with deep religious chime, 
 The iteration of slow chant sublime. 
 It was the region long inhabited 
 By all the race of Seth ; and Jubal said : 
 " Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire. 
 Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire 
 Flames through deep waters ; I will take my rest, 
 And feed anew from my great mother's breast, 
 The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me 
 As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee." 
 He lingered wandering for many an age, 
 And, sowing music, made high heritage 
 For generations far beyond the Flood — 
 For the poor late-begotten human brood 
 Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good. 
 
 And ever as he travelled he would climb 
 
 The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime 
 
 The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres 
 
THE LEGEND OE JUBAL. 2$ 
 
 Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. 
 But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose, 
 And the far-gazing mountain could disclose 
 Nought but a wider earth ; until one height 
 Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light, 
 And he could hear its multitudinous roar, 
 Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore : 
 Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no 
 more. 
 
 He thought, " The world is great, but I am weak, 
 And where the sky bends is no solid peak 
 To give me footing, but instead, this main — 
 Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the 
 plain. 
 
 " New voices come to me where'er I roam, 
 My heart too widens with its widening home : 
 But song grows weaker, and the heart must break 
 For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake 
 The lyre's full answer ; nay, its chords were all 
 Too few to meet the growing spirit's call. 
 The former songs seem little, yet no more 
 Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore 
 Tell what the earth is saying unto me : 
 The secret is too great, I hear confusedly. 
 
 " No farther will I travel : once again 
 My brethren I will see, and that fair plain 
 Where I and Song were born. There fresh- 
 
 voiced youth 
 Will pour my strains with all the early truth 
 Which now abides not in my voice and hands, 
 But only in the soul, the will that stands 
 Helpless to move. My tribe remembering 
 Will cry ' Tis he 1' and run to greet me, welcom- 
 ing." 
 
S4 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew. 
 And shook out clustered gold against the blue, 
 While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres, 
 Sought the dear home of those first eager years, 
 When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will 
 Took living outward shape in pliant skill ; 
 For still he hoped to find the former things, 
 And the warm gladness recognition brings. 
 His footsteps erred among the mazy woods 
 And long illusive sameness of the floods, 
 Winding and wandering. Through far regions, 
 
 strange 
 With Gentile homes and faces, did he range, 
 And left his music in their memory, 
 And left at last, when nought besides would free 
 His homeward steps from clinging hands and 
 
 cries, 
 The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes 
 No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son, 
 That mortal frame wherein was first begun 
 The immortal life of song. His withered brow 
 Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now, 
 His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air, 
 The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare 
 Of beauteous token, as the outworn might 
 Of oaks slow dying, gaunt in summer's light. 
 His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran : 
 He was the rune-writ story of a man. 
 
 And so at last he neared the well-known land, 
 Could see the hills in ancient order stand 
 With friendly faces whose familiar gaze 
 Looked through the sunshine of his childish days ; 
 Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods. 
 And seemed to see the self-same insect broods 
 Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers — to hear 
 The self-same cuckoo making distance near. 
 
THE LEGEND OE JUBAL. 25 
 
 Vea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy, 
 Met and embraced him, and said, " Thou art he \ 
 This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine, 
 Where feeding, thou didst all thy life entwine 
 With my sky- wedded life in heritage divine." 
 
 But wending ever through the watered plain, 
 
 Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain, 
 
 He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold 
 
 That never kept a welcome for the old, 
 
 Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise 
 
 Saying "This home is mine." He thought his 
 
 eyes 
 Mocked all deep memories, as things new made, 
 Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade 
 And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. 
 His memory saw a small foot-trodden way, 
 His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road 
 Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode ; 
 The little city that once nestled low 
 As buzzing groups about some central glow, 
 Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and 
 
 steep, 
 Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep. 
 His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he sank 
 Close by the wayside on a weed-grown bank, 
 Not far from where a new-raised temple stood, 
 Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedaf 
 
 wood. 
 The morning sun was high ; his rays fell hot 
 On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot, 
 On the dry-withered grass and withered man : 
 That wondrous frame where melody began 
 Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan, 
 
 Bnt while he sank far music reached his ear. 
 He listened until wonder silenced fear 
 
26 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 And gladness wonder; for the broadening stream 
 Of sound advancing was his early dream, 
 Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer ; 
 As if his soul, breathed out upon the air, 
 Had held the invisible seeds of harmony 
 Quick with the various strains of life to be. 
 He listened : the sweet mingled difference 
 With charm alternate took the meeting sense ; 
 Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red, 
 Sudden and near the trumpet's notes out-spread, 
 And soon his eyes could see the metal flower, 
 Shining upturned, out on the morning pour 
 Its incense audible ; could see a train 
 From out the street slow-winding on the plain 
 With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries, 
 While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to 
 
 these 
 With various throat, or in succession poured, 
 Or in full volume mingled. But one word 
 Ruled each recurrent rise and answering fall, 
 As when the multitudes adoring call 
 On some great name divine, their common soul, 
 The common need, love, joy, that knits them ii» 
 
 one whole. 
 
 The word was " Tubal' " . . . " Jubal " filled thf 
 
 air 
 And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there, 
 Creator of the quire, the full-fraught strain 
 That grateful rolled itself to him again. 
 The aged man adust upon the bank — 
 Whom no eye saw — at first with rapture drank 
 The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart, 
 Felt, this was his own being's greater part, 
 The universal joy once born in him. 
 But when the train, with living face and limb 
 And vocal breath, came nearer and more near* 
 
The frost-locked starkness of his frame 
 low-bent. 1 ' — Page 27. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 2 7 
 
 The longing grew that they should hold him 
 
 dear ; 
 Him, Lamech'sson, whom all their fathers knew, 
 The breathing Jubal — him, to whom their love was 
 
 due. 
 All was forgotten but the burning need 
 To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed 
 That lived away from him, and grew apart, 
 While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart, 
 Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that 
 
 pressed, 
 Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed. 
 What though his song should spread from man's 
 
 small race 
 Out through the myriad worlds that people space, 
 And make the heavens one joy-diffusing quire? — ■ 
 Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire 
 Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide, 
 This twilight soon in darkness to subside, 
 This little pulse of self that, having glowed 
 Through thrice three centuries, and divinely 
 
 strowed 
 The light of music through the vague of sound, 
 Ached with its smallness still in good that had no 
 
 bound. 
 
 For no eye saw him, while with loving pride 
 Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied. 
 .Must he in conscious trance, dumb, helpless lie 
 While all that ardent kindred passed him by ? 
 His flesh cried out to live with living men 
 And join that soul which to the inward ken 
 Of all the hymning train was present there. 
 Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare . 
 The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent, 
 His voice's penury of tones long spent, 
 He felt not ; all his being leaped in flame 
 
28 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 To meet his kindred as they onward came 
 Slackening and wheeling- toward the temple's 
 
 face : 
 He rushed before them to the glittering space, 
 And, with a strength that was but strong desire, 
 Cried, "I am Jubal, I ! ... I made the 
 
 lyre ! " 
 
 The tones amid a lake of silence fell 
 
 Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell 
 
 Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land 
 
 To listening crowds in expectation spanned. 
 
 Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake ; 
 
 They spread along the train from front to wake 
 
 In one great storm of merriment, while he 
 
 Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be, 
 
 And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein 
 
 Of passionate music came with that dream-pain 
 
 Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing 
 
 And all appearance is mere vanishing. 
 
 But ere the laughter died from out the rear, 
 
 Anger in front saw profanation near ; 
 
 Jubal was but a name in each man's faith 
 
 For glorious power untouched by that slow death 
 
 Which creeps with creeping time ; this too, the 
 
 spot, 
 And this the day, it must be crime to blot, 
 Even with scoffing at a madman's lie : 
 Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. 
 
 Two rushed upon him : two, the most devout 
 
 In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out, 
 
 And beat him with their flutes. 'Twas little 
 
 need ; 
 He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed, 
 As if the scorn and howls were driving wind 
 That urged his body, serving so the mind 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 29 
 
 Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the 
 
 screen 
 Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen. 
 The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky, 
 While Jubal lonely laid him down to die. 
 He said within his soul, " This is the end : 
 O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend 
 And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul . 
 I lie here now the remnant of that whole, 
 The embers of a life, a lonely pain ; 
 As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain, 
 So of my mighty years nought comes to me 
 
 again. 
 
 " Is the day sinking? Softest coolness springs 
 From something round me : dewy shadowy wings 
 Inclose me all around — no, not above — 
 Is moonlight there ? I see a face of love, 
 Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong : 
 Yea — art thou come again to me, great Song ? " 
 
 The face bent over him like silver night 
 In long-remembered summers ; that calm light 
 Of days which shine in firmaments of thought, 
 That past unchangeable, from change still 
 
 wrought. 
 And gentlest tones were with the vision blent : 
 He knew not if that gaze the music sent, 
 Or music that calm gaze : to hear, to see, 
 Was but one undivided ecstasy : 
 The raptured senses melted into one, 
 And parting life a moment's freedom won 
 From in and outer, as a little child 
 Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild 
 Down in the water, and forgets its limbs, 
 And knoweth nought save the blue heaven that 
 
 swims. 
 
3° THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 " Jubal," the face said, " I am thy loved Past, 
 
 The soul that makes thee one from first to last. 
 
 I am the angel of thy life and death, 
 
 Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. 
 
 Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride 
 
 Who blest thy lot above all men's beside ? 
 
 Thy bride whom thou wouldst never change, nor 
 
 take 
 Any bride living, for that dead one's sake ? 
 Was I not all thy yearning and delight, 
 Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right, 
 Which still had been the hunger of thy frame 
 In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same ? 
 Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any 
 
 god— 
 Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod 
 Or thundered through the skies — aught else for 
 
 share 
 Of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear 
 The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest 
 Of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast I 
 No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, 
 Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain 
 Where music's voice was silent ; for thy fate 
 Was human music's self incorporate : 
 Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife 
 Were flesh of her flesh and her womb of life. 
 And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone 
 With hidden raptures were her secrets shown, 
 Buried within thee, as the purple light 
 Of gems may sleep in solitary night ; 
 But thy expanding joy was still to give, 
 And with the generous air in song to live, 
 Feeding the wave of ever-widening bliss 
 Where fellowship means equal perfectness. 
 And on the mountains in thy wandering 
 Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 3 1 
 
 That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home, 
 
 For with thy 001111115 Melody was come. 
 
 This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow, 
 
 And that immeasurable life to know 
 
 From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, 
 
 A seed primeval that has forests bred. 
 
 It is the glory of the heritage 
 
 Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age : 
 
 Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod, 
 
 Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god, 
 
 Who found and gave new passion and new joy 
 
 That nought but Earth's destruction can destroy 
 
 Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone : 
 
 'Twas but in giving that thou couldst atone 
 
 For too much wealth amid their poverty." — 
 
 The words seemed melting into symphony, 
 The wings upbore him, and the gazing song 
 Was floating him the heavenly space along, 
 Where mighty harmonies all gently fell 
 Through veiling vastness, like the far-off bell 
 Till, ever onward through the choral blue, 
 He heard more faintly and more faintly knew, 
 Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, 
 The All-creating Presence for his grave. 
 
 1869. 
 
AGATHA 
 
AGATHA. 
 
 Come with me to the mountain, not where rocks 
 Soar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines, 
 But where the earth spreads soft and rounded 
 
 breasts 
 To feed her children ; where the generous hilis 
 Lift a green isle betwixt the sky and plain 
 To keep some Old World things aloof from 
 
 change. 
 Here too 'tis hill and hollow : new-born streams 
 With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled 
 Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, 
 And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones ; 
 Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes 
 Are green with pasture, and the bearded com 
 Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge : 
 A little world whose round horizon cuts 
 This isle of hills with heaven for a sea, 
 Save in clear moments when southwest ward 
 
 gleams 
 France by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. 
 The monks of old chose here their still retreat, 
 And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, 
 Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue, 
 Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns 
 Ail loved things into little things, has made 
 Sanct Margen — Holy little Mary, dear 
 As all the sweet home things she smiles upon, 
 The children and the cows, the apple-trees, 
 The cart; the plough, all named with that caress 
 Which feigns them little, easy to be held, 
 Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. 
 
$6 AGATHA. 
 
 What though a Queen ? She puts her crown 
 
 away 
 And with her little Boy wears common clothes, 
 Caring for common wants, remembering 
 That day when good Saint Joseph left his work 
 To marry her with humble trust sublime. 
 The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more 
 Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields 
 At milking-time ; their silent corridors 
 Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men, 
 Who toil for wife and children. But the bells, 
 Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers, 
 Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning 
 To grave remembrance of the larger life 
 That bears our own, like perishable fruit 
 Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound 
 The shepherd boy far off upon the hill, 
 The workers with the saw and at the forge, 
 The triple generation round the hearth — 
 Grandames and mothers and the flute-voiced 
 
 girls— 
 Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful cries 
 To the kind Mother with the little Boy, 
 Who pleads for helpless men against the storm, 
 Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapes 
 Of power supreme. 
 
 Within the prettiest hollow of these hills, 
 Just as you enter it, upon the slope 
 Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily 
 By running water, which, at farthest end 
 Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, 
 And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, 
 Blanchi and Nageli, Veilchen and the rest, 
 Matrons with faces as Griselda mild, 
 Coming at call. And on the farthest height 
 A little tower looks out above the pines 
 Where mounting you will find a sanctuary 
 
"The shepherd boy far off upon the 
 hill." — Page 36. 
 
AGATHA. 37 
 
 Open and still ; without, the silent crowd 
 Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers ; 
 Within, the altar where the Mother sits 
 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off years 
 By peasants succored in the peril of fire, 
 Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, 
 Willing but not omnipotent, had stood 
 Between their lives and that dread power which 
 
 slew 
 Their neighbor at their side. The chapel bell 
 Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach 
 That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate 
 Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar ; 
 So does the door, to let the sunbeams in ; 
 For in the slanting sunbeams angels come 
 And visit Agatha who dwells within — 
 Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell 
 Are housed by her in Love and Duty's name, 
 They being feeble, with small withered wits, 
 And she believing that the higher gift 
 Was given to be shared. So Agatha 
 Shares her one room, all neat on afternoons, 
 As if some memory were sacred there 
 And everything within the four low walls 
 An honored relic. 
 
 One long summer's day 
 An angel entered at the rose-hung gate, 
 With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl, 
 Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteous 
 As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak 
 The grateful worship of a rescued soul. 
 The angel paused before the open door 
 To give good day. " Come in," said Agatha. 
 I followed close, and watched and listened there. 
 The angel was a lady, noble, young, 
 Taught in all seemliness that fits a court, 
 
8 AGATHA. 
 
 All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use, 
 Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove 
 That with its presence teaches gentleness. 
 Men called her Countess Linda ; little girls 
 In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed t 
 Said Mamma Linda : yet her years were few, 
 Her outward beauties all in budding time, 
 Her virtues the aroma of the plant 
 That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf. 
 And waits not ripeness. 
 
 " Sit," said Agatha. 
 Her cousins were at work in neighboring homes 
 But yet she was not lonely ; all things round 
 Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, 
 As of a child at breast that gently clings : 
 Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers 
 Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees, 
 But all the household goods, which, polished fair 
 By hands that cherished them for service done, 
 Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams 
 Dark and yet friendly, easy to be reached, 
 Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign ; 
 The walls had little pictures hung a-row, 
 Telling the stories of Saint Ursula, 
 And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen ; 
 And on the bench that served for table too, 
 Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, 
 There lay the Catholic books, inherited 
 From those old times when printing still was 
 
 young 
 With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. 
 And in the farthest corner stood the bed 
 "Where o'er the pillow hung two pictures 
 
 wreathed 
 With fresh-plucked ivy: one the Virgin's death. 
 And one her flowering tomb, while high above 
 
AGATHA. 39 
 
 She smiling bends and lets her girdle down 
 For ladder to the soul that cannot trust 
 In life which outlasts burial. Agatha 
 Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim, 
 And spoke her welcome with mild dignity. 
 She kept the company of kings and queens 
 And mitred saints who sat below the feet 
 Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds ; 
 And Rank for her meant Duty, various, 
 Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. 
 Command was service ; humblest service done 
 By willing and discerning souls was glory. 
 
 Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, 
 Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked 
 With sweet antiphony of young and old. 
 
 Agatha. 
 You like our valley, lady ? I am glad 
 You thought it well to come again. But rest — 
 The walk is long from Master Michael's inn. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Yes, but no walk is prettier. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 It is true : 
 There lacks no blessing here, the waters all 
 Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, 
 And heal much sickness; then, the crops and cows 
 Flourish past speaking, and the garden flowers, 
 Pink, blue, and purple, 'tis a joy to see 
 How they yield honey for the singing bees. 
 I would the whole world were as good a home. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 And you are well off, Agatha ? — your friends 
 Left you a certain bread : is it not so ? 
 
40 AGATHA. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Not so at all, dear lady. I had nought, 
 
 Was a poor orphan ; but I came to tend 
 
 Here in this house, an old afflicted pair, 
 
 Who wore out slowly ; and the last who died, 
 
 Full thirty years ago, left me this roof 
 
 And all the household stuff. It was great wealth ; 
 
 And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 But how, then, have you earned your daily bread 
 These thirty years ? 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 O, that is easy earning. 
 We help the neighbors, and our bit and sup 
 Is never failing : they have work for us 
 In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends, 
 Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay, 
 Holding sick children — there is always work ; 
 And they are very good — the neighbors are : 
 Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, 
 But glad themselves with giving us good shares 
 Of meat and drink ; and in the big farm-house 
 When cloth comes home from weaving, the good 
 
 wife 
 Cuts me a piece — this very gown — and says : 
 " Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have time 
 To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering : 
 The saints might help him, and they have much 
 
 to do, 
 'Twere well they were besought to think of him." 
 She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray 
 For poor young Hans. I take it much to heart 
 That other people are worse off than I — 
 1 ease my soul with praying for them all. 
 
AGATHA. 41 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 That is your way of singing, Agatha ; 
 Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, 
 And when they reach men's ears they make men's 
 
 hearts 
 Feel the more kindly. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, I cannot sing : 
 My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers 
 Are foolish, feeble things ; for Christ is good 
 Whether I pray or not — the Virgin's heart 
 1? kinder far than mine ; and then I stop 
 i\nd feel I can do nought toward helping men, 
 Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, 
 And I must pray again for all the world. 
 Tis good to me — I mean the neighbors are : 
 To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved 
 To go on pilgrimage the second time. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 And do you mean to go on pilgrimage 
 With all your years to carry, Agatha ? 
 
 Agatha. 
 The years are light, dear lady : 'tis my sins 
 Are heavier than I would. And I shall go 
 All the way to Einsiedeln with that load : 
 I need to work it off. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 What sort of sins» 
 Dear Agatha ? I think they must be small. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, but they may be greater than I know J 
 Tis but d.im light I see by. So I try 
 
42 AGATHA. 
 
 All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. 
 
 I would not sink where evil spirits are. 
 
 There's perfect goodness somewhere : so I strive. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Vou were the better for that pilgrimage 
 You made before ? The shrine is beautiful ; 
 And then you saw fresh country all the way. 
 
 Agatha. 
 Yes, that is true. And ever since that time 
 The world seems greater, and the Holy Church 
 More wonderful. The blessed pictures all, 
 The heavenly images with books and wings, 
 Are company to me through the day and night. 
 The time ! the time ! It never seemed far back, 
 Only to father's father and his kin 
 That lived before him. But the time stretched 
 
 out 
 After that pilgrimage : I seemed to see 
 Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind, 
 As there are countries lying still behind 
 The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. 
 O, it is great to go on pilgrimage ! 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too, 
 And you can start together in a band 
 
 Agatha. 
 Not from these hills : people are busy here, 
 The beasts want tendance. One who is nor 
 
 missed 
 Can go and pray for others who must work. 
 I owe it to all neighbors, young and old ; 
 For they are good past thinking — lads and girls 
 Given to mischief, merry naughtiness, 
 
AGATHA. 43 
 
 Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines, 
 For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 
 'Tis pretty : why, the cherubs in the sky 
 Look young and merry, and the angels play 
 On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. 
 I would have young things merry. See the 
 
 Lord ! 
 A little baby playing w'th the birds ; 
 And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 I think you are too happy, Agatha, 
 
 To care for heaven. Earth contents you well. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go 
 Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind, 
 Be like an old stalk to be pJucked away : 
 The garden must be cleared for young spring 
 
 plants. 
 'Tis home beyond the grave, the most are there, 
 All those we pray to, all the Church's lights — 
 And poor old souls are welcome in their rags : 
 One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, 
 The Virgin's mother, she is very old, 
 And had her troubles with her husbard too. 
 Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than 1, 
 But they will h?ve this roof to cover them. 
 I shall go willingly ; and willingness 
 Makes the yoke easy and the burden light*. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 When you go southward in your pilgrimage. 
 
 Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha. 
 
 Where you have friends you should aot go to ians. 
 
44 AGATHA. 
 
 Agatha. 
 Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady. 
 And you will give me sweet hay for a bed, 
 And in the morning I shall wake betimes 
 And start when all the birds begin to sing. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage 
 Such pretty clothes as all the women here 
 Keep by them for their best : a velvet cap 
 And collar golden-broidered ? They look well 
 On old and young alike. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, I have none — 
 Never had better clothes than these you see. 
 Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best 
 When others wear them, and I somehow thought 
 'Twas not worth while. I had so many things 
 More than some neighbors, I was partly shy 
 Of wearing better clothes than they, and now 
 1 am so old and custom is so strong 
 'T would hurt me sore to put on finery. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. 
 Shake hands ; good-by. The sun is going down, 
 And I must see the glory from the hill. 
 
 I stayed among those hills ; and oft heard more 
 Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, 
 As that of one half grandame and half saint, 
 Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads 
 And younger men all called her mother, aunt, 
 Or granny, with their pet diminutives, 
 And bade their lasses and their brides behave 
 Right well to one who surely made a link 
 "Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both : 
 
Shake hands ; good-rv," — Page 44. 
 
AGATHA. 45 
 
 Not one but counted service done by her, 
 
 Asking no pay save just her daily bread. 
 
 At feasts and weddings, when they passed in 
 
 groups 
 Along the vale, and the good country wine, 
 Being vocal in them, made them quire along 
 In quaintly mingled mirth and piety, 
 They fain must jest and play some friendly trick 
 On three old maids ; but when the moment came 
 Always they bated breath and made their sport 
 Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha 
 Might like the waking for the love it showed. 
 Their song made happy music 'mid the hills y 
 For nature tuned their race to harmony, 
 And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs 
 That grew from out their life, as crocuses 
 From out the meadow's moistness. 'Twas his 
 
 song 
 They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast— 
 The song I give you. It brings in, you see, 
 Their gentle jesting with the three old maids. 
 
 Midnight by the chapel bell ! 
 
 Homeward, homeward all, farewell ! 
 
 I with you, and you with me, 
 
 Miles are short with company. 
 Heart of Mary, bless the way, 
 Keep us all by night and day ! 
 
 Moon and stars at feast with night 
 Now have drunk their fill of light. 
 Home they hurry, making time 
 Trot apace, like merry rhyme. 
 
 Heart of Mary, mystic rose, 
 
 Send us all a sweet repose I 
 
 Swiftly through the wood down hill, 
 Run till you can hear the mill. 
 
4<5 AGATHA. 
 
 Toni's ghost is wandering now, 
 Shaped just like a snow-white cow. 
 Heart of Mary, morning star, 
 Ward off danger, near or far ! 
 
 Toni's wagon with its load 
 Fell and crushed him in the road 
 'Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear ! 
 Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer. 
 Holy Babe, our God and Brother % 
 Bind us fast to one another I 
 
 Hark ! the mill is at its work, 
 Now we pass beyond the murk 
 To the hollow, where the moon 
 Makes her silvery afternoon. 
 
 Good Saint Joseph, faithful spous* 
 Help us all to keep our vows ! 
 
 Here the three old maidens dwell, 
 Agatha and Kate and Nell ; 
 See, the moon shines on the thatch, 
 We will go and shake the latch. 
 Heart of Mary, cup of joy, 
 Give us mirth without alloy ! 
 
 Hush, 'tis here, no noise, sing low, 
 Rap with gentle knuckles — so ! 
 Like the little tapping birds, 
 On the door ; then sing good words. 
 Meek Saint Anna, old and fair, 
 Hallow all the snow-white hair ! 
 
 Little maidens old, sweet dreams ! 
 Sleep one sleep till morning beams. 
 
• "f% 
 
 Swift as soldiers when they ride." — Page 47. 
 
AGATHA. 47 
 
 Mothers ye, who help us all, 
 
 Quick at hand, if ill befall. 
 Holy Gabriel, lily-laden, 
 Bless the aged mother-maiden ! 
 
 Forward, mount the broad hillside 
 
 Swift as soldiers when they ride. 
 
 See the two towers how they peep, 
 
 Round-capped giants, o'er the steep. 
 Heart of Maty, by thy sorrow. 
 Keep us upright through the morrow ! 
 
 Now they rise quite suddenly 
 
 Like a man from bended knee, 
 
 Now Saint Margen is in sight, 
 
 Here the roads branch off — good-night 
 Heart of Maty, by thy grace, 
 Give us with the saints a filac* I 
 
ARMGART 
 
ARMGART. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Salon lit with lamps and ornamented with green 
 plants. An open piano, with many scattered 
 sheets of music. Bronze busts of Beethoven and 
 Gluck on pillars opposite each other. A small 
 table spread with supper. To Fraulein Wal- 
 PURGA, who advances with a slight lameness of 
 gait from an adjoining room, enters Graf Dorn- 
 BERG at the opposite door in a travelling dress. 
 
 Graf. 
 Good-morning - , Fraulein ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 What, so soon returned? 
 I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. 
 
 Graf. 
 But now arrived ! You see my travelling dress. 
 I hurried from the panting, roaring steam 
 Like any courier of embassy 
 Who hides the fiends of war within his bag. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 You know that Armgart sings to-night ? 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Has sung ! 
 'Tis close on half-past nine . The Orpheus 
 Lasts not so long. Her spirits — were they high ? 
 Was Leo confident ? 
 
52 ARMGART, 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 He only feared 
 Some tameness at beginning. Let the house 
 Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 And Armgart ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 She was stiller than her wont. 
 But once, at some such trivial word of mine, 
 As that the highest prize might yet be won 
 By her who took the second — she was roused. 
 " For me," she said, " I triumph or I fail. 
 I never strove for any second prize." 
 
 Graf. 
 Poor human-hearted singing-bird ! She bears 
 Caesar's ambition in her delicate breast, 
 And nought to still it with but quivering song ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 I had not for the world been there to-night : 
 Unreasonable dread oft chills me more 
 Than any reasonable hope can warm. 
 
 Graf. 
 You have a rare affection for your cousin ; 
 As tender as a sister's. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Nay, I fear 
 My love is little more than what I felt 
 For happy stories when I was a child. 
 She fills my life that would be empty else, 
 And lifts my nought to value by her side. 
 
ARMGART. 53 
 
 Graf. 
 
 She is reason good enough, or seems to be, 
 Why all were born whose being ministers 
 To her completeness. Is it most her voice 
 Subdues us ? or her instinct exquisite, 
 Informing each old strain with some new grace 
 Which takes our sense like any natural good ? 
 Or most her spiritual energy 
 That sweeps us in the current of her song ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 I know not. Losing either, we should lose 
 That whole we call our Armgart. For herself, 
 She often wonders what her life had been 
 Without that voice for channel to her soul. 
 She says, it must have leaped through all her 
 
 limbs — 
 Made her a Maenad — made her snatch a brand 
 And fire some forest, that her rage might mount 
 In crashing roaring flames through half a land, 
 Leaving her still and patient for awhile. 
 " Poor wretch ! " she says, of any murderess — 
 " The world was cruel, and she could not 
 
 sing : 
 I carry my revenges in my throat ; 
 I love in singing, and am loved again." 
 
 Graf. 
 Mere mood ! I cannot yet believe it more. 
 Too much ambition has unwomaned her ; 
 But only for a while. Her nature hides 
 One half its treasures by its very wealth, 
 Taxing the hours to show it. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Hark ! she comes. 
 
54 ARMGART. 
 
 fZnter Leo with a wreath in his hand, holding the 
 door open for Armgart, who wears a furred 
 mantle and hood. She is folloiued by her maid, 
 carrying an armful of bouquets, 
 
 Leo. 
 Place for the queen of song ! 
 
 Graf {advancing toward Armgart, who throws 
 off her hood and mantle, and shozus a star of 
 brilliants in her hair). 
 
 A triumph, then. 
 You will not be a niggard of your joy 
 And chide the eagerness that came to share it. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 kind ! you hastened your return for me. 
 
 1 would you had been there to hear me sing ! 
 Walpurga, kiss me : never tremble more 
 
 Lest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has 
 
 found 
 This night the region where her rapture breathes — 
 Pouring her passion on the air made live 
 With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell 
 
 them 
 How I outsang your hope and made you cry 
 Because Gluck could not hear me. That was 
 
 folly ! 
 He sang, not listened : every linked note 
 Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, 
 And all my gladness is but part of him. 
 Give me the wreath. 
 
 [She- crowns the bust of Qujck. 
 
ARMGART. 55 
 
 Leo {sardonically'). 
 
 Ay, ay, but mark you this : 
 It was not part of him — that trill you made 
 In spite of me and reason ! 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 You were wrong- 
 Dear Leo, you were wrong : the house was held 
 As if a storm were listening with delight 
 And hushed its thunder. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Will you ask the house 
 To teach you singing ? Quit your Orpheus then 
 And sing in farces grown to operas. 
 Where all the prurience of the full-fed mob 
 Is tickled with melodic impudence . 
 Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your arms 
 Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace, 
 And set the splendid compass of your voice 
 To lyric jigs. Go to ! I thought you meant 
 To be an artist — lift your audience 
 To see your vision, not trick forth a show 
 To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. 
 
 Armgart {taking tip Leo's hand, and kissing it). 
 
 Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. 
 
 I will do penance : sing a hundred trills 
 
 Into a deep-dug grave, then burying them 
 
 As one did Midas' secret, rid myself 
 
 Of naughty exultation. O I trilled 
 
 At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. 
 
 Go scold them, dearest Leo. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 I stop my ears. 
 Nature in Gluck inspiring Orpheus, 
 Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips } 
 
56 ARMGART. 
 
 Graf. 
 Truce to rebukes ! Tell us — who were not 
 
 there — 
 The double drama : how the expectant house 
 Took the first notes. 
 
 WALPURGA {turning from her occupation of deck* 
 ing the room with the flowers). 
 
 Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. 
 Did you feel tremors ? Leo, how did she look ? 
 Was there a cheer to greet her ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Not a sound. 
 She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, 
 And seemed to see nought but what no man saw. 
 'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient 
 Had done it better. But your blessed public 
 Had never any judgment in cold blood — 
 Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise, 
 Till rapture brings a reason. 
 
 Armgart {scorn full}). 
 
 I knew that ! 
 The women whispered. " Not a pretty face ! " 
 The men, " Well, well, a goodly length of limb : 
 She bears the chiton." — It were all the same 
 Were I the Virgin Mother and my stage 
 The opening heavens at the Judgment-day : ^ 
 Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price 
 Of such a woman in the social mart. 
 What were the drama of the world to them, 
 Unless they felt the hell-prong ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Peace, now, peace . 
 I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er 
 
ARMGART. 57 
 
 With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tune 
 Made bass to rambling- trebles, showering down 
 In endless demi-semi-quavers. 
 
 Armgart (taking- a bon-bon from the table, uplift- 
 ing it before putting itinto her mouth, and turn- 
 ing away). 
 
 Mum ! 
 
 Graf. 
 Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 You first, dear Leo — what you saw and heard ; 
 Then Armgart — she must tell us what she felt. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well ' The first notes came clearly, firmly forth. 
 
 And I was easy, for behind those rills 
 
 I knew there was a fountain. I could see 
 
 The house was breathing gently, heads were 
 
 still ; 
 Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute, 
 And human hearts were swelling. Armgart 
 
 stood 
 As if she had been new-created there 
 And found her voice which found a melody. 
 The minx ! Gluckhad not written, nor I taught : 
 Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. 
 Well, well, all through the scena I could feel 
 The silence tremble now, now poise itself 
 With added weight of feeling, till at last 
 Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note 
 Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar 
 That surged and ebbed and ever surged again, 
 Till expectation kept it pent awhile 
 Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui ! He was changed : 
 
58 ARM G ART. 
 
 My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes 
 That quivered like a bride's who fain would send 
 Backward the rising tear. 
 
 ARMGART {advancing, but then turning away, as 
 if to check her speech). 
 
 I was a bride, 
 As nuns are at their spousals. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Ay, my lady, 
 That moment will not come again : applause 
 May come and plenty ; but the first, first draught ! 
 
 {Snaps his fingers.) 
 
 Music has sounds for it — I know no words. 
 I felt it once myself when they performed 
 My overture to Sintram. Well ! 'tis strange, 
 We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. 
 
 Arm g art {turning quickly). 
 
 Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, 
 And when full Being comes must call on pain 
 To lend it liberal space. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 I hope the house 
 Kept a reserve of plaudits : I am jealous 
 Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good 
 That should have seemed the better and the best. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 No, 'twas a revel where they had but quaffed 
 Their opening cup. I thank the artist's star, 
 
ARMGART. 59 
 
 His audience keeps not sober : once afire, 
 They flame toward climax though his merit hold 
 But fairly even. 
 
 Armgart {her hand on Leo's arm). 
 
 Now, now, confess the truth : 
 I sang still better to the very end — 
 All save the trill ; I give that up to you, 
 To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself, 
 Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped 
 That you might hear heaven clearer. 
 
 Leo {shaking his finger). 
 
 I was raving. 
 Armgart. 
 I am not glad with that mean vanity 
 Which knows no good beyond its appetite 
 Full feasting upon praise ! I am only glad, 
 Being praised for what I know is worth the 
 
 praise ; 
 Glad of the proof that I myself have part 
 In what I worship ! At the last applause — 
 Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed 
 The handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers, 
 Falling like shattered rainbows all around — 
 Think you I felt myself a prima donna? 
 No, but a happy spiritual star 
 Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose 
 Of light in Paradise, whose only self 
 Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, 
 Music, life, power — I moving ; n the midst 
 With a sublime necessity of good. 
 
 Leo {%vith a shrug. ) 
 
 I thought it was a. prima donna came 
 
 Within the side-scenes ; ay, and she was proud 
 
60 ARMGART. 
 
 To find the bouquet from the royal box 
 Inclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear 
 A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star, 
 Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own 
 Ambition has five senses, and a self 
 That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks 
 Plump down from ecstasy. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Own it ? why not ? 
 Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed 
 Silently buried toward a far-off spring ? 
 I sing to living men and my effect 
 Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn 
 Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, 
 Gold, incense, myrrh — 'twill be the needful sign 
 That I have stirred it as the high year stirs 
 Before I sink to winter. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Ecstasies 
 Are short — most happily ! We should but lose 
 Were Armgart borne too commonly and long 
 Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose, 
 She were less apt to soar beyond the reach 
 Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities, 
 Fondness for trifles like that pretty star 
 Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair. 
 
 Armgart {taking out the gem and looking at it). 
 
 This little star ! I would it were the seed 
 
 Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer 
 
 Were the sole speech men told their rapture with 
 
 At Armgart's music. Shall I turn aside 
 
 From splendors which flash out the glow I make, 
 
 And live to make, in all the chosen breasts 
 
 Of half a Continent ? No, may it come, 
 
ARMGART. 6 1 
 
 That splendor ! May the day be near when men 
 Think much to let my horses draw me home, 
 And new lands welcome me upon their beach, 
 Loving me for my fame. That is the truth 
 Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie ? 
 Pretend to seek obscurity — to sing 
 In hope of disregard ? A vile pretence ! 
 And blasphemy besides. For what is fame 
 But the benignant strength of One, transformed 
 To joy of Many ? Tributes, plaudits come 
 As necessary breathing of such joy ; 
 And may they come to me ! 
 
 Graf. 
 
 The auguries 
 Point clearly that way. Is it no offence 
 To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, 
 As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest ? 
 Or has the taste of fame already turned 
 The Woman to a Muse . . . 
 
 Leo {going to the table). 
 
 Who needs no supper. 
 I am her priest, ready to eat her share 
 Of good Walpurga's offerings. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Armgart, come. 
 Graf, will you come ? 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Thanks, I play truant here 
 And must retrieve my self-indulged delay. 
 But will the Muse receive a votary 
 At any hour to-morrow ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Any hour 
 After rehearsal, after twelve at noon. 
 
G2 ARMGART. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same Salon, morning. Armgart seated, in 
 her bonnet and walking dress. The GRAF stand- 
 ing near her against the piano. 
 
 Graf. 
 Armgart, to many minds the first success 
 Is reason for desisting. I have known 
 A man so versatile, he tried all arts, 
 But when in each by turns he had achieved 
 Just so much mastery as made men say, 
 " He could be king here if he would," he threw 
 The lauded skill aside. He hates, said one, 
 The level of achieved pre-eminence, 
 He must be conquering still , but others said — 
 
 Armgart. 
 The truth, I hope : he had a meagre soul, 
 Holding no depth where love could root itself. 
 "Could if he would?" True greatness ever 
 
 wills — 
 It lives in wholeness if it live at all, 
 And all its strength is knit with constancy. 
 
 Graf. 
 He used to say himself he was too sane 
 To give his life away for excellence 
 Which yet must stand, an ivory statuette 
 Wrought to perfection through long lonely years, 
 Huddled in the mart of mediocrities. 
 He said, the very finest doing wins 
 The admiring only ; but to leave undone, 
 Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, 
 Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name 
 As that fair Absent, blameless Possible, 
 
ARMGART. 63 
 
 Whicn could alone impassion them ; and thus, 
 
 Serene negation has free gift of all, 
 
 Panting achievement struggles, is denied, 
 
 Or wins to lose again. What say you, Armgart ? 
 
 Truth has rough flavors if we bite it through ; 
 
 I think this sarcasm came from out its core 
 
 Of bitter irony. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 It is the truth 
 Mean souls select to feed upon. What then ? 
 Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. 
 The praise I seek lives not in envious breath 
 Using my name to blight another's deed. 
 I sing for love of song and that renown 
 Which is the spreading act, the world-wide share, 
 Of good that I was born with. Had I failed — 
 Well, that had been a truth most pitiable 
 I cannot bear to think what life would be 
 With high hope shrunk to endurance, stunted 
 
 aims 
 Like broken lances ground to eating-knives, 
 A self sunk down to look with level eyes 
 At low achievement, doomed from day to day 
 To distate of its consciousness. But I — 
 
 Graf. 
 Have won, not lost, in your decisive throw. 
 And I too glory in this issue ; yet, 
 The public verdict has no potency 
 To sway my judgment of what Armgart is : 
 My pure delight in her would be but sullied, 
 If it o'erflowed with mixture of men's praise. 
 And had she failed, I should have said, "The 
 
 pearl 
 Remains a pearl for me, reflects the light 
 With the same fitness that first charmed my gaze- 
 Is worth as fine a setting now as then." 
 
04 ARMGART. 
 
 Armgart (rising). 
 
 Oh, you are good ! But why will you rehearse 
 The talk of cynics, who with insect eyes 
 Explore the secrets of the rubbish-heap ? 
 I hate your epigrams and pointed saws 
 Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity. 
 Confess your friend was shallow. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 I confess 
 Life is not rounded in an epigram, 
 And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. 
 I quoted, merely to shape forth my thought 
 That high success has terrors when achieved — 
 Like preternatural spouses whose dire love 
 Hangs perilous on slight observances : 
 Whence it were possible that Armgart crowned 
 Might turn and listen to a pleading voice. 
 Though Armgart striving in the race was deaf. 
 You said you dared not think what life had been 
 Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought 
 How you will bear the poise of eminence 
 With dread of sliding ? Paint the future out 
 As an unchecked and glorious career, 
 'Twill grow more strenuous by the very love 
 You bear to excellence, the very fate 
 Of human powers, which tread at every step 
 On possible verges. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I accept the peril. 
 I choose to walk high with sublimer dread 
 Rather than crawl in safety. And, besides, 
 I am an artist as you are a noble : 
 I ought to bear the burthen of my rank. 
 
ARMGART. 65 
 
 Graf. 
 Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares 
 To catch the mind with seeming argument — 
 Small baits of likeness 'mid disparity. 
 Men rise the higher as their task is high, 
 The task being well achieved. A woman's rank 
 Lies in the fulness of her womanhood : 
 Therein alone she is royal. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Yes, I know 
 The oft-taught Gospel : " Woman, thy desire 
 Shall be that all superlatives on earth 
 Belong to men, save the one highest kind — 
 To be a mother. Thou shalt not desire 
 To do aught best save pure subservience : 
 Nature has willed it so !" O blessed Nature ! 
 Let her be arbitress ; she gave me voice 
 Such as she only gives a woman child, 
 Best of its kind, gave me ambition too, 
 That sense transcendent which can taste the joy 
 Of swaying multitudes, of being adored 
 For such achievement, needed excellence, 
 As man's best art must wait for, or be dumb. 
 Men did not say, when I had sung last night, 
 " 'Twas good, nay, wonderful, considering 
 She is a woman " — and then turn to add, 
 " Tenor or baritone had sung her songs 
 Better, of course : she's but a woman spoiled." 
 I beg your pardon, Graf, you said it. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 No! 
 How should I say it, Armgart ? I who own 
 The magic of your nature-given art 
 As sweetest effluence of your womanhood 
 Which, being to my choice the best, must find 
 
66 ARMGART. 
 
 The best of utterance. But this I say : 
 Your fervid youth beguiles you ; you mistake 
 A strain of lyric passion for a life 
 Which in the spending is a chronicle 
 With ugly pages. Trust me, Armgart, trust me \ 
 Ambition exquisite as yours which soars 
 Toward something quintessential you call fame, 
 Is not robust enough for this gross world 
 Whose fame is dense with false and foolish 
 
 breath. 
 Ardor, a-twin with nice refining thought, 
 Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, 
 Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned 
 As woman only, holding all your art 
 As attribute to that dear sovereignty — 
 Concentring your power in home delights 
 Which penetrate and purify the world. 
 
 Armgart. 
 What ! leave the opera with my part ill-sung 
 While I was warbling in a drawing-room ? 
 Sing in the chimney-corner to inspire 
 My husband reading news ? Let the world hear 
 My music only in his morning speech 
 Less stammering than most honorable men's ? 
 No ! tell me that my song is poor, my art 
 The piteous feat of weakness aping strength— 
 That were fit proem to your argument. 
 Till then, I am an artist by my birth — 
 By the same warrant that I am a woman : 
 Nay, in the added rarer gift I see 
 Supreme vocation : if a conflict comes, 
 Perish — no, not the woman, but the joys 
 Which men make narrow by their narrowness. 
 Oh, I am happy ! The great masters write 
 For women's voices, and great Music wants me ! 
 I need not crush mvself within a mould 
 
ARM G ART. 67 
 
 Of theory called Nature : I have room 
 To breathe and grow unstunted. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, hear me. 
 I meant not that our talk should hurry on 
 To such collision. Foresight of the ills 
 Thick shadowing your path, drew on my speech 
 Beyond intention. True, I came to ask 
 A great renunciation, but not this 
 Toward which my words at first perversely 
 
 strayed, 
 As if in memory of their earlier suit, 
 
 Forgetful 
 
 Armgart, do you remember too ? the suit 
 Had but postponement, was not quite disdained — 
 Was told to wait and learn — what it has learned — 
 A more submissive speech. 
 
 Armgart {with some agitation). 
 
 Then it forgot 
 Its lesson cruelly. As I remember, 
 'Twas not to speak save to the artist crowned, 
 Nor speak to her of casting off her crown. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Nor will it, Armgart. I come not to seek 
 
 Any renunciation save the wife's, 
 
 Which turns away from other possible love 
 
 Future and worthier, to take his love 
 
 Who asks the name of husband. He who sought 
 
 Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, 
 
 "Waif- 
 May come without suspicion now to seek 
 Armgart applauded. 
 
68 ARM G ART. 
 
 Armgart {turning toward him). 
 
 Yes, without suspicion 
 Of aught save what consists with faithfulness 
 In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf — 
 I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me — 
 To you most grateful. Yet the best intent 
 Grasps but a living present which may grow 
 Like any unfledged bird. You are a noble, 
 And have a high career ; just now you said 
 'Twas higher far than aught a woman seeks 
 Beyond mere womanhood- You claim to be 
 More than a husband, but could not rejoice 
 That I were more than wife. What follows, 
 
 then ? 
 You choosing me with such persistency 
 As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find 
 Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve 
 To share renunciation or demand it. 
 Either we both renounce a mutual ease, 
 As in a nation's need both man and wife 
 Do public services, or one of us 
 Must yield that something else for which each 
 
 lives 
 Besides the other. Men are reasoners : 
 That premiss of superior claims perforce 
 Urges conclusion — " Armgart, it is you." 
 
 Graf. 
 
 But if I say I have considered this 
 With strict prevision, counted all the cost 
 Which that great good of loving you demands — 
 Questioned by stores of patience, half resolved 
 To live resigned without a bliss whose threat 
 Touched you as well as me — and finally, 
 With impetus of undivided will 
 Returned to say, " You shall be free as now; 
 
ARM G ART. 69 
 
 Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard, 
 
 My love will give your freedom " — then your 
 
 words 
 Are hard accusal. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Well, I accuse myself. 
 My love would be accomplice of your will. 
 
 Graf. 
 Again — my will ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, your unspoken will. 
 Your silent tolerance would torture me, 
 And on that rack I should deny the good 
 I yet believed in. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Then I am the man 
 Whom you would love ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Whom I refuse to love i 
 No ; I will live alone and pour my pain 
 With passion into music, where it turns 
 To what is best within my better self. 
 I will not take for husband one who deems 
 The thing my soul acknowledges as good — 
 The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for, 
 To be a thing dispensed with easily 
 Or else the idol of a mind infirm. 
 
 Graf. 
 Armgart, you are ungenerous : you strain 
 My thought beyond its mark. Our difference 
 Lies not so deep as love — as union 
 Through a mysterious fitness that transcends 
 Formal agreement. 
 
70 ARMGART, 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 It lies deep enough 
 To chafe the union. If many a man 
 Refrains, degraded, from the utmost right, 
 Because the pleadings of his wife's small fears 
 Are little serpents biting at his heel — 
 How shall a woman keep her steadfastness 
 Beneath a frost within her husband's eyes 
 Where coldness scorches ? Graf, it is your sorrow 
 That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow 
 That she may not love you. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Woman, it seems, 
 Has enviable power to love or not 
 According to her will. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 She has the will-^ 
 I have — who am one woman — not to take 
 Disloyal pledges that divide her will. 
 The man who marries me must wed my Art — 
 Honor and cherish it, not tolerate. 
 
 Graf. 
 The man is yet to come whose theory 
 Will weigh as nought with you against his love. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Whose theory will plead beside his love. 
 
 Graf. 
 Himself a singer, then ? who knows no life 
 Out of the opera books, where tenor parts 
 Are found to suit him ? 
 
ARMGART. 7 1 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 You are biker, Graf. 
 Forgive me; seek the woman you deserve, 
 All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found 
 A meaning in her life, nor any end 
 Beyond fulfilling yours. The type abounds. 
 
 Graf. 
 And happily, for the world. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Yes, happily 
 Let it excuse me that my kind is rare : 
 Commonness is its own security. 
 
 Graf. 
 Armgart, I would with all my soul I knew 
 The man so rare that he could make your life 
 As woman sweet to you, as artist safe. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Oh, I can live unmated, but not live 
 Without the bliss of singing to the world, 
 And feeling all my world respond to me. 
 
 Graf. 
 May it be lasting. Then, we two must part ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell ! 
 
72 ARMGART. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Year Later. 
 
 The same Salon. Walpurga is standing looking 
 toward the windotu with an air of uneasiness. 
 Doctor Grahn. 
 
 Doctor. 
 Where is my patient, Fraulein ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Fled ! escaped ! 
 Gone to rehearsal. Is it dangerous ? 
 
 Doctor. 
 No, no ; her throat is cured. I only came 
 To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 No : she had meant to wait for you. She said, 
 " The Doctor has a right to my first song." 
 Her gratitude was full of little plans, 
 But all were swept away like gathered flowers 
 By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill — 
 It was a wasp to sting her : she turned pale. 
 Snatched up her hat and mufflers, said in haste, 
 " I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none 
 Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me !" 
 Then rushed down -stairs. 
 
 Doctor {looking at his watch). 
 
 And this, not long ago ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Barely an hour. 
 
ARMGART. 73 
 
 Doctor. 
 I will come again, 
 Returning from Charlottenburg at one. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Doctor, I feel a strange presentiment. 
 Are you quite easy ? 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 She can take no harm. 
 'Twas time for her to sing : her throat is well, 
 It was a fierce attack, and dangerous ; 
 I had to use strong remedies, but — well ! 
 At one, dear Fraulein, we shall meet again. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Two Hours Later. 
 
 Walpurga starts up, looking toward the door. 
 Armgart enters, followed by Leo. She throws 
 herself on a chair which stands with its back 
 toward the door, speechless, not seeming to see 
 anything. Walpurga casts a questioning ter- 
 rified look at Leo. He shrugs his shoulders, 
 and lifts up his hands behind Armgart, who 
 sits like a helpless image, while WALPURGA takes 
 off her hat and mantle. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Armgart, dear Armgart {kneeling and taking her 
 
 hands), only speak to me. 
 Your poor Walpurga. Oh, your hands are cold. 
 Clasp mine, and warm them ! I will kiss them 
 
 warm. 
 
74 ARMGART. 
 
 (Armgart locks at her an instant, then drains 
 away her hands, and, turning aside, buries her 
 face against the back of the chair, WALPURGA 
 t ising and stan ding near. ) 
 
 (Doctor Grahn enters % \ 
 
 Doctor. 
 News ! stirring news to-day Iwonders come thick. 
 
 Armgart {starting up at the first sound of hit 
 voice, and speaking vehement/}'). 
 
 Yes, thick, thick, thick ! and you have murdered 
 
 it ! 
 Murdered my voice — poisoned the soul in me, 
 And kept me living. 
 You never told me that your cruel cures 
 Were clogging films — a mouldy, dead'ning 
 
 blight— 
 A lava-mud to crust and bury me, 
 Yet hold me living in a deep, deep tomb, 
 Crying unheard for ever ! Oh, your cures 
 Are devil's triumphs : you can rob, maim, slay, 
 And keep a hell on the other side your cure 
 Where you can see your victim quivering 
 Between the teeth of torture — see a soul 
 Made keen by loss — all anguish with a good 
 Once known and gone ! ( Tu?-ns and sinks back 
 
 on her chair. ) 
 
 O misery, misery ! 
 You might have killed me, might have let me 
 
 sleep 
 After my happy day and wake — not here \ 
 In some new unremembered world — not here, 
 Where all is faded, flat — a feast broke off — 
 Banners all meaningless — exulting words 
 Dull, dull — a drum that lingers in the air 
 
^ 
 
 " O MISERY, MISERY ! 
 
 YOU MIGHT HAVE KILLED ME, MIGHT HAVE LET ME SLEEP." 
 
 -Page 74. 
 
ARMGART. 75 
 
 Beating to melody which no man hears. 
 
 Doctor {after a moment's silence.} 
 A sudden check has shaken you, poor child ! 
 A.11 things seem livid, tottering to your sense, 
 From inward tumult. Stricken by a threat 
 You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo : 
 'Tis not such utter loss. 
 
 (Leo, with a shrug, goes quietly out.} 
 
 The freshest bloom 
 Merely, has left the fruit ; the fruit itself . . . 
 
 Armgart. 
 Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hide 
 Away from scorn or pity. Oh, you stand 
 And look compassionate now, but when Death 
 
 came 
 With mercy in his hands, you hindered him. 
 I did not choose to live and have your pity. 
 You never told me, never gave me choice 
 To die a singer, lightning-struck, unmaimed, 
 Or live what you would make me with your cures — 
 A self accursed with consciousness of change, 
 A mind that lives in nought but members lopped, 
 A power turned to pain — as meaningless 
 As letters fallen asunder that once made 
 A hymn of rapture. Oh, I had meaning once 
 Like day and sweetest air. What am I now ? 
 The millionth woman in superfluous herds. 
 Why should I be, do, think ? 'Tis thistle-seed, 
 That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap. 
 Leave me alone ! 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Well, I will come again ; 
 Send for me when you will, though but to rate me 
 That is medicinal — a letting blood. 
 
J 6 ARMGART. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, there is one physician, only one, 
 
 Who cures and never spoils. Him I shall send 
 
 for; 
 He comes readily. 
 
 Doctor (to Walpurga). 
 
 One word, dear Fraulein. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Armgart, Walpurga. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Walpurga, have you walked this morning ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 No. 
 Armgart. 
 
 Go, then, and walk ; I wish to be alone. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 I will not leave you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Will not, at my wish 1 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Will not, because you wish it. Say no more, 
 But take this draught. 
 
ARMGART. 77 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 The Doctor gave it you ? 
 It is an anodyne. Put it away. 
 He cured me of my voice, and now he wants 
 To cure me of my vision and resolve — 
 Drug me to sleep that I may wake again 
 Without a purpose, abject as the rest 
 To bear the yoke of life. He shall not cheat rac 
 Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the 
 
 soul, 
 The inspiration of revolt, ere rage 
 Slackens to faltering. Now I see the truth. 
 
 WALPURGA {setting down the glass). 
 
 Then you must see a future in your reach, 
 With happiness enough to make a dower 
 For two of modest claims. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, you intone 
 That chant of consolation wherewith ease 
 Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 No ; I would not console you, but rebuke. 
 
 Armgart. 
 That is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. 
 Say what you will. But now I want to write. 
 
 {She rises and moves toward a table?) 
 
 Walpurga. 
 I say then, you are simply fevered, mad ; 
 You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish 
 If you would change the light, throw into shade 
 The loss you aggrandize, and let day fall 
 
78 ARMGART. 
 
 On good remaining, nay on good refused 
 Which may be gain now. Did you not reject 
 A woman's lot more brilliant, as some held, 
 Than any singer's ? It may still be yours. 
 Graf Dornberg loved you well. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Not me, not me, 
 He loved one well who was like me in all 
 Save in a voice which made that All unlike 
 As diamond is to charcoal. Oh, a man's love ! 
 Think you he loves a woman's inner self 
 Aching with loss of loveliness ? — as mothers 
 Cleave to the palpitating pain that dwells 
 Within their misformed offspring ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 But the Graf 
 Chose you as simple Armgart — had preferred 
 That you should never seek for any fame 
 But such as matrons have who rear great sons. 
 And therefore you rejected him ; but now — 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Ay, now — now he would see me as I am, 
 
 {She takes up a hand-mirrot ,) 
 
 Russet and songless as a missel-thrush. 
 
 An ordinary girl — a plain brown girl, 
 
 Who, if some meaning flash from out her words, 
 
 Shocks as a disproportioned thing — a Will 
 
 That, like an arm astretch and broken off, 
 
 Has nought to hurl — the torso of a soul. 
 
 I sang him into love of me : my song 
 
 Was consecration, lifted me apart 
 
 From the crowd chiselled like me, sister forms, 
 
ARMGART. 79 
 
 But empty of divineness. Nay, my charm 
 Was half that I could win fame yet renounce . 
 A wife with glory possible absorbed 
 Into her husband's actual. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 For shame ! 
 Armgart, you slander him. What would you say 
 If now he came to you and asked again 
 That you would be his wife ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 No, and thrice no ! 
 It would be pitying constancy, not love. 
 That brought him to me now. I will not be 
 A pensioner in marriage. Sacraments 
 Are not to feed the paupers of the world. 
 If he were generous — I am generous too. 
 
 WALrURGA. 
 
 Proud, Armgart, but not generous. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Say no more. 
 He will not know until — 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 He knows already. 
 
 Armgart {quickly). 
 Is he come back ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Yes, and will soon be here. 
 The Doctor had twice seen him and would go 
 From hence again to see him. 
 
So ARMGART. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Well, he knows, 
 It is all ons. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 What if he were outside ? 
 I hear a footstep in the ante-room. 
 
 Armgart {raising herself and assuming calmness}* 
 
 Why let him come, of course, I shall behave 
 Like what I am, a common personage 
 Who looks for nothing- but civility. 
 I shall not play the fallen heroine, 
 Assume a tragic part and throw out cues 
 For a beseeching lover. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Some one raps. 
 
 (Goes to the door.) 
 A letter — from the Graf. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Then open it. 
 (Walpurga still offers it.) 
 Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. 
 
 (Walpurga opens it, reads and pauses. ) 
 Read it. Have done ! No matter what it is. 
 Walpurga (reads in a lota, hesitating voice ). 
 
 " I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear 
 of your illness and its cruel result, just now com- 
 municated to me by Dr. Grahn. But surely it is 
 possible that this result may not be permanent. 
 For youth such as yours, Time may hold in store 
 something more than resignation : who shall say 
 that it does not hold renewal ? I have not dared 
 
ARMGART. 8 1 
 
 to ask admission to you in the hours of a recent 
 shock, but I cannot depart on a long mission 
 without tendering my sympathy and my farewell. 
 I start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence 
 I proceed to India, where I am intrusted by the 
 Government with business which may be of long 
 duration." 
 
 (Walpurga sits down dejectedly.) 
 
 Armgart {after a slight shudder, bitterly). 
 
 The Graf has much discretion. I am glad. 
 He spares us both a pain, not seeing me. 
 What I like least is that consoling hope — 
 That empty cup, so neatly ciphered " Time," 
 Handed me as a cordial for despair. 
 {Slowly and dreamily) Time — what a word to fling 
 
 as charity ! 
 Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain — 
 Days, months, and years ! — If I would wait for 
 
 them 
 
 {She takes up her hat and puts it on, then 
 wraps her mantle round her. Walpurga 
 leaves the room.) 
 
 Why, this is but beginning. (Walp. re-enters?) 
 
 Kiss me, dear. 
 I am going now — alone — out — for a walk. 
 Say you will never wound me any more 
 With such cajolery as nurses use 
 To patients amorous of a crippled life. 
 Flatter the blind : I see. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Well. I was wrong. 
 In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers merely 
 Believe me, I will flatter you no more. 
 
82 ARMGART. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Bear witness, I am calm. I read my lot 
 
 As soberly as if it were a tale 
 
 Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called 
 
 "The Woman's Lot : a Tale of Everyday :" 
 
 A middling woman's, to impress the world 
 
 With high superfluousness ; her thoughts a crop 
 
 Of chick-weed errors or of pot-herb facts, 
 
 Smiled at like some child's drawing on a slate. 
 
 44 Genteel ?" 44 O yes, gives lessons ; not so good 
 
 As any man's would be, but cheaper far." 
 
 44 Pretty ?" 44 No : yet she makes a figure fit 
 
 For good society. Poor thing, she sews 
 
 Both late and early, turns and alters all 
 
 To suit the changing mode. Some widower 
 
 Might do well, marrying her ; but in these 
 
 days ! . . . 
 Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains 
 By writing, just to furnish her with gloves 
 And droschkies in the rain. They print hei 
 
 things 
 Often for charity."— Oh. a dog's life ! 
 A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart 
 Voted a nuisance ! I am going now. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Not now, the door is locked. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Give me the key ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Pocked on the outside. Gretchen has the key : 
 She is gone on errands. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 What, you dare to keep me 
 Your prisoner ? 
 
ARMGART. 83 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 And have I not been youis ? 
 Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in. 
 Perhaps that middling woman whom you paint 
 With far-off scorn 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I paint what I must be ! 
 What is my soul to me without the voice 
 That gave it freedom ? — gave it one grand touch 
 And made it nobly human ? — Prisoned now, 
 Prisoned in all the petty mimicries 
 Called woman's knowledge, that will fit the world 
 As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do nought 
 Better than what a million women do — 
 Must drudge among the crowd and feel my life 
 Beating upon the world without response, 
 Beating with passion through an insect's horn 
 That moves a millet-seed laboriously. 
 If I would do it ! 
 
 Walpurga (coldly). 
 
 And why should you not ? 
 
 Armgart (turning quickly). 
 Because Heaven made me royal — wrought me 
 
 out 
 With subtle finish toward pre-eminence, 
 Made every channel of my soul converge 
 To one high function, and then flung me down, 
 That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain. 
 An inborn passion gives a rebel's right : 
 I would rebel and die in twenty worlds 
 Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life, 
 Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste, 
 Hunger not satisfied but kept alive 
 
84 ARMGART. 
 
 Breathing in languor half a century. 
 
 All the world now is but a rack of threads 
 
 To twist and dwarf me into pettiness 
 
 And basely feigned content, the placid mask 
 
 Of women's misery. 
 
 Walpurga {indignantly). 
 Ay, such a mask 
 As the few born like you to easy joy, 
 Cradled in privilege, take for natural 
 On all the lowly faces that must look 
 Upward to you ! What revelation now 
 Shows you the mask or gives presentiment 
 Of sadness hidden ? You who every day 
 These five years saw me limp to wait on you. 
 And thought the order perfect which gave me, 
 The girl without pretension to be aught, 
 A splendid cousin for my happiness : 
 To watch the night through when her brain was 
 
 fired 
 With too much gladness — listen, always listen 
 To what she felt, who having power had right 
 To feel exorbitantly, and submerge 
 The souls around her with the poured-out flood 
 Of what must be ere she were satisfied ! 
 That was feigned patience, was it ? Why not love, 
 Love nurtured even with that strength of self 
 Which found no room save in another's life ? 
 Oh, such as I know joy by negatives. 
 And all their deepest passion is a pang 
 Till they accept their pauper's heritage, 
 And meekly live from out the general store 
 Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept — 
 Nay, now would sooner choose it than the wealth 
 Of natures you call royal, who can live 
 In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe. 
 Thinking their smiles may heal it. 
 
ARMGART. 85 
 
 Armgart {tremulously). 
 
 Nay, Walpurga, 
 I did not make a palace of my joy 
 To shut the world's truth from me. All my good 
 Was that I touched the world and made a part 
 In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss 
 It was the glimpse of consciousness divine 
 Which pours out day and sees the day is good. 
 Now I am fallen dark ; I sit in gloom, 
 Remembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth ; 
 I wearied you, it seems ; took all your help 
 As cushioned nobles use a weary serf, 
 Not looking at his face. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Oh, I but stand 
 As a small symbol for the mighty sum 
 Of claims unpaid to needy myriads ; 
 I think you never set your loss beside 
 That mighty deficit. Is your work gone — 
 The prouder queenly work that paid itself 
 And yet was overpaid with men's applause ? 
 Are you no longer chartered, privileged, 
 But sunk to simple woman's penury. 
 To ruthless Nature's chary average — 
 Where is the rebel's right for you alone ? 
 Noble rebellion lifts a common load ; 
 But what is he who flings his own load off 
 And leaves his fellows toiling ? Rebel's right ? 
 Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled 
 From your clear height on all the million lots 
 Which yet you brand as abject. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I was blind 
 With too much happiness : true vision comes 
 Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one 
 
86 ARMGART. 
 
 This moment near me, suffering what I feel, 
 And needing me for comfort in her pang — 
 Then it were worth the while to live ; not else. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 One — near you — why, they throng ! you hardly 
 
 stir 
 But your act touches them. We touch afar. 
 For did not swarthy slaves of yesterday 
 Leap in their bondage at the Hebrews' flight, 
 Which touched them through the thrice millennial 
 
 dark? 
 But you can find the sufferer you need 
 With touch less subtle. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Who has need of me ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 Love finds the need it fills. But you are hard. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Is it not you, Walpurga. who are hard? 
 You humored all my wishes till to-day, 
 When fate has blighted me. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 You would not hear 
 The " chant of consolation :" words of hope 
 Only embittered you. Then hear the truth — 
 A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised 
 For being cheerful. " It is well," they said : 
 ' ' W r ere she cross-grained she could not be en- 
 dured." 
 A word of truth from her had startled you ; 
 But you — you claimed the universe ; nought less 
 Than all existence working in sure tracks 
 
ARMGART. 87 
 
 Toward your supremacy. The wheels might 
 
 scathe 
 A myriad destinies — nay, must perforce ; 
 But yours they must keep clear of ; just for you 
 The seething atoms through the firmament 
 Must bear a human heart — which you had not ! 
 For what is it to you that women, men, 
 Plod, faint, are weary, and espouse despair 
 Of aught but fellowship ? Save that you spurn 
 To be among them ? Now, then, you are lame — ■ 
 Maimed, as you said, and levelled with the crowd : 
 Call it new birth — birth from that monstrous Self 
 Which, smiling down upon a race oppressed, 
 Says, " All is good, for I am throned at ease." 
 Dear Armgart — nay, you tremble — I am cruel. 
 
 ArmgArt. 
 O no ! hark ! Some one knocks. Come in ! — ■ 
 
 come in : 
 
 {Enter Leo.) 
 Leo. 
 
 See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest 
 Longer away from you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Sit down, dear Leo. 
 Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. 
 
 (Walpurga goes out.) 
 Leo (hesitatingly) . 
 You mean to walk? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 No, I shall stay within. 
 
88 ARMGART. 
 
 (She takes off her hat a?id mantle, and sits down 
 immediately. After a pause, speaking in a 
 subdued tone to Leo.) 
 
 How old are you ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Threescore and five. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 That's old. 
 I never thought till now how you have lived. 
 They hardly ever play your music ? 
 
 Leo {raising his eyebrows and throwing out his 
 lip). 
 
 No! 
 Schubert too wrote for silence : half his work 
 Lay like a frozen Rhine till summers came 
 That warmed the grass above him. Even so ! 
 His music lives now with a mighty youth. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Do you think yours will live when you are dead ? 
 
 Leo. 
 Pfui ! The time was, I drank that home-brewed 
 
 wine 
 And found it heady, while my blood was young : 
 Now it scarce warms me. Tipple it as I may, 
 I am sober still, and say : " My old friend Leo, 
 Much grain is wasted in the world and rots , 
 Why not thy handful ? " 
 
 Armgart. 
 Strange ! since I have known you 
 Till now I never wondered how you lived. 
 When I sang well — that was your jubilee. 
 But vou were old already. 
 
ARMGART. 89 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, child, yes : 
 Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life ; 
 Age has but travelled from a far-off time 
 Just to be ready for youth's service. Well ! 
 It was my chief delight to perfect you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Good Leo ! You have lived on little joys. 
 But your delight in me is crushed for ever. 
 Your pains, where are they now ? They shaped 
 
 intent. 
 Which action frustrates ; shaped an inward sense 
 Which is but keen despair, the agony 
 Of highest vision in the lowest pit. 
 
 Leo. 
 Nay, nay, I have a thought : keep to the stage, 
 To drama without song ; for you can act — 
 Who knows how well, when all the soul is poured 
 Into that sluice alone ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I know, and you : 
 The second or third best in tragedies 
 That cease to touch the fibre of the time. 
 No ; song is gone, but nature's other gift, 
 Self-judgment, is not gone. Song was my 
 
 speech, 
 And with its impulse only, action came : 
 Song was the battle's onset, when cool purpose 
 Glows into rage, becomes a warring god 
 And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — 
 Oh, I should stand hemmed in with thoughts and 
 
 rules — 
 Say " This way passion acts," yet never feel 
 The might of passion. How should I declaim? 
 
90 ARMGART. 
 
 As monsters write with feet instead of hands 
 I will not feed on doing great tasks ill, 
 Dull the world's sense with mediocrity, 
 And live by trash that smothers excellence. 
 One gift I had that ranked me with the best— 
 The secret of my frame — and that is gone. 
 For all life now I am a broken thing. 
 But silence there ! Good Leo, advise me now. 
 I would take humble work and do it well — 
 Teach music, singing — what I can — not here, 
 But in some smaller town where I may bring 
 The method you have taught me, pass your gift 
 To others who can use it for delight. 
 You think I can do that ? 
 
 {She pauses with a sob in her voice.} 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, yes, dear child ! 
 And it were well, perhaps, to change the place- 
 Begin afresh as I did when I left 
 Vienna with a heart half broken. 
 
 Armgart (routed 'by surprise). 
 You? 
 Leo. 
 Well, it is long ago. But I had lost — 
 No matter ! We must bury our dead joys 
 And live above them with a living world. 
 But whither, think you, you would like to got 
 
 Armgart. 
 To Freiburg. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 In the Breisgau ? Ana why "th^re t 
 It is too small. 
 
ARM G ART. 9 I 
 
 Armgart. 
 Walpurga was born there, 
 And loves the place. She quitted it for me 
 These five years past. Now I will take her 
 
 there. 
 Dear Leo, I will bury my dead joy. 
 
 Leo. 
 Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love 
 Another's living child. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, it is hard 
 To take the little corpse, and lay it low, 
 And say, " None misses it but me." 
 She sings . . 
 I mean Paulina sings Fidelio, 
 And they will welcome her to-night. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well, well 
 Tis better that our griefs should not spread far. 
 
 1870, 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time, 
 Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme — 
 When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, 
 Was like a garden tangled with the glory 
 Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, 
 Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown, 
 Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, 
 And springing blades, green troops in innocent 
 
 wars, 
 Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth, 
 Making invisible motion visible birth — 
 Six hundred years ago, Palermo town 
 Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, 
 A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke 
 Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock 
 To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 
 'Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon, 
 Was welcomed master of all Sicily, 
 A royal knight, supreme as kings should be 
 In strength and gentleness that make high 
 
 chivalry. 
 
 Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace, 
 Where generous men rode steeds of generous 
 
 race ; 
 Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired 
 By mutual spirit, that each motion fired 
 With beauteous response, like minstrelsy 
 Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy. 
 So when Palermo made high festival. 
 The joy of matrons and of maidens all 
 
96 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Was the mock terror of the tournament, 
 Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent, 
 Took exaltation as from epic song, 
 Which greatly tells the pains that to great life 
 
 belong. 
 And in all eyes King Pedro was the king 
 Of cavaliers : as in a full-gemmed ring 
 The largest ruby, or as that bright star 
 Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. 
 His the best jennet, and he sat it best ; 
 His weapon, whether tilting or in rest, 
 Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen 
 Gave to the promise of his royal mien 
 Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes 
 Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise 
 Of vernal day.whose joy o'er stream and meadow 
 
 flies. 
 
 But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed 
 The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed; 
 With innocent faces budding all arow 
 From balconies and windows high and low, 
 Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow, 
 The impregnation with supernal fire 
 Of young ideal love — transformed desire, 
 Whose passion is but worship of that Best 
 Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young 
 
 breast ? 
 Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line, 
 Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, 
 Who from his merchant-city hither came 
 To trade in drugs ; yet kept an honest fame, 
 And had the virtue not to try and sell 
 Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, 
 But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake, 
 Whom with a father's care he sought to make 
 The bride of some true honorable man : 
 
And in all eyes King Pedro was the king of 
 cavaliers."— Page 9 6. 
 
HO W LISA L O VED THE KING. <) 7 
 
 Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran), 
 Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were ; 
 For still your trader likes a mixture fair 
 Of blood that hurries to some higher strain 
 Than reckoning money's loss and money's gain. 
 And of such mixture good may surely come : 
 Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, 
 A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, 
 And have less conscious manners, better bred ; 
 Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead. 
 
 'Twas Perdicone's friends made overtures 
 To good Bernardo : so one dame assures 
 Her neighbor dame who notices the youth 
 Fixing his eyes on Lisa ; and in truth 
 Eyes that could see her on this summer day 
 Might find it hard to turn another way. 
 She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad ; 
 Rather, like minor cadences that glad 
 The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs ; 
 And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse 
 Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow, 
 Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow 
 By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought, 
 Then quickened by him with the passionate 
 
 thought, 
 The soul that trembled in the lustrous night 
 Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight, 
 It seemed she could have floated in the sky, 
 And with the angelic choir made symphony ; 
 But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the daik 
 Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark 
 Of kinship to her generous mother earth, 
 The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees 
 
 birth. 
 
 She saw not Perdicone ; her young mind 
 Dreamed not that any man had ever pined 
 
90 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 For such a little simple maid as she : 
 She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be 
 To love some hero noble, beauteous, great, 
 Who would live stories worthy to narrate, 
 Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy, 
 The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy 
 Who conquered everything beneath the sun, 
 And somehow, some time, died at Babylon 
 Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good 
 And fair as that archangel who withstood 
 The Evil One, the author of all wrong — 
 That Evil One who made the French so strong ; 
 And now the flower of heroes must be he 
 Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, 
 So that her maids might walk to vespers tran- 
 quilly. 
 
 Young Lisa saw this hero in the king, 
 
 And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring 
 
 Might dream the light that opes their modest eyne 
 
 Was lily-odored — and as rites divine, 
 
 Round turf-laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone, 
 
 Draw sanctity from out the heart alone 
 
 That loves and worships, so the miniature 
 
 Ferplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure, 
 
 Filled with heroic virtues that bright form, 
 
 Raona's royalty, the finished norm 
 
 Of horsemanship — the half of chivalry : 
 
 For how could generous men avengers be, 
 
 Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet? — 
 
 These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria 
 
 meet 
 In one self world where the same right had sway, 
 And good must grow as grew the blessed day. 
 No more ; great Love his essence had endued 
 With Pedro's form, and entering subdued 
 The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense, 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 99 
 
 Proud in its choice of proud obedience 
 To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. 
 
 Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, 
 And in her chamber through the hours of rest 
 The darkness was alight for her with sheen 
 Of arms, and plumed helm, and bright between 
 Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring 
 'Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 
 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king 
 Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there 
 Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare : 
 The impalpable dream was turned to breathing 
 
 flesh, 
 Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh 
 Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves, 
 Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes 
 That she could be content if he but knew 
 (Her poor small self could claim no other due) 
 How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach 
 Of winged passion, whereto winged speech 
 Would be scorched remnants left by mountain 
 
 flame. 
 Though, had she such lame message, were it 
 
 blame 
 To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank 
 She held in loving ? Modest maidens shrank 
 From telling love that fed on selfish hope ; 
 But love, as hopeless as the shattering song 
 Wailed for loved beings who have joined the 
 
 throng 
 Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, but she was 
 
 weak — 
 Knew only prayers and ballads — could not speak 
 With eloquence save what dumb creatures have. 
 That with small cries and touches small boons 
 
lOO HO W LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 She watched all day that she might see him pass 
 With knights and ladies ; but she said, " Alas ! 
 Though he should see me, it were all as one 
 He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone 
 Of wall or balcony : some colored spot 
 His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not. 
 I have no music-touch that could bring nigh 
 My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die, 
 And he will never know who Lisa was — 
 The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose 
 As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years dis- 
 close . 
 
 "For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen 
 A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green 
 Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need 
 No change within to make me queenly there , 
 For they the royal-hearted women are 
 Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace 
 For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, 
 Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, 
 The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. 
 My love is such, it cannot choose but soar 
 Up to the highest ; yet for evermore, 
 Though I were happy, throned beside the king, 
 I should be tender to each little thing 
 With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell 
 Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well 
 With tender touch and with a low soft moan 
 For company : my dumb love-pang is lone, 
 Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed 
 stone." 
 
 So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. 
 Each night the August moon with changing 
 
 phase 
 Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain 
 
I O 2 HO IV LISA LO VED THE KING. 
 
 Wandering all o'er its little world, had sought 
 How she could reach, by some soft pleading 
 
 touch, 
 King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much 
 Dying, might have a place within his mind — 
 A little grave which he would sometimes find 
 And plant some flower on it — some thought, some 
 
 memory kind, 
 Till in her dream she saw Minuccio 
 Touching his viola, and chanting low 
 A strain that, falling on her brokenly, 
 Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree, 
 Each burthened with a word that was a scent — 
 Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament ; 
 Then in her dream she said, " He sings of me — 
 Might be my messenger ; ah, now I see 
 The king is listening — " Then she awoke, 
 And, missing her dear dream, that new-born 
 
 longing spoke. 
 
 She longed for music : that was natural ; 
 
 Physicians said it was medicinal ; 
 
 The humors might be schooled by true consent 
 
 Of a fine tenor and fine instrument ; 
 
 In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff, 
 
 Apollo with Asklepios — enough ! 
 
 Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. 
 
 (He was a singer of most gentle fame — 
 
 A noble, kindly spirit, not elate 
 
 That he was famous, but the song was great — 
 
 Would sing as finely to this suffering child 
 
 As at the court where princes on him smiled.) 
 
 Gently he entered and sat down by her, 
 
 Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — 
 
 The voice alone, or voice with viol wed ; 
 
 Then., when she chose the last, he preluded 
 
 With magic hand, that summoned from the strings 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 103 
 
 Aerial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings 
 
 That fanned the pulses of his listener, 
 
 And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. 
 
 Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, 
 
 But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush, 
 
 Made all the passion, that till now she felt, 
 
 Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. 
 
 Finished the song, she prayed to be alone 
 
 With kind Minuccio ; for her faith had grown 
 
 To trust him as if missioned like a priest 
 
 With some high grace, that when his singing 
 
 ceased 
 Still made him wiser, more magnanimous 
 Than common men who had no genius. 
 
 So laying her small hand within his palm, 
 She told him how that secret glorious harm 
 Of loftiest loving had befallen her ; 
 That death, her only hope, most bitter were, 
 If when she died her love must perish too 
 As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do, 
 Which else might live within another breast. 
 She said, " Minuccio, the grave were rest, 
 If I were sure, that lying cold and lone, 
 My love, my best of life, had safely flown 
 And nestled in the bosom of the king ; 
 See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing. 
 But you will carry it for me secretly, 
 And bear it to the king, then come to me 
 And tell me it is safe, and I shall go 
 Content, knowing that he I love my love doth 
 know." 
 
 Then she wept silently, but each large tear 
 Made pleading music to the inward ear 
 Of good Minuccio. " Lisa, trust in me," 
 He said, and kissed her fingers loyally ; 
 
104 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 "It is sweet law to me to do your will, 
 And ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, 
 I hope to bring you news of such rare skill 
 As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms 
 
 still." 
 He needed not to pause and first devise 
 How he should tell the king ; for in nowise 
 Were such love-message worthily bested 
 Save in fine verse by music rendered. 
 He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese, 
 And " Mico, mine," he said, " full oft to please 
 Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains 
 To make thee weep in verse : now pay my pains.. 
 And write me a canzon divinely sad, 
 Sinlessly passionate and meekly mad 
 With young despair, speaking l maiden's heart 
 Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart 
 From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — 
 Love-choice of one too high her love to be — 
 But cannot yield her breath till she has poured 
 Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word 
 Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord/ 
 
 Said Mico, " Nay, that thought is poesy, 
 I need but listen as it sings to me. 
 Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, 
 When linked notes had perfected the lay, 
 Minuccio had his summons to the court 
 To make, as he was wont, the moments short 
 Of ceremonious dinner to the king. 
 This was the time when he had meant to bring 
 Melodious message of young Lisa's love : 
 He waited till the air had ceased to move 
 To ringing silver, till Falernian wine 
 Made quickened sense with quietude combine, 
 And then with passionate descant made each ear 
 incline. 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 105 
 
 Love, thou didst see me, light as morning's breath, 
 Roaming a garden in a joyous error, 
 Laughing at chases vain, a happy child, 
 Till of thy countenance the alluring terror 
 In majesty from out the blossoms smiled, 
 From out their life seeming a beauteous Death. 
 
 O Love, who so didst choose me for thine own, 
 
 Taking this little isle to thy great sway, 
 
 See now, it is the honor of thy throne 
 
 Thai what thou gavest perish not away, 
 
 A r or leave some sweet remembrance to atone 
 
 By life that zvill be for the brief life gone : 
 
 Hear, ere the shroud der these frail limbs be 
 
 thrown — 
 Since every king is vassal unto thee, 
 My heart's lord needs must listen loyally — 
 tell him I am waiting for my Death I 
 
 Tell him, for that he hath such royal power 
 ' Twere hard for him to think how small a thing, 
 How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dower 
 For one like me, the bride of that pale king 
 Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour. 
 Go to my lord, and to his memory bring 
 That happy birthday of my sorrowing 
 When his large glance made meaner gazers glad, 
 Entering the bannered lists : 'twas then I had 
 The wound that laid me in the arms of Death. 
 
 Tell him, O Love, I am a lowly maid, 
 No more than any little knot of thyme 
 That he with careless foot may often tread ; 
 Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublime 
 And cleave to things most high and hallowed, 
 As doth the fragrance of my life's sprhigtime, 
 My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb 
 
106 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss, 
 More blissful than if mi?ie, in being his : 
 So shall I live in him and rest in Death. 
 
 The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, 
 And yet a rounded perfect melody, 
 Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes 
 Of little child at little miseries. 
 Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose, 
 Like rising light that broad and broader grows, 
 It filled the hall, and so possessed the air 
 That not one breathing soul was present there, 
 Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering 
 In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. 
 But most such sweet compulsion took the mood 
 Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). 
 Whether the words which that strange meaning 
 
 bore 
 Were but the poet's feigning or aught more, 
 Was bounden question, since their aim must be 
 At some imagined or true royalty. 
 He called Minuccio and bade him tell 
 What poet of the day had writ so well ; 
 For though they came behind all former rhymes, 
 The verses were not bad for these poor times. 
 " Monsignor, they are only three days old," 
 Minuccio said ; " but it must not be told 
 How this song grew, save to your royal ear." 
 Eager, the king withdrew where none was near, 
 And gave close audience to Minuccio, 
 Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. 
 The king had features pliant to confess 
 The presence of a manly tenderness — 
 Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one, 
 In fine harmonic exaltation — 
 The spirit of religious chivalry. 
 He listened, and Minuccio could see 
 
HO W LISA L O FED THE KING. I O "J 
 
 The tender, generous admiration spread 
 
 O'er all his face, and glorify his head 
 
 With royalty that would have kept its rank 
 
 Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. 
 
 He answered without pause, " So sweet a maid, 
 
 In nature's own insignia arrayed, 
 
 Though she were come of unmixed trading blood 
 
 That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, 
 
 Would have the self-contained and single worth 
 
 Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth. 
 
 Raona were a shame to Sicily, 
 
 Letting such love and tears unhonored be : 
 
 Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king 
 
 To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring." 
 
 Joyful, Minuccio, bore the joyous word, 
 And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, 
 How each thing had befallen, sang the song, 
 And like a patient nurse who would prolong 
 All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, 
 Each look, with which the mighty Aragon 
 Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned 
 To that dear place he held in Lisa's mind. 
 She listened till the draughts of pure content 
 Through all her limbs like some new being 
 
 went — 
 Life, not recovered, but untried before, 
 From out the growing world's unmeasured store 
 Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed. 
 'Twas glad reverse : she had so firmly fixed 
 To die, already seemed to fall a veil 
 Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses 
 
 pale. 
 Her parents wondering see her half arise — 
 Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes 
 Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, 
 But of some light ethereal that enspheres 
 
108 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt 
 
 Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt. 
 
 She asked to have her soft white robe and band 
 
 And coral ornaments, and with her hand 
 
 She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, 
 
 Then looked intently in a mirror small, 
 
 And feared her face might perhaps displease the 
 
 king; 
 " In truth," she said, " I am a tiny thing ; 
 I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring." 
 Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought 
 That virgin passion, was more deeply wrought 
 To chivalrous pity ; and at vesper bell, 
 With careless mien which hid his purpose well, 
 Went forth on horseback, and as if by chance 
 Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance 
 At the fine garden of this wealthy man, 
 This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan : 
 But, presently dismounting, chose to walk 
 Amid the trellises, in gracious talk 
 With the same trader, deigning even to ask 
 If he had yet fulfilled the father's task 
 Of marrying that daughter whose young charms 
 Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, 
 Noted admiringly. " Monsignor, no, 
 She is not married ; that were little woe, 
 Since she has counted barely fifteen years ; 
 But all such hopes of late have turned to fears ; 
 She droops and fades ; though for a space quite 
 
 brief — 
 Scarce three hours past — she finds some strange 
 
 relief." 
 The king avised : " 'Twere dole to all of us, 
 The world should lose a maid so beauteous ; 
 Let me now see her ; since I am her liege lord, 
 Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong 
 
 word." 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 109 
 
 In such half-serious playfulness, he wends, 
 With Lisa's father and two chosen friends, 
 Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits 
 Watching- the open door, that now admits 
 A presence as much better than her dreams, 
 As happiness than any longing seems. 
 The king advanced, and, with a reverent kiss 
 Upon her hand, said, " Lady, what is this ? 
 You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be, 
 Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously. 
 We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered, 
 Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared 
 To us who know your passing worthiness, 
 And count your blooming life as part of our life's 
 
 bliss." 
 Those words, that touch upon her hand from him 
 W T hom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim 
 Worship the distant glory, brought some shame 
 Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame 
 W T ith such deep joy she seemed in paradise, 
 In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise 
 That bliss could be so blissful : then she spoke — 
 ' ' Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke, 
 The golden yoke of thoughts too great for me ; 
 That was the ground of my infirmity. 
 But now, I pray your grace to have belief 
 That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause 
 
 grief." 
 
 The king alone perceived the covert sense 
 Of all her words, which made one evidence 
 With her pure voice and candid loveliness, 
 That he had lost much honor, honoring less 
 That message of her passionate distress. 
 He stayed beside her for a little while 
 With gentle looks and speech, until a smile 
 As placid as a ray of early morn 
 
HO HO IV LISA L O VED THE KING. 
 
 On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. 
 When he had left her, and the tidings spread 
 Through all the town how he had visited 
 The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, 
 Men said, it was a royal deed and catholic. 
 
 And Lisa ? she no longer wished for death ; 
 
 But as a poet, who sweet verses saith 
 
 Within his soul, and joys in music there, 
 
 Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear 
 
 Disturbing pleasures, so was she content, 
 
 Breathing the life of grateful sentiment. 
 
 She thought no maid betrothed could be more 
 
 blest ; 
 For treasure must be valued by the test 
 Of highest excellence and rarity, 
 And her dear joy was best as best could be ; 
 There seemed no other crown to her delight 
 Now the high loved one saw her love aright. 
 Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood, 
 Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good 
 O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and cheek, 
 And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak. 
 Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird 
 With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring 
 
 joys heard. 
 The king, when he the happy change had seen, 
 Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen, 
 With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred 
 How they should jointly, by their deed and word, 
 Honor this maiden's love, which like the prayer 
 Of loyal hermits, never thought to share 
 In what it gave. The queen had that chief grace 
 Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace 
 All goodness in another woman's form , 
 And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm 
 On southern terraces, a messenger 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 1 1 1 
 
 Informed Bernardo that the royal pair 
 Would straightway visit him and celebrate 
 Their gladness at his daughter's happier state, 
 Which they were fain to see. Soon came the king 
 On horseback, with his barons, heralding 
 The advent of the queen in courtly state ; 
 And all, descending at the garden gate, 
 Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade, 
 Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, 
 
 made 
 A lake of splendor 'mid the aloes gray — 
 When, meekly facing all their proud array, 
 The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood, 
 As some white dove before the gorgeous brood 
 Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian 
 
 flood. 
 
 The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech. 
 
 Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach 
 
 How this fair morning they may courtliest be 
 
 By making Lisa pass it happily. 
 
 And soon the ladies and the barons all 
 
 Draw her by turns, as at a festival 
 
 Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse, 
 
 And compliment with looks and smiles enforce ; 
 
 A joyous hum is heard the gardens round ; 
 
 Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound 
 
 Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are pluckt ; 
 
 Till mindfully the king and queen conduct 
 
 Lisa apart tc where a trellised shade 
 
 Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said — 
 
 " Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love 
 
 Your heart hath made us, hath a worth above 
 
 All royal treasures, nor is fitly met 
 
 Save when the grateful memory of deep debt 
 
 Lies still behind the outward honors done : 
 
 And as a sign that no oblivion 
 
I I 2 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Shall overflood that faithful memory, 
 We while we live your cavalier will be, 
 Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight, 
 Whether for struggle dire or brief delight 
 Of warlike feigning, but we first will take 
 The colors you ordain, and for your sake 
 Charge the more bravely where your emblem is ; 
 Nor will we ever claim an added bliss 
 To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. 
 But there still rests the outward honor meet 
 To mark your worthiness, and we entreat 
 That you will turn your ear to proffered vows 
 Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. 
 We must not wrong yourself and Sicily 
 By letting all your blooming years pass by 
 Unmated : you will give the world its due 
 From beauteous maiden and become a matron 
 true." 
 
 Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment 
 
 At her ambitious love's complete content, 
 
 Which left no further good for her to seek 
 
 Than love's obedience, said with accent meek — 
 
 " Monsignor, I know well that were it known 
 
 To all the world how high my love had flown, 
 
 There would be few who would not deem me mad, 
 
 Or say my mind the falsest image had 
 
 Of my condition and your lofty place. 
 
 But heaven has seen that for no moment's space 
 
 Have I forgotten you to be the king, 
 
 Or me myself to be a lowly thing — 
 
 A little lark, enamoured of the sky, 
 
 That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. 
 
 But, as you better know than I, the heart 
 
 I n choosing chooseth not its own desert, 
 
 But that great merit which attracteth it ; 
 
 '1 is law, I struggled, but I must submit, 
 
HO IV LISA LO VED THE KING. 1 1 3 
 
 And having seen a worth all worth above, 
 I loved you, love you, and shall always love. 
 But that doth mean, my will is ever yours, 
 Not only when your will my good insures, 
 But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — 
 Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a 
 
 charm. 
 That you will be my knight is full content, 
 And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's 
 
 consent." 
 
 Her answer, given with such firm gentleness, 
 Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no 
 
 less 
 Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. 
 And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled, 
 There was betrothal made that very morn 
 'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born, 
 And Lisa, whom he loved ; she loving well 
 The lot that from obedience befell. 
 The queen a rare betrothal ring on each 
 Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. 
 And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew 
 The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalu 
 And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands — 
 Adding much promise when he joined their hands. 
 At last he said to Lisa, with an air 
 Gallant yet noble . "Now we claim our share 
 From your sweet love, a share which is not small: 
 For in the sacrament one crumb is all." 
 Then taking her small face his hands between, 
 He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene, 
 Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had 
 
 seen. 
 
 Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept 
 1 T is royal promise : Perdicone stept 
 
114 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 To many honors honorably won, 
 
 Living with Lisa in true union. 
 
 Throughout his life the king still took delight 
 
 To call himself fair Lisa's faithful knight ; 
 
 And never wore in field or tournament 
 
 A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent. 
 
 Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land : 
 They joyed that one so worthy to command, 
 So chivalrous and gentle, had become 
 The king of Sicily, and filled the room 
 Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church's trust, 
 Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, 
 Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's 
 thrust. 
 
 L'envoi. 
 
 deader, this story pleased me long ago 
 
 In the bright pages of Boccaccio, 
 
 And where the author of a good we know, 
 
 Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe. 
 
 1869. 
 
A MINOR PROPHET 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 T have a friend, a vegetarian seer, 
 By name Elias Baptist Butterworth, 
 A harmless, bland, disinterested man, 
 Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed 
 The Second Advent certain in five years, 
 But when King Charles the Second came instead. 
 Revised their date and sought another world : 
 I mean — not heaven but — America. 
 A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced 
 The fortunes of mankind, not stopping short 
 At rise of leather, or the fall of gold, 
 Nor listening to the voices of the time 
 As housewives listen to a cackling hen, 
 With wonder whether she has laid her egg 
 On their own nest-egg. Still they did insist 
 Somewhat too wearisomely on the joys 
 Of their Millennium, when coats and hats 
 Would all be of one pattern, books and song - 
 All fit for Sundays, and the casual talk 
 As good as sermons preached extempore. 
 
 And in Elias the ancestral zeal 
 
 Breathes strong as ever, only modified 
 
 By Transatlantic air and modern thought. 
 
 You could not pass him in the street and fail 
 
 To note his shoulders' long declivity, 
 
 Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large pale 
 
 eyes ; 
 Or, when he lifts his hat, to mark his hair 
 Brushed back to show his great capacity — 
 A full grain's length at the angle of the brow 
 
1 I 8 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 Proving him witty, while the shallower men 
 Only seem witty in their repartees. 
 Not that he's vain, but that his doctrine needs 
 The testimony of his frontal lobe. 
 
 On all points he adopts the latest views ; 
 
 Takes for the key of universal Mind 
 
 The "levitation" of stout gentlemen ; 
 
 Believes the Rappings are not spirits' work, 
 
 But the Thought-atmosphere's, a stream of brains 
 
 In correlated force of raps, as proved 
 
 By motion, heat, and science generally ; 
 
 The spectrum, for example, which has shown 
 
 The scif-same metals in the sun as here ; 
 
 So the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere : 
 
 High truths that glimmered under other namer 
 
 To ancient sages, whence good scholarship 
 
 Applied to Eleusinian mysteries — 
 
 The Vedas— Tripitaka — Vendidad — 
 
 Might furnish weaker proof for weaker minds 
 
 That Thought was rapping in the hoary past, 
 
 And might have edified the Greeks by raps 
 
 At the greater Dionysia, if their ears 
 
 Had not been filled with Sophoclean verse. 
 
 And when all Earth is vegetarian — 
 
 When, lacking butchers, quadrupeds die out, 
 
 And less Thought-atmosphere is reabsorbed 
 
 By nerves of insects parasitical, 
 
 Those higher truths, seized now by higher mincl 
 
 But not expressed (the insects hindering) 
 
 Will either flash out into eloquence, 
 
 Or better still, be comprehensible 
 
 By rappings simply, without need of roots. 
 
 'Tis on this theme — the vegetarian world — 
 That good Elias willingly expands : 
 He loves to tell in mildly nasal tones 
 
Or shake thk atlas with their 
 
 MIDNIGHT ROAR." — Pa Ce II). 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. I I 9 
 
 And vowels stretched to suit the widest views, 
 
 The future fortunes of our infant Earth — 
 
 When it will be too full of human kind 
 
 To have the room for wilder animals. 
 
 Saith he, Sahara will be populous 
 
 With families of gentlemen retired 
 
 From commerce in more Central Africa, 
 
 Who order coolness as we order coal, 
 
 And have a lobe anterior strong enough 
 
 To think away the sand-storms. Science thus 
 
 Will leave no spot on this terraqueous globe 
 
 Unfit to be inhabited by man, 
 
 The chief of animals : all meaner brutes 
 
 Will have been smoked and elbowed out of life 
 
 No lions then shall lap Caffrarian pools, 
 
 Or shake the Atlas with their midnight roar : 
 
 Even the slow, slime-loving crocodile, 
 
 The last of animals to take a hint, 
 
 Will then retire for ever from a scene 
 
 Where public feeling strongly sets against him. 
 
 Fishes may lead carnivorous lives obscure, 
 
 But must not dream of culinary rank 
 
 Or being dished in good society. 
 
 Imagination in that distant age, 
 
 Aiming at fiction called historical, 
 
 Will vainly try to reconstruct the times 
 
 When it was men's preposterous delight 
 
 To sit astride live horses, which consumed 
 
 Materials for incalculable cakes ; 
 
 When there were milkmaids who drew milk from 
 
 cows 
 With udders kept abnormal for that end 
 Since the rude mythopceic period 
 Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blush 
 To call their milkmaid and their daughter one ^ 
 Helplessly gazing at the Milky Way, 
 Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-nuts 
 
1 20 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 Quite at the service of posterity. 
 
 'Tis to be feared, though, that the duller boy 
 
 Much given to anachronisms and nuts, 
 
 (Elias has confessed boys will be boys) 
 
 May write a jockey for a centaur, think 
 
 Europa's suitor was an Irish bull, 
 
 y£sop a journalist who wrote up Fox, 
 
 And Bruin a chief swindler upon 'Change. 
 
 Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral, 
 
 With longer alimentary canals 
 
 Suited to diet vegetarian. 
 
 The uglier breeds will fade from memory, 
 
 Or, being paloeontological, 
 
 Live but as portraits in large learned books, 
 
 Distasteful to the feelings of an age 
 
 Nourished on purest beauty. Earth will hold 
 
 No stupid brutes, no cheerful queernesses, 
 
 No naive cunning, grave absurdity. 
 
 Wart-pigs with tender and parental grunts, 
 
 Wombats much flattened as to their contour, 
 
 Perhaps from too much crushing in the ark, 
 
 But taking meekly that fatality ; 
 
 The serious cranes, unstung by ridicule ; 
 
 Long-headed, short-legged, solemn-looking curs, 
 
 (Wise, silent critics of a flippant age) ; 
 
 The silly straddling foals, the weak-brained geese 
 
 Hissing fallaciously at sound of wheels — 
 
 All these rude products will have disappeared 
 
 Along with every faulty human type. 
 
 By dint of diet vegetarian 
 
 All will be harmony of hue and line, 
 
 Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned, 
 
 And talk quite free from aught erroneous. 
 
 Thus far Elias in his seer's mantle : 
 
 But at this climax in his prophecy 
 
 My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped, 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. 121 
 
 Urge me to speak. " High prospects these, ray 
 
 friend, 
 Setting the weak carnivorous brain astretch ; 
 We will resume the thread another day." 
 " To-morrow," cries Elias, "at this hour?" 
 " No, not to-morrow — I shall have a cold — 
 At least I feel some soreness — this endemic — 
 Good-by." 
 
 No tears are sadder than the smile 
 With which I quit Elias. Bitterly 
 I feel that every change upon this earth 
 Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail 
 To reach that high apocalyptic mount 
 Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world, 
 Or enter warmly into other joys 
 Than those of faulty, struggling human kind. 
 That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing 
 Ends in ignoble floundering : I fall 
 Into short-sighted pity for the men 
 Who living in those perfect future times 
 Will not know half the dear imperfect things 
 That move my smiles and tears — will never know 
 The fine old incongruities that raise 
 My friendly laugh ; the innocent conceits 
 That like a needless eyeglass or black patch 
 Give those who wear them harmless happiness ; 
 The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware. 
 That touch me to more conscious fellowship 
 (I am not myself the finest Parian) 
 With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, 
 To whom raw onion gives prospective zest, 
 Consoling hours of dampest wintry work, 
 Could hardly fancy any regal joys 
 Quite uninvoregnate with the onion's scent : 
 Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear 
 Of waftings from that energetic bulb : 
 
122 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 'Tis well that onion is not heresy. 
 
 Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. 
 
 A clinging flavor penetrates my life — 
 
 My onion is imperfectness : I cleave 
 
 To nature's blunders, evanescent types 
 
 Which sages banish from Utopia. 
 
 "Not worship beauty?" say you. Patience, 
 
 friend ! 
 I worship in the temple with the rest ; 
 But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook 
 For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling 
 
 elves 
 Who stitched and hammered for the weary man 
 In days of old. And in that piety 
 I clothe ungainly forms inherited 
 From toiling generations, daily bent 
 At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine, 
 In pioneering labors for the world. 
 Nay, I am apt when floundering confused 
 From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox, 
 And pity future men who will not know 
 A keen experience with pity blent, 
 The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 
 Hid in harsh forms — not penetrating them 
 Like fire divine within a common bush 
 Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest 
 So that men put their shoes off ; but encaged 
 Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell 
 Who leaps and fails to hold the window-bars, 
 But having shown a little dimpled hand 
 Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts 
 Whose eyes keep watch about the prison walls. 
 A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox ! 
 For purest pity is the eye of love 
 Melting at sight of sorrow ; and to grieve 
 Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love 
 Warped from its truer nature, turned to love 
 
Waiting upon the pavement with the throng."— Page 123. 
 

A MINOR PROPHET. I 23 
 
 Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. 
 But I am Colin still : my prejudice 
 Is for the flavor of my daily food. 
 Not that I doubt the world is growing 1 still 
 As once it grew from Chaos and from Night ; 
 Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope 
 Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, 
 With earliest watchings of the rising light 
 Chasing the darkness ; and through many an age 
 Has raised the vision of a future time 
 That stands an Angel with a face all mild 
 Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith 
 That man's perfection is the crowning flower, 
 Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 
 Is pressing — seen in puny blossoms now, 
 But in the world's great morrows to expand 
 With broadest petal and with deepest glow. 
 
 Yet, see the patched and plodding citizen 
 
 Waiting upon the pavement with the throng 
 
 While some victorious world-hero makes 
 
 Triumphal entry, and the peal of shouts 
 
 And flash of faces 'neath uplifted hats 
 
 Run like a storm of joy along the streets ! 
 
 He says, " God bless him ! " almost with a sob, 
 
 As the great hero passes ; he is glad 
 
 The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds ; 
 
 The music stirs his pulses like strong wine, 
 
 The moving splendor touches him with awe — 
 
 'Tis glory shed around the common weal, 
 
 And he will pay his tribute willingly, 
 
 Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil. 
 
 Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring 
 
 A time when every honest citizen 
 
 Shall wear a coat tmpatched. And yet he feels 
 
 More easy fellowship with neighbors there 
 
 Who look on too ; and he will soon relapse 
 
124 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 From noticing the banners and the steeds 
 To think with pleasure there is just one bun 
 Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt 
 The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much 
 For that young mother's arms ; and then he fails 
 To dreamy picturing of sunny days 
 When he himself was a small big-cheeked lad 
 In some far village where no heroes came, 
 And stood a listener 'twixt his father's legs 
 In the warm fire-light, while the old folk talked 
 And shook their heads and looked upon the floor ; 
 And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine — 
 The bread and cheese so nice all through the 
 
 year 
 And Christmas sure to come. Oh that good time ! 
 He, could he choose, would have those days again 
 And see the dear old-fashioned things once more. 
 But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by 
 And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain : 
 The quiet startles our good citizen ; 
 He feels the child upon his arms, and knows 
 He is with the people making holiday 
 Because of hopes for better days to come. 
 But Hope to him was like the brilliant west 
 Telling of sunrise in a world unknown, 
 And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues 
 He turned to the familiar face of fields 
 Lying all clear in the calm morning land. 
 Maybe 'tis wiser not to fix a lens 
 Too scrutinizing on the glorious times 
 When Barbarossa shall arise and shake 
 His mountain, good King Arthur come again, 
 And all the heroes of such giant soul 
 That, living once to cheer mankind with hope, 
 They had to sleep until the time was ripe 
 For greater deeds to match their greater thought 
 Yet no ! the earth yields nothing more Divine 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. 1 25 
 
 Than high prophetic vision — than the Seer 
 Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds 
 The paths of beauteous order, and constructs 
 A fairer type, to shame our low content. 
 But prophecy is like potential sound 
 Which turned to music seems a voice sublime 
 From out the soul of light ; but turns to noise 
 In scrannel pipes, and makes all ears averse. 
 
 The faith that life on earth is being shaped 
 To glorious ends, that order, justice, love 
 Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure 
 As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith 
 Is but the rushing and expanding stream 
 Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. 
 Our finest hope is finest memory, 
 As they who love in age think youth is blest 
 Because it has a life to fill with love. 
 Full souls are double mirrors, making still 
 An endless vista of fair things before 
 Repeating things behind : so faith is strong 
 Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink 
 It comes when music stirs us, and the chords 
 Moving on some grand climax shake our souls 
 With influx new that makes new energies. 
 It comes in swellings of the heart and tears 
 That rise at noble and at gentle deeds — 
 At labors of the master-artist's hand 
 Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, 
 Trembling before an image seen within. 
 It comes in moments of heroic love, 
 Unjealous joy in joy not made for us — 
 In conscious triumph of the good within 
 Making us worship goodness that rebukes. 
 Even our failures are a prophecy, 
 Even our yearnings and our bitter tears 
 After that fair and true we cannot grasp ; 
 
126 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 As patriots who seem to die in vain 
 Make liberty more sacred by their pangs. 
 
 Presentiment of better things on earth 
 Sweeps in with every force that stirs our souls 
 To admiration, self-renouncing love, 
 Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one : 
 Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night 
 We hear the roll and dash of waves that break 
 Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide, 
 Which rises to the level of the cliff 
 Because the wide Atlantic rolls behind 
 Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs, 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 I cannot choose but think upon the time 
 When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss 
 At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime. 
 Because the one so near the other is. 
 
 He was the elder and a little man 
 Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, 
 And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, 
 Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 
 
 I held him wise, and when he talked to me 
 
 Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the 
 
 best, 
 I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
 Where men grew blind, though angels knew the 
 
 rest. 
 
 If he said " Hush ! " I tried to hold my breath; 
 Wherever he said " Come ! " I stepped in faith. 
 
 H. 
 
 Long years have left their writing on my brow, 
 But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam 
 Of those young mornings are about me now, 
 When we two wandered toward the far-off stream 
 
 With rod and line. Our basket held a store 
 Baked for us only, and I thought with joy 
 
130 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 That I should have my share, though he had more, 
 Because he was the elder and a boy. 
 
 The firmaments of daisies since to me 
 Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, 
 The bunched cowslip's pale transparency 
 Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, 
 
 And wild-rose branches take their finest scent 
 From those blest hours of infantine content. 
 
 Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, 
 Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, 
 Then with the benediction of her gaze 
 Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still 
 
 Across the homestead to the rookery elms, 
 Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, 
 So rich for us, we counted them as realms 
 With varied products : here were earth-nuts found, 
 
 And here the Lady-fingeas in deep shade ; 
 Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, 
 The large to split for pith, the small to braid ; 
 While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, 
 
 And made a happy strange solemnity, 
 
 A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Our meadow-path had memorable spots : 
 One where it bridged a tiny rivulet, 
 Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots ; 
 And all along the waving grasses met 
 
Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways." 
 
 — Page 130. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 131 
 
 My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, 
 When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew 
 My wonder downward, seeming all to speak 
 With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. 
 
 Then came the copse, where wild things rushed 
 
 unseen, 
 And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode 
 Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between 
 Me and each hidden distance of the road. 
 
 A gypsy once had startled me at play, 
 Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day. 
 
 v. 
 
 Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest 
 
 lore, 
 And learned the meanings that give words a 
 
 soul, 
 The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, 
 Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 
 
 Those hours were seed to all my after good ; 
 My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and 
 
 touch, 
 Took easily as warmth a various food 
 To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. 
 
 For who in age shall roam the earth and find 
 Reasons for loving that will strike out love 
 With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed 
 
 mind ? 
 Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 
 
 'Tis love must see them, as the eyes sees light : 
 Day is but Number to the darkened sight. 
 
132 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Our brown canal was endless to my thought ; 
 And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace, 
 Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, 
 Untroubled by the fear that it would cease. 
 
 Slowly the barges floated into view, 
 Rounding a grassy hill to me sublime 
 With some Unknown beyond it, whither flew 
 The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring time. 
 
 The wide-arched bridge, the scented elder* 
 
 flowers, 
 The wondrous watery rings that died too soon, 
 The echoes of the quarry, the still hours 
 With white robe sweeping-on the shadeless noon, 
 
 Were but my growing self, are part of me, 
 My present Past, my root of piety. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Those long days measured by my little feet 
 Had chronicles which yield me many a text ; 
 Where irony still finds an image meet 
 Of full-grown judgments in this world perplext. 
 
 One day my brother left me in high charge, 
 To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait, 
 And bade me, when I saw a nearing barge, 
 Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late* 
 
 Proud of the task, I watched with all my might 
 For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide, 
 Till sky and earth took on a strange new light 
 And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide-. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 1 33 
 
 A fair pavilioned boat for me alone 
 
 Bearing me onward through the vast unknown. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, 
 Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry, 
 And all my soul was quivering fear, when lo ! 
 Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, 
 
 A silver perch ! My guilt that won the prey, 
 Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich 
 Of hugs and praises, and made merry play, 
 Until my triumph reached its highest pitch 
 
 When all at home were told the wondrous feat, 
 And how the little sister had fished well. 
 In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, 
 I wondered why this happiness befell. 
 
 "The little lass had luck," the gardener said 
 And so I learned, luck was with glory wed. 
 
 IX. 
 
 We had the self-same world enlarged for each 
 By loving difference of girl and boy : 
 The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach 
 He plucked for me, and oft he must employ 
 
 A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe 
 Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 
 "This thing I like my sister may not do, 
 For she is little, and I must be kind." 
 
 Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned 
 Where inward vision over impulse reigns, 
 
134 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
 A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. 
 
 His years with others must the sweeter be 
 For those brief days he spent in loving me. 
 
 His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy 
 Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame ; 
 My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy 
 Had any reason when my brother came. 
 
 I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling 
 Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, 
 Or watched him winding close the spiral string 
 That looped the orbits of the humming top. 
 
 Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought 
 Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil ; 
 My aery -picturing fantasy was taught 
 Subjection to the harder, truer skill 
 
 That seeks with deeds to grave a thought- 
 tracked line, 
 And by " What is," " What will be" to define. 
 
 School parted us ; we never found again 
 That childish world where our two spirits mingled 
 Like scents from varying roses that remain 
 One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 
 
 Yet the twin habit of that early time 
 Lingered for long about the heart and tongue : 
 We had been natives of one happy clime, 
 And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 135 
 
 Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
 Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, 
 And pitiless shaped them in two forms that rang* 
 Two elements which sever their life's course. 
 
 But were another childhood-world my share, 
 I would be bora a little sister there. 
 
 1869, 
 
STRADIVARIUS 
 
STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 Your soul was lifted by the wings to-day 
 
 Hearing the master of the violin : 
 
 You praised him, praised the great Sebastian too 
 
 Who made that fine Chaconne ; but did you think 
 
 Of old Antonio Stradivari ? — him 
 
 Who a good century and half ago 
 
 Put his true work in that brown instrument 
 
 And by the nice adjustment of its frame 
 
 Gave it responsive life, continuous 
 
 With the master's finger-tips and perfected 
 
 Like them by delicate rectitude of use. 
 
 Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedent 
 
 Of genius gone before, nor Joachim 
 
 Who holds the strain afresh incorporate 
 
 By inward hearing and notation strict 
 
 Of nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day : 
 
 Another soul was living in the air 
 
 And swaying it to true deliverance 
 
 Of high invention and responsive skill : 
 
 That plain white-aproned man who stood at work 
 
 Patient and accurate full fourscore years, 
 
 Cherished his sight and touch by temperance, 
 
 And since keen sense is love of perfectness 
 
 Made perfect violins, the needed paths 
 
 For inspiration and high mastery. 
 
 No simpler man than he : he never cried, 
 " Why was I born to this monotonous task 
 Of making violins ?" or flung them down 
 Ts suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 
 
14° STRADIVARI US 
 
 At labor on such perishable stuff. 
 Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull, 
 Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine, 
 Begged him to tell his motives or to lend 
 A few gold pieces to a loftier mind. 
 Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact ; 
 For Fact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades, 
 Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical, 
 Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — 
 Can hold all figures of the orator 
 In one plain sentence ; has her pauses too — 
 Eloquent silence at the chasm abrupt 
 Where knowledge ceases. Thus Antonio 
 Made answers as Fact willed, and made them 
 strong. 
 
 Naldo, a painter of eclectic school, 
 
 Taking his dicers, candlelight and grins 
 
 From Caravaggio, and in holier groups 
 
 Combining Flemish flesh with martyrdom — 
 
 Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one, 
 
 And weary of them, while Antonio 
 
 At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best, 
 
 Making the violin you heard to-day — 
 
 Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims. 
 
 1 ' Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed — 
 
 The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four, 
 
 Each violin a heap — I've nought to blame ; 
 
 My vices waste such heaps. But then, why 
 
 work 
 With painful nicety ? Since fame once earned 
 By luck or merit — oftenest by luck — 
 (Else why do I put Bonifazio's name 
 To work that ' pinxit Naldo ' would not sell ?) 
 Is welcome index to the wealthy mob 
 Where they should pay their gold, and where they 
 
 pay 
 
ST RAD I VARIU3. 1 4 1 
 
 There they find merit — take your tow for flax, 
 And hold the flax unlabelled with your name, 
 Too coarse for sufferance." 
 
 Antonio then 1 
 " I like the gold — well, yes — but not for meals. 
 And as my stomach, so my eye and hand, 
 And inward sense that works along with both, 
 Have hunger that can never feed on coin. 
 Who draws a line and satisfies his soul, 
 Making it crooked where it should be straight ? 
 An idiot with an oyster-shell may draw 
 His lines along the sand, all wavering, 
 Fixing no point or pathway to a point ; 
 An idiot one remove may choose his line, 
 Straggle and be content ; but God be praised, 
 Antonio Stradivari has an eye 
 That winces at false work and loves the true, 
 With hand and arm that play upon the tool 
 As willingly as any singing bird 
 Sets him to sing his morning roundelay, 
 Because he likes to sing and likes the song." 
 
 Then Naldo : " 'Tis a petty kind of fame 
 At best, that comes of making violins ; 
 And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go 
 To purgatory none the less." 
 
 But he : 
 " 'Twere purgatory here to make them ill ; 
 And for my fame — when any master holds 
 'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine, 
 He will be glad that Stradivari lived, 
 Made violins, and made them of the best. 
 The masters only know whose work is good : 
 They will choose mine, and while God gives them 
 
 _ skill 
 I give them instruments to play upon, 
 God choosing me to help Him." 
 
I4 2 STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 1 ' What ! were God 
 At fault for violins, thou absent ?" 
 
 "Yes; 
 He were at fault for Stradivari's work." 
 
 " Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins 
 As good as thine." 
 
 " May be : they are different. 
 His quality declines : he spoils his hand 
 With over-drinking. But were his the best, 
 He could not work for two. My work is mine, 
 And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked 
 I should rob God— since He is fullest good- 
 Leaving a blank instead of violins. 
 I say, not God Himself can make man's best 
 Without best men to help Him. I am one best 
 Here in Cremona, using sunlight well 
 To fashion finest maple till it serves 
 More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 
 'Tis rare delight : I would not change my skill 
 To be the Emperor with bungling hands, 
 And lose my work, which comes as natural 
 As self at waking." 
 
 " Thou art little more 
 Than a deft potter's wheel, Antonio ; 
 Turning out work by mere necessity 
 And lack of varied function. Higher arts 
 Subsist on freedom — eccentricity — 
 Uncounted inspirations — influence 
 That comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned 
 
 wild, 
 Then moody misery and lack of food — 
 With every dithyrambic fine excess : 
 These make at last a storm which flashes out 
 In lightning revelations. Steady work 
 Turns genius to a loom ; the soul must lie 
 Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes 
 
STRADIVARI US. 143 
 
 And mellow vintage. I could paint you now 
 The finest Crucifixion ; yesternight 
 Returning home I saw it on a sky 
 Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors 
 To buy the canvas and the costly blues — 
 Trust me a fortnight." 
 
 44 Where are those last two 
 I lent thee for thy Judith ? — her thou saw'st 
 In saffron gown, with Holofernes' head 
 And beauty all complete ?" 
 
 " She is but sketched : 
 I lack the proper model — and the mood. 
 A great idea is an eagle's egg, 
 Craves time for hatching ; while the eagle sits 
 Feed her." 
 
 " If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs 
 I call the hatching, Work. 'TisGod gives skill, 
 But not without men's hands : He could not make 
 Antonio Stradivari's violins 
 Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel." 
 
 1873. 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST- 
 PARTY 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Young Hamlet, not the hesitating Dane, 
 
 But one named after him, who lately strove 
 
 For honors at our English Wittenberg — 
 
 Blond, metaphysical, and sensuous, 
 
 Questioning all things and yet half convinced 
 
 Credulity were better ; held inert 
 
 'Twixt fascinations of all opposites, 
 
 And half suspecting that the mightiest soul 
 
 (Perhaps his own?) was union of extremes, 
 
 Having no choice but choice of everything : 
 
 As, drinking deep to-day for love of wine, 
 
 To-morrow half a Brahmin, scorning life 
 
 As mere illusion, yearning for that True 
 
 Which has no qualities ; another day 
 
 Finding the fount of grace in sacraments, 
 
 And purest reflex of the light divine 
 
 In gem-bossed pyx and broidered chasuble. 
 
 Resolved to wear no stockings and to fast 
 
 With arms extended, waiting ecstasy : 
 
 But getting cramps instead, and needing 
 
 change, 
 A would-be pagan next : 
 
 Young Hamlet sat 
 A guest with five of somewhat riper age 
 At breakfast with Horatio, a friend 
 With few opinions, but of faithful heart, 
 Quick to detect the fibrous spreading roots 
 Of character that feed men's theories, 
 Yet cloaking weaknesses with charity 
 And ready in all service save rebuke. 
 
148 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 With ebb of breakfast and the cider-cup 
 Came high debate : the others seated there 
 Were Osric, spinner of fine sentences, 
 A delicate insect creeping- over life 
 feeding on molecules of floral breath, 
 And weaving gossamer to trap the sun ; 
 Laertes ardent, rash, and radical ; 
 Discursive Rosencranz, grave Guildenstern, 
 And he for whom the social meal was made — 
 The polished priest, a tolerant listener, 
 Disposed to give a hearing to the lost, 
 And breakfast with them ere they went below. 
 
 From alpine metaphysic glaciers first 
 
 The talk sprang copious ; the themes were old, 
 
 But so is human breath, so infant eyes, 
 
 The daily nurslings of creative light. 
 
 Small words held mighty meanings: Matte., 
 
 Force, 
 Self, Not-self, Being, Seeming, Space and Time- - 
 Plebeian toilers on the dusty road 
 Of daily traffic, turned to Genii 
 And cloudy giants darkening sun and moon. 
 Creation was reversed in human talk : 
 None said, "Let Darkness be," but Darkne. c s 
 
 was ; 
 And in it weltered with Teutonic ease, 
 An argumentative Leviathan, 
 Blowing cascades from out his element, 
 The thunderous Rosencranz, till 
 
 " Truce, I beg " 
 Said Osric, with nice accent. ' ' I abhor 
 That battling of the ghosts, that strife of terms 
 For utmost lack of color, form, and breath. 
 That tasteless squabbling called Philosophy : 
 As j f a blue-winged butterfly afloat 
 For just three days above the Italian fields. 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAkTY. T49 
 
 Poising in sunshine, fluttering toward its bride, 
 
 Should fast and speculate, considering 
 
 What were if it were not ? or what now is 
 
 Instead of that which seems to be itself ? 
 
 Its deepest wisdom surely were to be 
 
 A sipping, marrying, blue- winged butterfly ; 
 
 Since utmost speculation on itself 
 
 Were but a three days' living of worse sort — 
 
 A bruising struggle all within the bounds 
 
 Of butterfly existence." 
 
 " I protest," 
 Burst in Laertes, "against arguments 
 That start with calling me a butterfly, 
 A bubble, spark, or other metaphor 
 Which carries your conclusions as a phrase 
 In quibbling law will carry property. 
 Put a thin sucker for my human lips 
 Fed at a mother's breast, who now needs food 
 That I will earn for her ; put bubbles blown 
 From frothy thinking, for the joy, the love, 
 The wants, the pity, and the fellowship 
 (The ocean deeps I might say, were I bent 
 On bandying metaphors) that make a man — 
 Why, rhetoric brings within your easy reach 
 Conclusions worthy of — a butterfly. 
 The universe, I hold, is no charade, 
 No acted pun unriddled by a word, 
 Nor pain a decimal diminishing 
 With hocus-pocus of a dot or nought. 
 For those who know it, pain is solely pain : 
 Not any letters of the alphabet 
 Wrought syllogistically pattern-wise, 
 Nor any cluster of fine images, 
 Nor any missing of their figured dance 
 By blundering molecules. Analysis 
 May show you the right physic for the ill, 
 Teaching the molecules to find their dance. 
 
15° A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers- 
 But spare me your analogies, that hold 
 Such insight as the figure of a crow 
 And bar of music put to signify 
 A crowbar." 
 
 Said the Priest, " There I agree— 
 Would add that sacramental grace is grace 
 Which to be known must first be felt, with all 
 The strengthening influxes that come by prayer. 
 I note this passingly — would not delay 
 The conversation's tenor, save to hint 
 That taking stand with Rosencranz one sees 
 Final equivalence of all we name 
 Our Good and 111 — their difference meanwhile 
 Being inborn prejudice that plumps you down 
 An Ego, brings a weight into your scale 
 Forcing a standard. That resistless weight 
 Obstinate, irremovable by thought, 
 Persisting through disproof, an ache, a need 
 That spaceless stays where sharp analysis 
 Has shown a plenum filled without it — what 
 If this, to use your phrase, v/ere just that Being 
 Not looking solely, grasping from the dark, 
 Weighing the difference you call Ego ? This 
 Gives you persistence, regulates the flux 
 With strict relation rooted in the All. 
 Who is he of your late philosophers 
 Takes the true name of Being to be Will ? 
 I — nay, the Church objects nought, is content ; 
 Reason has reached its utmost negative, 
 Physic and metaphysic meet in the inane 
 And backward shrink to intense prejudice, 
 Making their absolute and homogene 
 A loaded relative, a choice to be 
 Whatever is — supposed : a What is not. 
 The Church demands no more, has standing room 
 And basis for her doctrine : this (no more) — 
 
A COLLEGE BREAK FAS T-PAR TY. 1 5 1 
 
 That the strong bias which we name the Soul, 
 
 Though fed and clad by dissoluble waves, 
 
 Has antecedent quality, and rules 
 
 By veto or consent the strife of thought, 
 
 Making arbitrament that we call faith." 
 
 Here was brief silence, till young Hamlet spoke. 
 
 " I crave direction, Father, how to know 
 
 The sign of that imperative whose right 
 
 To sway my act in face of thronging doubts 
 
 Were an oracular gem in price beyond 
 
 Urim and Thummim lost to Israel. 
 
 That bias of the soul, that conquering die 
 
 Loaded with golden emphasis of Will — 
 
 How find it where resolve, once made, becomes 
 
 The rash exclusion of an opposite 
 
 Which draws the stronger as I turn aloof." 
 
 " I think I hear a bias in your words," 
 
 The Priest said mildly—" that strong natural bent 
 
 Which we call hunger. What more positive 
 
 Than appetite ? — of spirit or of flesh, 
 
 I care not — ' sense of need ' were truer phrase. 
 
 You hunger for authoritative right, 
 
 And yet discern no difference of tones, 
 
 No weight of rod that marks imperial rule ? 
 
 Laertes granting, I will put your case 
 
 In analogic form : the doctors hold 
 
 Hunger which gives no relish — save caprice 
 
 That tasting venison fancies mellow pears — 
 
 A symptom of disorder, and prescribe 
 
 Strict discipline. Were I physician here 
 
 I would prescribe that exercise of soul 
 
 Which lies in full obedience : you ask, 
 
 Obedience to what ? The answer lies 
 
 Within the word itself ; for how obey 
 
 What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim ? 
 
 Take inclination, taste — why, that is you, 
 
152 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 No rule above you. Science, reasoning 
 
 On nature's order — they exist and move 
 
 Solely by disputation, hold no pledge 
 
 Of final consequence, but push the swing 
 
 Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit 
 
 In endless see-saw. One authority, 
 
 And only one, says simply this, Obey : 
 
 Place yourself in that current (test it so !) 
 
 Of spiritual order where at least 
 
 Lies promise of a high communion, 
 
 A Head informing members, Life that breathes 
 
 With gift of forces over and above 
 
 The plus of arithmetic interchange. 
 
 ' The Church too has a body,' you object, 
 
 ' Can be dissected, put beneath the lens 
 
 And shown the merest continuity 
 
 Of all existence else beneath the sun.' 
 
 I grant you ; but the lens will not disprove 
 
 A present which eludes it. Take your wit, 
 
 Your highest passion, widest-reaching thought : 
 
 Show their conditions if you will or can , 
 
 But though you saw the final atom-dance 
 
 Making each molecule that stands for sign 
 
 Of love being present, where is still your love ? 
 
 How measure that, how certify its weight ? 
 
 And so I say, the body of the Church 
 
 Carries a Presence, promises and gifts 
 
 Never disproved — whose argument is found 
 
 In lasting failure of the search elsewhere 
 
 For what it holds to satisfy man's need. 
 
 But I grow lengthy : my excuse must be 
 
 Your question, Hamlet, which has probed right 
 
 through 
 To the pith of our belief. And I have robbed 
 Myself of pleasure as a listener. 
 'Tis noon, I see ; and my appointment stands 
 For half-past twelve with Voltimand. Good-by/ 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 53 
 
 Brief parting 1 , brief regret — sincere, but quenched 
 In fumes of best Havana, which consoles 
 For lack of other certitude. Then said, 
 Mildly sarcastic, quiet Guildenstern : 
 " I marvel how the Father gave new charm 
 To weak conclusions : I was half convinced 
 The poorest reasoner made the finest man, 
 And held his logic lovelier for its limp." 
 
 " I fain would hear," said Hamlet, "how you 
 
 find 
 A stronger footing than the Father gave. 
 How base your self-resistance save on faith 
 In some invisible Order, higher Right 
 Than changing impulse. What does Reason 
 
 bid? 
 To take a fullest rationality 
 What offers best solution : so the Church. 
 Science, detecting hydrogen aflame 
 Outside our firmament, leaves mystery- 
 Whole and untouched beyond ;. nay, in our blood 
 And in the potent atoms of each germ 
 The Secret lives — envelops, penetrates 
 Whatever sense perceives or thought divines- 
 Science, whose soul is explanation, halts 
 With hostile front at mystery. The Church 
 Takes mystery as her empire, brings its wealth 
 Of possibility to fill the void 
 'Twixt contradictions — warrants so a faith 
 Defying sense and all its ruthless train 
 Of arrogant ' Therefores.' Science with her lens 
 Dissolves the Forms that made the other half 
 Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives 
 To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. 
 The Church explains not, governs — feeds resolve 
 By vision fraught with heart-experience 
 And human yearning." 
 
154 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 "Ay," said Guildenstern, 
 With friendly nod, " the Father, I can see, 
 Has caught you up in his air-chariot. 
 His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach 
 By solid obstacles, evaporates 
 The coarse and common into subtilties, 
 Insists that what is real in the Church 
 Is something out of evidence, and begs 
 (Just in parenthesis) you'll never mind 
 What stares you in the face and bruises you. 
 Why, by his method I could justify 
 Each superstition and each tyranny 
 That ever rode upon the back of man, 
 Pretending fitness for his sole defence 
 Against life's evil. How can aught subsist 
 That holds no theory of gain or good ? 
 Despots with terror in their red right hand 
 Must argue good to helpers and themselves. 
 Must let submission hold a core of gain 
 To make their slaves choose life. Their theory, 
 Abstracting inconvenience of racks, 
 Whip-lashes, dragonnades and all things coarse 
 Inherent in the fact or concrete mass, 
 Presents the pure idea — utmost good 
 Secured by Order only to be found 
 In strict subordination, hierarchy 
 Of forces where, by nature's law, the strong 
 Has rightful empire, rule of weaker proved 
 Mere dissolution. What can you object J 
 The Inquisition — if you turn away 
 From narrow notice how the scent of gold 
 Has guided sense of damning heresy — 
 The Inquisition is sublime, is love 
 Hindering the spread of poison in men's souls: 
 The flames are nothing : only smaller pain 
 To hinder greater, or the pain of one 
 To save the many, such as throbs at heart 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 5 5 
 
 Of every system born into the world. 
 
 So of the Church as high communion 
 
 Of Head with members, fount of spirit force 
 
 Beyond the calculus, and carrying proof 
 
 In her sole power to satisfy man's need : 
 
 That seems ideal truth as clear as lines 
 
 That, necessary though invisible, trace 
 
 The balance of the planets and the sun — 
 
 Until I find a hitch in that last claim. 
 
 ' To satisfy man's need.' Sir, that depends : 
 
 We settle first the measure of man's need 
 
 Before we grant capacity to fill. 
 
 John, James, or Thomas, you may satisfy : 
 
 But since you choose ideals I demand 
 
 Your Church shall satisfy ideal man, 
 
 His utmost reason and his utmost love. 
 
 And say these rest a-hungered — find no scheme 
 
 Content them both, but hold the world accursed, 
 
 A Calvary where Reason mocks at Love, 
 
 And Love forsaken sends out orphan cries 
 
 Hopeless of answer ; still the soul remains 
 
 Larger, diviner than your half-way Church, 
 
 Which racks your reason into false consent, 
 
 And soothes your Love with sops of selfishness.' 
 
 " There I am with you," cried Laertes. "What 
 To me are any dictates, though they came 
 With thunders from the Mount, if still within 
 I see a higher Right, a higher Good 
 Compelling love and worship ? Though the earth 
 Held force electric to discern and kill 
 Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom 
 But death-defying utterance of belief, 
 Which being mine remains my truth supreme 
 Though solitary as the throb of pain 
 Lying outside the pulses of the world ? 
 Obedience is good : ay, but to what ? 
 
1 5 6 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAR TV. 
 
 And for what ends ? For say that I rebel 
 Against your rule as devilish, or as rule 
 Of thunder-guiding powers that deny 
 Man's highest benefit : rebellion then 
 Were strict obedience to another rule 
 Which bids me flout your thunder." 
 
 ' ' Lo you now ! " 
 Said Osric, delicately, "how you come, 
 Laertes mine, with all your warring zeal 
 As Python-slayer of the present age — 
 Cleansing all social swamps by darting rays 
 Of dubious doctrine, hot with energy 
 Of private judgment and disgust for doubt — 
 To state my thesis, which you most abhor 
 When sung in Daphnis-notes beneath the pines 
 To gentle rush of waters. Your belief — 
 In essence what is it but simply Taste ? 
 I urge with you exemption from all claims 
 That come from other than my proper will, 
 An Ultimate within to balance yours, 
 A solid meeting you, excluding you, 
 Till you show fuller force by entering 
 My spiritual space and crushing Me 
 To a subordinate complement of You : 
 Such ultimate must stand alike for all. 
 Preach your crusade, then : all will join who like 
 The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds ; 
 Still your unpleasant Ought, your itch to choose 
 What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, 
 Differs, I think, from mine (permit the word. 
 Discussion forces it) in being bad." 
 
 The tone was too polite to breed offence, 
 Showing a tolerance of what was " bad" 
 Becoming courtiers. Louder Rosencranz 
 Took up the ball with rougher movement, won* 
 To show contempt for doting reasoners 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 157 
 
 Who hugged some reasons with a preference, 
 As warm Laertes did : he gave five puffs 
 Intolerantly sceptical, then said, 
 " Your human good, which you would make 
 
 supreme, 
 How do you know it ? Has it shown its face 
 In adamantine type, with features clear, 
 As this republic, or that monarchy ? 
 As federal grouping, or municipal ? 
 Equality, or finely shaded lines 
 Of social difference ? ecstatic whirl 
 And draught intense of passionate joy and pain % 
 Or sober self-control that starves its youth 
 And lives to wonder what the world calls joy ? 
 Is it in sympathy that shares men's pangs 
 Or in cool brains that can explain them well ? 
 Is it in labor or in laziness? 
 In training for the tug of rivalry 
 To be admired, or in the admiring soul ? 
 In risk or certitude ? In battling rage 
 And hardy challenges of Protean luck, 
 Or in a sleek and rural apathy 
 Full fed with sameness ? Pray define your Good 
 Beyond rejection by majority ; 
 Next, how it may subsist without the 111 
 Which seems its only outline. Show a world 
 Of pleasure not resisted ; or a world 
 Of pressure equalized, yet various 
 In action formative ; for that will serve 
 As illustration of your human good — 
 Which at its perfecting (your goal of hope) 
 Will not be straight extinct, or fall to sleep 
 In the deep bosom of the Unchangeable. 
 Yv^hat will you work for, then, and call it good 
 With full and certain vision — good for aught 
 Save partial ends which happen to be yours ? 
 How will you get your stringency to bind 
 
158 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAR TY. 
 
 Thought or desire in demonstrated tracks 
 
 Which are but waves within a balanced whole ? 
 
 Is ' relative ' the magic word that turns 
 
 Your flux mercurial of good to gold ? 
 
 Why, that analysis at which you rage 
 
 As anti-social force that sweeps you down 
 
 The world in one cascade of molecules, 
 
 Is brother ' relative ' — and grins at you 
 
 Like any convict whom you thought to send 
 
 Outside society, till this enlarged 
 
 And meant New England and Australia too. 
 
 The Absolute is your shadow, and the space 
 
 Which you say might be real were you milled 
 
 To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin, 
 
 Equation of no thickness, is still you." 
 
 " Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," 
 
 Horatio interposed. But Rosencranz, 
 
 Deaf as the angry turkey-cock whose ears 
 
 Are plugged by swollen tissues when he scolds 
 
 At men's pretensions : " Pooh, your ' Relative" 
 
 Shuts you in, hopeless, with your progeny 
 
 As in a Hunger-tower ; your social good, 
 
 Like other deities by turn supreme, 
 
 Is transient reflex of a prejudice, 
 
 Anthology of causes and effects 
 
 To suit the mood of fanatics who lead 
 
 The mood of tribes or nations. I admit 
 
 If you could show a sword, nay, chance of sword 
 
 Hanging conspicuous to their inward eyes 
 
 With edge so constant threatening as to sway 
 
 All greed and lust by terror ; and a law 
 
 Clear-writ and proven as the law supreme 
 
 Which that dread sword enforces — then your 
 
 Right, 
 Duty, or social Good, were it once brought 
 To common measure with the potent law, 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 5 9 
 
 Would dip the scale, would put unchanging 
 
 marks 
 Of wisdom or of folly on each deed, 
 And warrant exhortation. Until then, 
 Where is your standard or criterion ? 
 4 What always, everywhere, by all men ' — why, 
 That were but Custom, and your system needs 
 Ideals never yet incorporate, 
 The imminent doom of Custom. Can you find 
 Appeal beyond the sentience in each man ? 
 Frighten the blind with scarecrows ? raise an awe 
 Of things unseen where appetite commands 
 Chambers of imagery in the soul 
 At all its avenues ? — You chant your hymns 
 To Evolution, on your altar lay 
 A sacred egg called Progress : have you proved 
 A Best unique where all is relative, 
 And where each change is loss as well as gain ? 
 The age of healthy Saurians, well supplied 
 With heat and prey, will balance well enough 
 A human age where maladies are strong 
 And pleasures feeble ; wealth a monster gorged 
 Mid hungry populations ; intellect 
 Aproned in laboratories, bent on proof 
 That this is that and both are good for nought 
 Save feeding error through a weary life ; 
 While Art and Poesy struggle like poor ghosts 
 To hinder cock-crow and the dreadful light, 
 Lurking in darkness and the charnel-house, 
 Or like two stalwart graybeards, imbecile 
 With limbs still active, playing at belief 
 That hunt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seek. 
 Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores 
 And lisping emulously in their speech. 
 O human race ! Is this then all thy gain ? — 
 Working at disproof, playing at belief, 
 Debate on causes, distaste of effects, 
 
I0O A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Power to transmute all elements, and lack 
 Of any power to sway the fatal skill 
 And make thy lot aught else than rigid doom ? 
 The Saurians were better. — Guildenstern, 
 Pass me the taper. Still the human curse 
 Has mitigation in the best cigars." 
 Then swift Laertes, not without a glare 
 Of leonine wrath, ' ' I thank thee for that word : 
 That one confession, were I Socrates, 
 Should force you onward till you ran your bead 
 At your own image — flatly gave .the lie 
 To all your blasphemy of that human good 
 Which bred and nourished you to sit at ease 
 And learnedly deny it. Say the world 
 Groans ever with the pangs of doubtful birtns : 
 c ?.y, life's a poor donation at the best — 
 Wisdom a yearning after nothingness — 
 Nature's great vision and the thrill supreme 
 Of thought-fed passion but a weary play — . 
 I argue not against you. Who can prove 
 Wit to be witty when with deeper ground 
 Dulness intuitive declares wit dull ? 
 If life is worthless to you — why, it is. 
 You only know how little love you feel 
 To give you fellowship, how little force 
 Responsive to the quality of things. 
 Then end your life, throw off the unsought yoke 
 If not — if you remain to taste cigars, 
 Choose racy diction, perorate at large 
 With tacit scorn of meaner men who win 
 No wreath or tripos — then admit at least 
 A possible Better in the seeds of earth ; 
 Acknowledge debt to that laborious life 
 Which, sifting evermore the mingled seeds, 
 Testing the Possible with patient skill, 
 And daring ill in presence of a good 
 For futures to inherit, made your lot 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 161 
 
 One you would choose rather than end it, nay, 
 Rather than, say, some twenty million lots 
 Of fellow-Britons toiling all to make 
 That nation, that community, whereon 
 You feed and thrive and talk philosophy. 
 I am no optimist whose faith must hang 
 On hard pretence that pain is beautiful 
 And agony explained for men at ease 
 By virtue's exercise in pitying it. 
 But this I hold : that he who takes one gift 
 Made for him by the hopeful work of man, 
 Who tastes sweet bread, walks where he will un- 
 armed, 
 His shield and warrant the invisible law, 
 Who owns a hearth and household charities, 
 Who clothes his body and his sentient soul 
 With skill and thoughts of men, and yet denies 
 A human good worth toiling for, is cursed 
 With worse negation than the poet feigned 
 In Mephistopheles. The Devil spins 
 His wire-drawn argument against all good 
 With sense of brimstone as his private lot, 
 And never drew a solace from the Earth." 
 
 Laertes fuming paused, and Guildenstern 
 Took up with cooler skill the fusillade : 
 " I meet your deadliest challenge, Rosencranz : 
 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule 
 Enforced by sanction, an Ideal throned 
 With thunder in its hand ? I answer, there 
 Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force 
 Since human consciousness awaking owned 
 An Outward, whose unconquerable sway 
 Resisted first and then subdued desire 
 By pressure of the dire Impossible 
 Urging to possible ends the active soul 
 And shaping so its terror and its love. 
 
1 62 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Why, you have said it — threats and promises 
 
 Depend on each man's sentience for their force J 
 
 All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, 
 
 Can have no form or potency apart 
 
 From the percipient and emotive mind. 
 
 God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, 
 
 Must first be framed in man, as music is, 
 
 Before they live outside him as a law. 
 
 And still they grow and shape themselves anew, 
 
 With fuller concentration in their life 
 
 Of inward and of outward energies 
 
 Blending to make the last result called Man, 
 
 Which means, not this or that philosopher 
 
 Looking through beauty into blankness, not 
 
 The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie 
 
 By the last telegram : it means the tide 
 
 Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust, and love — 
 
 The surging multitude of human claims 
 
 Which make ' ' a presence not to be put by " 
 
 Above the horizon of the general soul. 
 
 Is inward Reason shrunk to subtleties, 
 
 And inward wisdom pining passion-starved? — 
 
 The outward Reason has the world in store, 
 
 Regenerates passion with the stress of want, 
 
 Regenerates knowledge with discovery, 
 
 Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer, 
 
 Widens dependence, knits the social whole 
 
 In sensible relation more defined. 
 
 Do Boards and dirty-handed millionnaires 
 
 Govern the planetary system? — sway 
 
 The pressure of the Universe ? — decide 
 
 That man henceforth shall retrogress to ape, 
 
 Emptied of every sympathetic thrill 
 
 The Ail has wrought in him ? dam up henceforth 
 
 The flood of human claims as private force 
 
 To turn their wheels and make a private hell 
 
 For fish-pond to their mercantile domain ? 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 63 
 
 What are they but a parasitic growth 
 
 On the vast real and ideal world 
 
 Of man and nature blent in one divine ? 
 
 Why, take your closing dirge — say evil grow* 
 
 And good is dwindling ; science mere decay, 
 
 Mere dissolution of ideal wholes 
 
 Which through the ages past alone have made 
 
 The earth and firmament of human faith ; 
 
 Say, the small arc of Being we call man 
 
 Is near its mergence, what seems growing life 
 
 Nought but a hurrying change toward lower 
 
 types, 
 The ready rankness of degeneracy. 
 Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good 
 May take their common sorrows for a rock, 
 On it erect religion and a church, 
 A worship, rites, and passionate piety — 
 The worship of the Best though crucified 
 And God-forsaken in its dying pangs ; 
 The sacramental rites of fellowship 
 In common woe ; visions that purify 
 Through admiration and despairing love 
 Which keep their spiritual life intact 
 Beneath the murderous clutches of disproof 
 And feed a martyr-strength." 
 
 " Religion high !" 
 (Rosencranz here) " but with communicants 
 Few as the cedars upon Lebanon — 
 A child might count them. What the world de- 
 mands 
 Is faith coercive of the multitude." 
 
 " Tush, Guildenstern, you granted him too 
 
 much," 
 Burst in Laertes ; " I will never grant 
 One inch of law to feeble blasphemies 
 
164 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Which hold no higher ratio to life — 
 
 Full vigorous human life that peopled earth 
 
 And wrought and fought and loved and bravery 
 
 died — 
 Than the sick morning glooms of debauchees. 
 Old nations breed old children, wizened babes 
 Whose youth is languid and incredulous, 
 Weary of life without the will to die ; 
 Their passions visionary appetites 
 Of bloodless spectres wailing that the world 
 For lack of substance slips from out their grasp ; 
 Their thoughts the withered husks of all things 
 
 dead, 
 Holding no force of germs instinct with life, 
 Which never hesitates but moves and grows. 
 Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill, 
 Excess of knowing ! Fie on you, Rosencranz ! 
 You lend your brains and fine-dividing tongue 
 For bass-notes to this shrivelled crudity, 
 This immature decrepitude that strains 
 To fill our ears and claim the prize of strength 
 For mere unmanliness. Out on them all ! — 
 Wits, puling minstrels, and philosophers, 
 Who living softly prate of suicide, 
 And suck the commonwealth to feed their ease 
 While they vent epigrams and threnodies, 
 Mocking or wailing all the eager work 
 Which makes that public store whereon they feed 
 Is wisdom flattened sense and mere distaste ? 
 Why, any superstition warm with love, 
 Inspired with purpose, wild with energy 
 That streams resistless through its ready frame, 
 Has more of human truth within its life 
 Than souls that look through color into nought — 
 Whose brain, too unimpassioned for delight, 
 Has feeble ticklings of a vanity 
 Which finds the universe beneath its mark, 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 65 
 
 And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue 
 Can only say, ' What then ? ' — pre-eminent 
 In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, 
 Founding that worship of sterility 
 Whose one supreme is vacillating Will 
 Which makes the Light, then says, 4 'Twere bettef 
 not.' " 
 
 Here rash Laertes brought his Handel-strain 
 As of some angry Polypheme, to pause ; 
 And Osric, shocked at ardors out of taste, 
 Relieved the audience with a tenor voice 
 And delicate delivery. 
 
 " For me, 
 I range myself in line with Rosencranz 
 Against all schemes, religious or profane, 
 That flaunt a Good as pretext for a lash 
 To flog us all who have the better taste, 
 Into conformity, requiring me 
 At peril of the thong and sharp disgrace 
 To care how mere Philistines pass their lives ; 
 Whether the English pauper-total grows 
 From one to two before the noughts ; how far 
 Teuton will outbreed Roman ; if the class 
 Of proletaires will make a federal band 
 To bind all Europe and America, 
 Throw, in their wrestling, every government, 
 Snatch the world's purse and keep the guillotine: 
 Or else (admitting these are casualties) 
 Driving my soul with scientific hail 
 That shuts the landscape out with particles ; 
 Insisting that the Palingenesis 
 Means telegraphs and measure of the rate 
 At which the stars move — nobody knows where. 
 So far, my Rosencranz, we are at one. 
 But not when you blaspheme the life of Art, 
 The sweet perennial youth of Poesy, 
 
1 66 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Which asks no logic but its sensuous growth, 
 No right but loveliness ; which fearless strolls 
 Betwixt the burning mountain and the sea, 
 Reckless of earthquake and the lava stream, 
 Filling its hour with beauty. It knows nought 
 Of bitter strife, denial, grim resolve, 
 Sour resignation, busy emphasis 
 Of fresh illusions named the new-born True, 
 Old Error's latest child ; but as a lake 
 Images all things, yet within its depths 
 Dreams them all lovelier — thrills with sound 
 And makes a harp of plenteous liquid chords — 
 So Art or Poesy : we its votaries 
 Are the Olympians, fortunately born 
 From the elemental mixture ; 'tis our lot 
 To pass more swiftly than the Delian God, 
 But still the earth breaks into flowers for us, 
 And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears 
 Are dying falls to melody divine. 
 Hatred, war, vice, crime, sin, those human 
 
 storms, 
 Cyclones, floods, what you will — outbursts of 
 
 force — 
 Feed art with contrast, give the grander touch 
 To the master's pencil and the poet's song, 
 Serve as Vesuvian fires or navies tossed 
 On yawning waters, which when viewed afar 
 Deepen the calm sublime of those choice souls 
 Who keep the heights of poesy and turn 
 A fleckless mirror to the various world, 
 Giving its many-named and fitful flux 
 An imaged, harmless, spiritual life, 
 With pure selection, native to art's frame, 
 Of beauty only, save its minor scale 
 Of ill and pain to give the ideal joy 
 A keener edge. This is a mongrel globe ; 
 All finer being wrought from its coarse earth 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 1 67 
 
 Is but accepted privilege : what else 
 
 Your boasted virtue, which proclaims itself 
 
 A good above the average consciousness ? 
 
 Nature exists by partiality 
 
 (Each planet's poise must carry two extremes 
 
 With verging breadths of minor wretchedness) *. 
 
 We are her favorites and accept our wings. 
 
 For your accusal, Rosencranz, that art 
 
 Shares in the dread and weakness of the time, 
 
 I hold it null ; since art or poesy pure, 
 
 Being blameless by all standards save her own, 
 
 Takes no account of modern or antique 
 
 In morals, science, or philosophy : 
 
 No dull elenchus makes a yoke for her, 
 
 Whose law and measure are the sweet consent 
 
 Of sensibilities that move apart 
 
 From rise or fall of systems, states or creeds — 
 
 Apart from what Philistines call man's weal." 
 
 " Ay, we all know those votaries of the Muse 
 Ravished with singing till they quite forgot 
 Their manhood, sang, and gaped, And took no 
 
 food, 
 Then died of emptiness, and for reward 
 Lived on as grasshoppers " — Laertes thus : 
 But then he checked himself as one who feels 
 His muscles dangerous, and Guildenstern 
 Filled up the pause with calmer confidence. 
 
 "You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself 
 Safely outside all reach of argument, 
 Then dogmatize at will (a method known 
 To ancient women and philosophers, 
 Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor) ; 
 Else, could an arrow reach you, I should ask 
 Whence came taste, beauty, sensibilities 
 Refined to preference infallible ? 
 
1 68 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Doubtless, ye're gods — these odors ye inhale, 
 A sacrificial scent. But how, I pray, 
 Are odors made, if not by gradual change 
 Of sense or substance ? Is your beautiful 
 A seedless, rootless flower, or has it grown 
 With human growth, which means the rising 
 
 sun 
 Of human struggle, order, knowledge ? — sense 
 Trained to a fuller record, more exact — 
 To truer guidance of each passionate force ? 
 Get me your roseate flesh without the blood ; 
 Get fine aromas without structure wrought 
 From simpler being into manifold : 
 Then and then only flaunt your Beautiful 
 As what can live apart from thought, creeds, 
 
 states, 
 Which mean life's structure. Osric, I beseech — 
 The infallible should be more catholic — 
 Join in a war-dance with the cannibals, 
 Hear Chinese music, love a face tattooed, 
 Give adoration to a pointed skull, 
 And think the Hindu Siva looks divine: 
 'Tis art, 'tis poesy. Say, you object : 
 How came you by that lofty dissidence, 
 If not through changes in the social man 
 Widening his consciousness from Here and Now 
 To larger wholes beyond the reach of sense ; 
 Controlling to a fuller harmony 
 The thrill of passion and the rule of fact ; 
 And paling false ideals in the light 
 Of full-rayed sensibilities which blend 
 Truth and desire ? Taste, beauty, what are they 
 But the soul's choice toward perfect bias wrought 
 By finer balance of a fuller growth — 
 Sense brought to subtlest metamorphosis 
 Through love, thought, joy — the general human 
 
 store 
 
JOIN IN A WAR-DANCE." — Page l68. 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAR TV. 1 6 9 
 
 Which grows from all life's functions ? As the 
 
 plant 
 Holds its corolla, purple, delicate. 
 Solely as outfiush of that energy 
 Which moves transformingly in root and branch. " 
 
 Guildenstern paused, and Hamlet quivering 
 Since Osric spoke, in transit imminent 
 From catholic striving into laxity, 
 Ventured his word. " Seems to me, Guilden- 
 stern, 
 Your argument, though shattering Osric's point 
 That sensibilities can move apart 
 From social order, yet' has not annulled 
 His thesis that the life of poesy 
 (Admitting it must grow from out the whole) 
 Has separate functions, a transfigured realm 
 Freed from the rigors of the practical, 
 Where what is hidden from the grosser world — 
 Stormed down by roar of engines and the shouts 
 Of eager concourse — rises beauteous 
 As voice of water-drops in sapphire caves ; 
 A realm where finest spirits have free sway 
 In exquisite selection, uncontrolled 
 By hard material necessity 
 
 Of cause and consequence. For you will grant 
 The Ideal has discoveries which ask 
 No test, no faith, save that we joy in them : 
 A new-found continent, with spreading lands 
 Where pleasure charters all, where virtue, rank, 
 Use, right, and truth have but one name, Delight. 
 Thus Art's creations, when etherealized 
 To least admixture of the grosser fact 
 Delight may stamp as highest." 
 
 ' ' Possible !'* 
 Said Guildenstern, with touch of weariness, 
 
17° A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 11 But then we might dispute of what is gross, 
 What high, what low." 
 
 "Nay," said Laertes, " ask 
 The mightiest makers who have reigned, still 
 
 reign 
 Within the ideal realm. See if their thought 
 Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood 
 Of hearts that beat in action various 
 Through the wide drama of the struggling world. 
 Good-by, Horatio." 
 
 Each now said " Good-by." 
 Such breakfast, such beginning of the day 
 Is more than half the whole. The sun was hot 
 On southward branches of the meadow elms, 
 The shadows slowly farther crept and veered 
 Like changing memories, and Hamlet strolled 
 Alone and dubious on the empurpled path 
 Between the waving grasses of new June 
 Close by the stream where well-compacted boats 
 Were moored or moving with a lazy creak 
 To the soft dip of oars. All sounds were light 
 As tiny silver bells upon the robes 
 Of hovering silence. Birds made twitterings 
 That seemed but Silence self o'erfull of love. 
 'Twas invitation all to sweet repose ; 
 And Hamlet, drowsy with the mingled draughts 
 Of cider and conflicting sentiments, 
 Chose a green couch and watched with half-closed 
 
 eyes 
 The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, 
 Until they merged themselves in sequence strange 
 With undulating ether, time, the soul, 
 The will supreme, the individual claim, 
 The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, 
 Democritus, Pythagoras, in talk 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 171 
 
 With Anselm, Darwin, Comte, and Schopen- 
 hauer, 
 The poets rising slow from out their tombs 
 Summoned as arbiters — that border-world 
 Of dozing, ere the sense is fully locked. 
 
 And then he dreamed a dream so luminous 
 He woke (he says) convinced ; but what it taught 
 Withholds as yet. Perhaps those graver shades 
 Admonished him that visions told in haste 
 Part with their virtues to the squandering lips 
 And leave the soul in wider emptiness. 
 April 1&74. 
 
TWO LOVERS 
 
TWO WEDDED FROM THE POKTAL STEPT. — Page 175. 
 
TWO LOVERS. 
 
 Two lovers by a moss-grown spring : 
 They leaned soft cheeks together there, 
 Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
 And heard the wooing thrushes sing. 
 O budding time ! 
 O love's blest prime ! 
 
 Two wedded from the portal stept : 
 The bells made happy carollings, 
 The air was soft as fanning wings, 
 White petals on the pathway slept. 
 
 O pure-eyed bride ! 
 O tender pride ! 
 
 Two faces o'er a cradle bent: 
 
 Two hands above the head were locked ; 
 These pressed each other while they rocked, 
 Those watched a life that love had sent. 
 O solemn hour ! 
 O hidden power ! 
 
 Two parents by the evening fire : 
 The red light fell about their knees 
 On heads that rose by slow degrees 
 Like buds upon the lily spire. 
 
 O patient life ! 
 O tender strife ! 
 
176 TWO LOVERS. 
 
 The two still sat together there, 
 
 The red light shone about their knees ; 
 But all the heads by slow degrees 
 Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
 O voyage fast ! 
 O vanished past ! 
 
 The red light shone upon the floor 
 
 And made the space between them wide ; 
 They drew their chairs up side by side, 
 Their pale cheeks joined, and said, ' ' Once more !' 
 O memories ! 
 O past that is ! 
 
 1S66. 
 
SELF AND LIFE 
 
SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Changeful comrade, Life of mine, 
 
 Before we two must part, 
 I will tell thee, thou shalt say, 
 
 What thou hast been and art. 
 Ere I lose my hold of thee 
 Justify thyself to me. 
 
 Life. 
 
 I was thy warmth upon thy mother's knee 
 When light and love within her eyes were one ; 
 
 We laughed together by the laurel-tree, 
 
 Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloping sun ; 
 
 We heard the chickens' lazy croon, 
 
 Where the trellised woodbines grew, 
 And all the summer afternoon 
 Mystic gladness o'er thee threw. 
 
 Was it person ? Was it thing ? 
 Was it touch or whispering? 
 It was bliss and it was I : 
 Bliss was what thou knew'st me by. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Soon I knew thee more by Fear 
 
 And sense of what was not, 
 Haunting all I held most dear ; 
 
 I had a double lot : 
 Ardor, cheated with alloy, 
 Wept the more for dreams of joy. 
 
180 SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 Life. 
 
 Remember how thy ardor's magic sense 
 
 Made poor things rich to thee and small things 
 great ; 
 
 How hearth and garden, field and bushy fence, 
 Were thy own eager love incorporate ; 
 
 And how the solemn, splendid Past 
 
 O'er thy early widened earth 
 Made grandeur, as on sunset cast 
 Dark elms near take mighty girth. 
 Hands and feet were tiny still 
 When we knew the historic thrill, 
 Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, 
 Tasted the immortals' bread. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Seeing what I might have been 
 
 Reproved the thing I was, 
 Smoke on heaven's clearest sheen, 
 
 The speck within the rose. 
 By revered ones' frailties stung 
 Reverence was with anguish wrung. 
 
 Life. 
 
 But all thy anguish and thy discontent 
 Was growth of mine, the elemental strife 
 
 Toward feeling manifold with vision blent 
 To wider thought : I was no vulgar life 
 
 That, like the water-mirrored ape, 
 Not discerns the thing it sees, 
 
 Nor knows its own in others' shape, 
 Railing, scorning, at its ease. 
 
SELF AND LIFE. 101 
 
 Half man's truth must hidden lie 
 If unlit by Sorrow's eye. 
 I by Sorrow wrought in thee 
 Willing pain of ministry. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Slowly was the lesson taught 
 
 Through passion, error, care ; 
 Insight was the loathing fraught 
 
 And effort with despair. 
 Written on the wall I saw 
 "Bow !" I knew, not loved, the law. 
 
 Life. 
 
 But then I brought a love that wrote within 
 The law of gratitude, and made thy heart 
 
 Beat to the heavenly tune of seraphin 
 Whose only joy in having is, to impart : 
 
 Till thou, poor Self — despite thy ire, 
 
 Wrestling 'gainst my mingled share, 
 Thy faults, hard falls, and vain desire 
 Still to be what others were — 
 
 Filled, o'erflowed with tenderness 
 Seeming more as thou wert less, 
 Knew me through that anguish past 
 As a fellowship more vast. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Yea, I embrace thee, changeful Life ! 
 
 Far-sent, unchosen mate ! 
 Self and thou, no more at strife, 
 
 Shall wed in hallowed state. 
 Willing spousals now shall prove 
 Life is justified by love. 
 
"SWEET EVENINGS COME 
 AND GO, LOVE." 
 
The evening of our life, love, shall go and 
 come no more." — Page 185. 
 
"SWEET EVENINGS COME AND 
 GO, LOVE." 
 
 " La noche buena se viene, 
 
 La noche buena se va, 
 Y nosotros nos itemos 
 
 Y no volveremos mas." 
 
 —Old Villancice 
 
 Sweet evenings come and go, love, 
 They came and went of yore : 
 
 This evening of our life, love, 
 Shall go and come no more. 
 
 When we have passed away, love, 
 All things will keep their name; 
 
 But yet no life on earth, love, 
 With ours will be same. 
 
 The daisies will be there, love, 
 The stars in heaven will shine: 
 
 I shall not feel thy wish, love, 
 Nor thou my hand in thine. 
 
 A better time will come, love, 
 And better souls be born : 
 
 1 would not be the best, love, 
 To leave thee now forlorn. 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 Moses, who spake with God as with his friend, 
 And ruled his people with the twofold power 
 Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, 
 Was writing his last word, the sacred name 
 Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
 Which was and is and evermore shall be. 
 Yet was his task not finished, for the flock 
 Needed its shepherd and the life-taught sage 
 Leaves no successor ; but to chosen men, 
 The rescuers and guides of Israel, 
 A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
 Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
 But left them rulers of the multitude 
 And loved companions of the lonely. This 
 Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
 When soul must part from self and be but soul. 
 
 God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 
 
 Of mildest death that draws the parting life 
 
 Gently, as when a little rosy child 
 
 Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 
 
 And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 
 
 In the soft white — thus Gabriel draws the soul. 
 
 "Go bring the soul of Moses unto me ! " 
 
 And the awe-stricken angel answered, " Lord, 
 
 How shall I dare to take his life who lives 
 
 Sole of his kind, not to be likened once 
 
 In all the generations of the earth ?" 
 
 Then God called Michael, him of pensive brow. 
 Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and acts 
 
190 THE DEATH OE MOSES. 
 
 " Go bring the spirit of Moses unto me ! " 
 But Michael with such grief as angels feel, 
 Loving the mortals whom they succour, pled : 
 ' ' Almighty, spare me ; it was I who taught 
 Thy servant Moses ; he is part of me 
 As I of thy deep secrets, knowing them." 
 
 Then God called Zamael, the terrible, 
 The angel of fierce death, of agony 
 That comes in battle and in pestilence 
 Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 
 And Zamael, his raiment and broad wings 
 Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes 
 Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night 
 Before the prophet. But that radiance 
 Won from the heavenly presence in the mount 
 Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling 
 
 pierced 
 Its conscious opposite : the angel turned 
 His murky gaze aloof and inly said : 
 " An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 
 
 But Moses felt the subtly nearing dark : [then : 
 ' ' Who art thou ? and what wilt thou ? " Zamael 
 "I am God's reaper ; through the fields of life 
 I gather ripened and unripened souls 
 Both willing and unwilling. And I come 
 Now to reap thee." But Moses cried, 
 Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign : 
 " Reap thou the fruitless plant and common 
 
 herb — 
 Not him who from the womb was sanctified 
 To teach the law of purity and love." 
 And Zamael baffled from his errand fled. 
 
 But Moses, pausing, in the air serene 
 Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, 
 
f 
 
 m 
 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret track." — Page igi. 
 
THE DEA TH OF MOSES. 1 9 1 
 
 The all-penetrating Voice, that said to him, 
 " Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." 
 " Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
 How thou, Ineffable, didst take me once 
 Within thy orb of light untouched by death." 
 Then the voice answered, " Be no more afraid : 
 With me shall be thy death and burial." 
 So Moses waited, ready now to die. 
 
 And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret track, 
 Prince Michael, Zagael, Gabriel, charged to 
 
 guard 
 The soul-forsaken body as it fell 
 And bear it to the hidden sepulchre 
 Denied for ever to the search of man. 
 And the Voice said to Moses : ' 4 Close thine 
 
 eyes." 
 He closed them. " Lay thine hand upon thine 
 
 heart, 
 And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. 
 And the Lord said, ' ' O spirit ! child of mine ! 
 A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt 
 Within this tabernacle wrought of clay. 
 This is the end : come forth and flee to heaven." 
 
 But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading 
 
 cried, 
 " I love this body with a clinging love : 
 The courage fails me, Lord, to part from it." 
 
 " O child, come forth ! for thou shalt dwell with m« 
 About the immortal throne where seraphs joy 
 In growing vision and in growing love. " 
 
 Yet hesitating, fluttering, like the bird 
 With young wing weak and dubious, the soul 
 
1 9 2 THE DEA TH OF MOSES. 
 
 Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
 A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
 The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
 That lingered in the body, drew it forth 
 With heavenly strength and carried it to heaven. 
 
 But now beneath the sky the watchers all, 
 Angels that keep the homes of Israel 
 Or on high purpose wander o'er the world 
 Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 
 The greatest ruler among men was gone. 
 And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 
 A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, 
 Crying, ' ' Who now is left upon the earth 
 Like him to teach the right and smite the wrong ? " 
 And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, 
 Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge : 
 1 ' No prophet like him lives or shall arise 
 In Israel or the world for evermore." 
 
 But Israel waited, looking toward the mount, 
 Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
 Saying, " His burial is hid with God. 
 We stood far off and saw the angels lift 
 His corpse aloft until they seemed a star 
 That burnt itself away within the sky." 
 
 The people answered with mute orphaned gaze 
 Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
 Then through the gloom without them and within 
 The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech, 
 Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured sound, 
 The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, 
 Thrilled on their listening sense : ' ' He has no 
 
 tomb. 
 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law." 
 
ARION 
 
ARION. 
 
 (Herod. I. 24.) 
 
 Arion, whose melodic soul 
 Taught the dithyramb to roll 
 
 Like forest fires, and sing 
 
 Olympian suffering, 
 
 Had carried his diviner lore 
 From Corinth to the sister shore 
 
 Where Greece could largelier bC, 
 
 Branching o'er Italy. 
 
 Then weighted with his glorious name 
 And bags of gold, aboard he came 
 'Mid harsh seafaring men 
 To Corinth bound again. 
 
 The sailors eyed the bags and thought : 
 " The gold is good, the man is nought — 
 And who shall track the wave 
 That opens for his grave ?" 
 
 With brawny arms and cruel eyes 
 They press around him where he lies 
 In sleep beside his lyre, 
 Hearing the Muses quire. 
 
 He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death 
 Breaking the dream that filled his breath 
 
 With inspiration strong 
 
 Of yet unchanted sonjj. 
 
1 96 ARION. 
 
 "Take, take my gold and let me live !'* 
 He prayed, as kings do when they give 
 Their all with royal will, 
 Holding born kingship still. 
 
 To rob the living they refuse, 
 One death or other he must choose, 
 
 Either the watery pall 
 
 Or wounds and burial. 
 
 4 * My solemn robe then let me don, 
 Give me high space to stand upon, 
 
 That dying I may pour 
 
 A song unsung before." 
 
 It pleased them well to grant this prayer 
 To hear for nought how it might fare 
 
 With men who paid their gold 
 
 For what a poet sold. 
 
 In flowing stole, his eyes aglow 
 With inward fire, he neared the prow 
 
 And took his god-like stand, 
 
 The cithara in hand. 
 
 The wolfish men all shrank aloof, 
 And feared this singer might be proof 
 
 Against their murderous power, 
 
 After his lyric hour. 
 
 But he, in liberty of song, 
 Fearless of death or other wrong, 
 With full spondaic toll 
 Poured forth his mighty soul : 
 
 Poured forth the strain his dream h.id tango,' 
 A nome with lofty passion fraught 
 
 Such as makes battles won 
 
 On fields of Marathon. 
 
ARION. 197 
 
 The last long vowels trembled then 
 As awe within those wolfish men : 
 
 They said, with mutual stare, 
 Some god was present there. 
 
 But lo ! Arion leaped on high, 
 Ready, his descant done, to die ; 
 Not asking, " Is it well r 
 Like a pierced eagle fell. 
 
 1873. 
 
"O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR 
 INVISIBLE." 
 
"O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR IN- 
 VISIBLE." 
 
 Longum Mud tempus^ quumnon ero, magis me mo 
 vei, quam hoc exiguum. — Cicero, ad Att., xii. 18. 
 
 O MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence : live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 For miserable aims that end with self, 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like 
 
 stars, 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's search 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music in the world, 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 With growing sway the growing life of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
 Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song, 
 That watched to ease the burthen of the world. 
 
202 "0 MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR." 
 
 Laboriously tracing what must be, 
 
 And what may yet be better — saw within 
 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude 
 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 
 To higher reverence more mixed with love — 
 
 That better self shall live till human Time 
 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
 
 Unread for ever. 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made more giorioiF 
 For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
 That purest heaven, be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diffusion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 1867. 
 
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