Within are love, and books, and flowers,— Creators of life's happiest hours; Without are those whose baneful call, If once they pass within thy wall, May blight the beauty of it all.

Think not they come for love of thee! They seek from ennui to be free, To ask some boon, or tell some tale Which, true or false, will rarely fail To leave behind a poisoned trail.

What else indeed can such as they Invent to pass their time away? Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, Their reading is the daily press, Their mental life a wilderness.

What though their dwellings rise near thine? Propinquity is not a sign Of loyal hearts or kindred views; Thou surely hast a right to choose Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse.

Decline to let those mar thy joy, Whose manners wound, and words annoy; The vapid, heartless throng eschew; Admit alone,—alas, how few!— The really kind, the really true.

Yet when did ever a recluse Escape the baffled crowd's abuse? The social world will ne'er condone Thy preference to live alone Amid resources of thine own.

Well, let it scoff, malign, or ... worse! Thou hast an independent purse; Alike to thee its smile or sneer, It hath no power to cause thee fear, Nor is its censure worth a tear.

Hence, 'mid thy flowers, books, and trees Strive not the multitude to please; Regard its humors as the spray Which winds blow lightly o'er the bay; Live thine own life, and win the day!



ONE MORE

With a smile and a kiss he went away; At the gate he turned and waved his hand, Then plunged once more in the sordid fray, Whose strain she could not understand.

She really thought that she loved him well, But she loved herself and children more, And realized only when he fell What all his friends had known before.

He had always hid his own distress, And answered us with a brave "Not yet," For boys must play and girls must dress, As do their mates in the social set.

At least she claimed that this was so, And he too dearly loved them all To spoil their place in the passing show, And so rode on for a fatal fall.

He had earned enough for a simple life, If only they a word had said, So weary was he of the strife; But they were dumb, and he ... is dead!

Yes, he is gone, and they are here; And now the purse he died to fill Will keep them well for many a year,— Of course submissive to "God's will"!

One victim more in the cruel race With rivals he himself despised, For children who can ne'er replace The father whom they sacrificed.



UNDER THE PLANE TREE

Under my wall And plane-tree tall The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall; In they creep, Out they sweep, And ever their rhythmic measure keep, As the light breeze over the water steals, And fills the sails of a score of keels.

Soft and low, In the evening glow, Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow; Clear and sweet, Fair and fleet, It came from the mountain, the lake to meet, And here, where ivy and roses twine, Streamlet and lake their lives combine.

One by one, In shade or sun, Each river of life its course must run; Slow or fast, Small or vast, All come to the waiting sea at last,— The source from which they first arose, The home in which they find repose.



"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE"

Marble fragment, freed at last From thy prison of the past, By a spade-thrust brought to light After centuries of night,— Let me take thee in my hand, And thy legend understand.

On thy mutilated face It is difficult to trace All that once was graven here; But at least two words are clear,— Reading still, as all agree, "Conjugi Carissimae."

"To my well-beloved wife";— Only this; but of her life, Rank or title, age or name, Or the place from which she came, Nothing further can be known Than is taught us by this stone.

Touching words they are, which tell Of a husband's last farewell; Cry of a despairing heart That has seen a wife depart On death's dark, uncharted sea;— "Conjugi Carissimae!"

Was this lady still a bride, Or a matron, when she died? Had she children? Was she fair? Bright with joy, or bowed with care? Ah, pathetic mystery! "Conjugi Carissimae."

Yet, in truth, what matters all, Save the fact these words recall? She was loved,—a consort mourned In the home she had adorned; And her husband long ago Left the words which tell us so.

Strange, that these alone remain,— Words of mingled love and pain! Time, which broke or blurred the rest, Tenderly has spared the best; For what better could there be? "Conjugi Carissimae."

Ancient relic, white and pure, May thine epitaph endure, While the lake with dimpled smile Mirrors this historic isle! Precious are thy words of old, Worthy of a script of gold!

Soon upon this island's shrine Shalt thou like a jewel shine,— Dearest of its treasure-trove, Emblem of a deathless love From its sepulchre set free,— "Conjugi Carissimae."



THE PAGAN PAST

What sylvan god was worshipped here? What nymph once made this grove her home, And bathed within its fountain clear, When Caesar ruled the world at Rome?

Did Pan frequent this charming site, So hidden from the haunts of men? Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night Within this moon-illumined glen?

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines Form trellised screens for distant snow, And trace in arabesque designs Their profiles on the Alpine glow?

So sure were Dryads to select A region thus supremely fair! So apt were mortals to erect In such a place a shrine for prayer!

The two millenniums have not brought Diminished splendor to this bay; The strand which Pliny loved and sought Is no less beautiful to-day.

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, And white magnolia-blossoms gleam Above my wave-lapped garden wall, I seem to see, as in a dream,

The kneeling forms of those who laid Their floral offerings on that shrine, And here their grateful tribute paid To beauty, rightly deemed divine.

Doth some Divinity each morn Cast over me its ancient spell, That this sweet landscape seems forlorn Without the gods who loved it well?

Men tell me they are dead and gone, But when my soul is moved to pray, I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, They are not very far away.

For I, who love this classic lake, And cruise along its storied shores, See Roman galleys in my wake, And hear the stroke of phantom oars.

It matters not which way I steer, Or if my course be slow or fast, The Pagan world seems always near; I sail, companioned by the Past.



RETIREMENT

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, Take me once more, like a child, to your breast! Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, Welcome me back, if it be not too late, Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, Hush of the forest and cadence of streams!

What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste? Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, Idle frivolity, senseless display, Youth without reverence, faith in decay.

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, Gladly go back to the humming of bees, Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, Gladly dispense with the voices of men, Thankful to hear only Nature again.

Out from the mob with its furious pace Into the cool, quiet reaches of space; Rid of Society's glittering chains, Fleeing a prison and finding the plains; Far from the clangor of murderous cars, Losing the limelight, but gaining ... the stars!

Others may live in the turbulent throng, Others may struggle to rectify wrong, Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, I too have striven and laughed in my day; But of life's blessings I crave now the best,— Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest.



IN NOVEMBER

Under my trees of green and gold I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, With never a hint of winter's cold, Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze Which spreads from the gleaming lake below To gild the edge of the distant snow.

Closed are the stately inns once more; Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest; Many have gone to a southern shore, Some to the east and some to the west; But the smiling landlords count their gains, And we know well that the best remains.

For the walls are lined with precious books, And the hearth and home are always here, And the garden hath a score of nooks, Where flowers bloom throughout the year; And now that the restless crowd is gone I hear the flute of my rustic Faun.

Why should I grieve, if from my trees The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one? Through the clearer space with greater ease I feel the warmth of the genial sun; And though the plane-trees stand bereft, The pines and cypresses are left.

Does the gay world leave us? Well, good-bye! It will come again—perhaps too soon! We have the mountains, lake, and sky, And solitude is a precious boon. Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet,— Their memory, after all, is sweet.



THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

Over the water the shadows are creeping, Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, Only the fountain sings on as before.

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, Voices of absent ones seem to be calling:— "Come to us! Come! thou hast waited too long."

Vainly I call it a childish delusion, Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion Voices I loved in the land of my birth.

Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, Waking within me a mingled emotion,— Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear;

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me Many, alas! will await me no more; Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, Cold are the arms that embraced me before!

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, Dim and unknown is the opposite shore, But in the fatherland some are still keeping Lights in the window and watch at the door.



THE CASCADE

From the mountain gray It has made its way To my garden green and cool, And there, from the edge Of a rocky ledge Leaps down to a crystal pool.

With a plunging flash It falls, to dash That crystal into foam; And then at a bound Slips under ground To the lake,—its final home.

In the morning light, In the silent night, When the moonlight gems the scene, It laughs and sings, And a light spray flings O'er stately walls of green.

For in and out, And round about, Grow flowers, plants, and trees, From the lowly moss To the boughs that toss Their leaves in the passing breeze.

On its outer zone Of massive stone Two marble statues stand,— The silver sheen Of the pool between,— One form on either hand.

One of the pair Is a woman fair, With parted, smiling lips; For her each hour A honied flower, And she the bee that sips.

The other, a faun, From whom is gone The power to frankly smile; For whom each day, As it drags away, Makes life still less worth while.

The face of the one Is like the sun, With its warmth, and light, and cheer; But the faun looks down With ugly frown, And his lips retain a sneer.

Youth and age, Child and sage! The former with life unknown; The latter burnt By lessons learnt, With a heart now turned to stone.

Yet the torrent speeds, And never heeds The statues' smiles or sneers; They come and go, But the water's flow Has lasted a thousand years.



BIRD SLAUGHTER

Poor, little bird! the chase is ended; No longer hast thou cause for fear; Within these walls thou art befriended; No sportsmen can molest thee here.

Without, they doubtless still await thee, And scan with eager eyes the sky; Sweet, winsome thing! how can they hate thee? Why should they wish to see thee die?

So limp and helpless! wilt thou never Recover from thy fear and flight? How breathless was thy last endeavor To reach this shelter, when in sight!

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; Do I, too, seem like all the rest? Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me ... Alas! there's blood upon thy breast.

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently Uplift and hold thee in my hand; Thou gazest on me so intently, Thou must my motive understand.

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; This wing will never rise again; In vain thy look, so wild and pleading! I cannot cure or ease thy pain.

Too well the hunters have succeeded; Thy little life is ebbing fast; My presence now is all unheeded; 'Tis over; ... thou art dead at last.

Yet thus, within my garden dying, Thy fate hath caused me less regret Than that of all thy comrades, lying Half dead and mangled in the net!

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly The lofty Alps to seek the sun? Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, Or is her life-course also run?

Within the voiceless empyrean No birds are passing on the breeze; No songster lifts its joyous paean, And silent stand my empty trees;

For at the base of every mountain, Where southward-moving birds repose, In every grove, at every fountain, Lurk merciless, insatiate foes.

With cruel craft those foes surround them, Ensnaring hundreds in a day, Indifferent if they tear and wound them, Proud only of the heaps they slay.

What care these brutes if songs of rapture From thrush and lark are no more heard? What matter if their modes of capture Denude the land of every bird?

Whole regions, where they once abounded, Are now as silent as the tomb; The birds have vanished,—slain or wounded, Pursued, by thousands, to their doom.

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, The Nemesis of Nature wakes; Her flawless balance must be righted; If Ceres gives, ... she also takes!

Still worse, a moral degradation Thus cradled, vitiates the race; Among the rising generation A lust for slaughter grows apace.

Even children kill the birds thus captured,— And, since none censures or withstands, They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured To crush them in their blood-smeared hands!

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, Its frail legs raw from rasping strings! A carriage comes,—he flings within it The tortured bird ... to sell its wings!

And oft as it may be rejected, The little victim, mad with thirst, Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, Till pain and hunger do their worst.

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman! Beneath you swells a threatening flood; If you and yours remain inhuman, It yet may drown you in your blood.

You smile, and call this sentimental; You will not smile in later times! For cruelty, so fundamental, Already breeds the worst of crimes.



THE IRON CROWN

On the classic shore of Como, 'Neath a headland steep and bold, Which, though leaden at the dawning, In the sunset turns to gold, Nestles beautiful Varenna, Still invested with renown By the legend that connects it With the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Far above it on the mountain Stands the castle, old and gray, With its battlements in ruin And its towers in decay; But a subtle charm still lingers Round that residence sublime, And the beauty of its story Is triumphant over time.

As we trace its ancient pavement, As we tread its roofless halls, How alluring is the figure Which this castle still recalls! For 'tis Queen Theodelinda Whom its ruined arches frame, And the passing breeze seems laden With the music of her name.

As we gaze from ivied ramparts On the storied lake below, We forget the world about us For the world of long ago, When the Lombards had descended From the mountains to the plain, And all Italy lay mourning For the thousands of her slain;

When their brave, ambitious leader, Not content to make his home By these northern lakes of beauty, Had resolved to capture Rome! For no longer could her legions His resistless course withstand, And the road lay open, southward, To the conquest of the land.

When his valiant host stood ready And impatient for the start, What reversed their king's decision? What so changed the warlord's heart? 'Twas the passionate entreaty Of his wife,—a Christian queen; 'Twas the conquest of the pagan By the lowly Nazarene.

Through her prayers Rome's aged Pontiff From the threatened doom was freed; By her aid the Church was strengthened As the king professed its creed; And Saint Peter's great successor, Thus preserved from grievous loss, Gave to her, his faithful daughter, A true relic of the Cross.

What to pious Theodelinda Could be recompense more sweet Than the nail, forever sacred, That once pierced her Saviour's feet? Which, when rounded to a circlet, (To fine wire beaten down,) Then became the precious basis Of the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Through the ages that have followed What a line of the Renowned Have been proud to wear this emblem, As they, each in turn, were crowned! Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, German Kaisers by the score, And at last poor King Umberto, Basely slain at Monza's door!

Since that coronet was fashioned Fifteen centuries have passed O'er the castle by Lake Como, Where the good queen breathed her last; But the Crown is still at Monza, And its iron basic line Tells the world of human glory And the death of the Divine.



CONTRASTS

The wind is roaring down the lake, The clear, cold moon rides high, The mountains, crystal to their crests, Indent the starlit sky; The wild sea beats my garden-wall, And all its peace transforms; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When swept by Alpine storms!

My soul to-night is dark and sad From proofs of hate displayed, From envy and rapacity, And kindness ill-repaid; The baseness of humanity Hath spoiled a cherished dream; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When Evil reigns supreme!

The gale hath blown itself to rest, The sun turns all to gold, Once more the crystal mountain-sides A waveless plain enfold; And some will laugh, and lightly say The storm hath left no stain, But in my park one perfect rose Will never bloom again!



IN MY PERGOLA

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, I watch the flush of morning rise, While birds and flowers once more wake, To share with me my paradise.

Within this waveless bay of rest The Alpine winds contend no more, But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast, And sink to silence on its shore.

The breath of dawn descends the hills, And round me, as I greet the day, I hear the lilt of laughing rills And songs of fountains at their play.

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling Athwart the trellised path I tread, And incense-breathing roses swing Their pendent censers o'er my head.

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled This arbor, roofed with cups of gold? What Eastern casket ever held The perfume which their leaves unfold?

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, And touch my lips with odors sweet! Enfold me in your ardent glow, While petals flutter to my feet!

Let, for to-day, the dream remain That life is rose-hued, like this aisle,— A fragrant pathway, free from pain, With every sun-kissed flower a smile!



EVANESCENCE

Passing ships! Passing ships! The white foam sparkling at your lips And countless jewels in your wake Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, While on your decks a smiling throng Surveys this realm of sun and song.

Slipping by! Slipping by! O'er waves that duplicate the sky I watch you daily come and go, But rarely is there one I know Of all who at your railings stand, To view with joy this storied land.

On ye pass! On ye pass! At times I follow through my glass Your silent course from sunset light To meet the dusky veil of night, As swiftly round the curving shore Glide faces I shall see no more.

Sailing on! Sailing on! The transient voyagers now are gone; Yet though the hills their features hide, One memory of them will abide,— The thought of their enraptured gaze In this the gem of Larian bays.

Gliding by! Gliding by! Why is it that I look, ... and sigh? What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn For strangers who will ne'er return? I would not really have them stay, Yet grieve to see them fade away.

Hail-farewell! Hail-farewell! Those passing steamers seem to tell That all ships, whether slow or fast, Will cross life's little bay at last, While we who linger on the strand Must daily mourn some vanished hand.



LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN

From Como's curving base of blue, To where the snow lies cold and clear, Ascends in steps of varied hue The pageant of the passing year, As scores of mountain-sides unfold Their gorgeous robes of red and gold.

Meanwhile, where shore and lake unite, I see, projected far below, A counterpart in colors bright, Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,— Two pictures of an ideal land, Divided by a single strand.

O matchless view, thus doubly fair, Impress thy beauty on my heart, That, when no longer really there, I still may see thee as thou art! Alas, that they should ever go,— Those steps of light, those thrones of snow!

The day declines, the colors pale, The peaks will soon be ashen gray; Yet, though the shades of night prevail, The darkness hath not come to stay; And if no leaves of gold remain, The sun will bring the Spring again.



TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS FIRST CONSUL

Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio.

Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Rises this reincarnation of Mars! Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, Genius ascending its path toward the stars!

Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory Treated by Art so superbly as here; Never a phase of his marvellous story Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear.

Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, While on his lips an expression still lingers, Stamped by a character born to command.

Hero of history, what art thou scheming, Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth?

All that thou dreamest of paramount power Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime! Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; Fortune avenges her favors ... with time!

Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, Hailing as godlike thy dominant name, Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame.

Waiting is also that island of anguish, Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, Facing forever its measureless past!

Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, Millions will hail thee again with devotion, Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine!

Face of Napoleon, nobly recalling Days of the mythical heroes of yore, Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are falling,— Beautiful gem of the Larian shore.



DAY AND NIGHT

Twilight is falling on lake and on land, Softly the wavelets steal in to the strand, Fisher-boats, floating like sea-gulls at rest, Glow in the lingering light of the west, Far-away vesper-bells hallow the air, Ave Maria! the world seems at prayer.

One more immaculate sunset exposed, One chapter more of life's history closed, One more bead told on the chaplet of time, One further stride in Earth's orbit sublime;— Linked to the measureless chain of the past, One added day, ... to so many their last!

Slowly the colors diminish and die, Slowly the stellar hosts people the sky, Lost is the light on the fishermen's sails, Sweet is the exquisite peace that prevails, Silence and solitude brood o'er the deep, Ave Maria! the world seems to sleep.

One more magnificent pageant to face,— Numberless systems in infinite space; Once more our planet in majesty rolls On through the darkness its burden of souls;— Linked to the limitless chain of the past, One added night, ... to so many their last!



PASSING AND PERMANENT

Stately boats, with happy crowds, Passing up the lake, Leaving, under sunset clouds, Jewels in your wake, From my garden's sheltered strand I can watch you glide, As through some enchanted land On a silver tide.

To your eyes, O joyous throng, All this scene is new; Like a burst of seraphs' song, Comes its matchless view; You have traversed land and sea For this wondrous sight, Which the gods vouchsafe to me Every day and night!

One long, serial pageant this Of supreme content! Every face suffused with bliss, Every eye intent; Griefs and troubles slip away On this charming shore, And throughout a transient stay Will return no more.

Yet beware! Gardens fair, Lake, and snow-capped crest For a while may banish care From the saddest breast; But it quickly, even here, Finds the heart again, With the old-time sigh and tear, And the well-known pain.

Careless crew, I envy you! You will grieve to go, But, believe me, if you knew, You would choose it so; Leave the lake while still you laugh; Be content to pass; Though its wine be sweet to quaff, Do not drain your glass!



TRIPOLI

Hear the singing on the boats, As they halt beside the pier! Ah, those fresh Italian throats, How they cheer! Yet the words they sing so loud Bring depression to my heart, As I watch the youthful crowd Thus depart.

"We are going o'er the sea! Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"

See that lad of twenty years,— Who is stretching out his hand Toward his mother there in tears On the strand! Should he perish in the strife Under Afric's burning sky, There were nothing left in life— She must die.

Yet he's going o'er the sea! At the call of Italy, He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

Now the plank is pulled to land, And the last farewell is o'er, As the steamer, at command, Leaves the shore; There are shouts and ringing cheers, For the boys are brave and strong, Yet one feels that there are tears In their song:

"We are going o'er the sea! Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"

Ah, that mother who is left! She is weeping now alone, Like a Niobe bereft Of her own; And at length I dare to speak To the woman seated there, With the tears upon her cheek, In despair.

He has gone across the sea! Who so dutiful as he? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"Nay, good mother, do not weep! Since the summons comes from Rome, Can we really wish to keep Sons at home?" "And why not?" she made reply; "We have no invading foe; I would send my son to die, Were it so."

But he's gone across the sea! Gone with thousands such as he! He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"What is Africa to me, If it swallow up my child? What care I for Tripoli, Spot defiled! Did not Abyssinian sand Drink sufficiently our gore? Must we stain that fatal strand, As before?"

Yet he's gone across the sea, Who more valorous than he? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"Have we no great uses here For the millions we outpour? Are our consciences quite clear In this war? Are there no more roads to build, Schools to found, and farms to work. That we let our boys be killed By the Turk?"

Yet we send them o'er the sea! Youthful sons of Italy, They are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"We are hungry, yet behold, How the price of food goes higher! And the nights will soon be cold Without fire! Who will earn for me my bread? Who my little home will save, When he lies there cold and dead In his grave?"

But he's gone across the sea! Who so good and kind to me? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

To the churchyard, near the bay, Went the mother in her grief, For her soul was moved to pray For relief; And deep sobs convulsed her breast, As she knelt upon the sod, Where her husband lay at rest, Safe in God.

For the boy was o'er the sea, Whom she rocked upon her knee; He had gone to Tripoli, Tripoli!

She was buried yesterday With her husband, side by side; Ere two months had passed away She had died! For one morning she had read Of her son among the slain, And they saw her old gray head Sink in pain.

Nevermore across the sea Will he come to Italy! He was killed in Tripoli, Tripoli!

There was nothing more to tell Of a lad so little known; He was reckoned "one who fell," That alone. Was he wounded? Did he lie Long ill-treated by the foe? And not know!

Yes, he lies beyond the sea! (Can it be that that is he?) In the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!

She had asked for nothing more, But in silence slowly failed, Dreaming ever of the shore, Whence he sailed. Till her face, so wan and white, Flushed at last with sweet surprise, And a strangely tender light Filled her eyes.

Then for her was "no more sea"! She had found the soul set free From the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!



INFLUENCE

We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds,— Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The passing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then—nevermore To be recalled—our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me.



LEO

I made a journey o'er the sea, I bade my faithful dog good-bye, I knew that he would grieve for me, But did not dream that he would die! And how could I explain That I would come again?

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn A life-long master they adore, Till in his mind the fear was born That he should never see me more.

Ah! then, on every boat intent, He watched the crowd upon the pier, While every look and motion meant "Will he not come? Is he not here?"

At last he merely raised his head, To see the steamers passing by, Then sank again upon his bed, And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh; For how could one explain That I would come again?

I hastened back by sea and land, Forced homeward by remorse and fear; But no glad barking swept the strand, Nor did he meet me on the pier!

I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, And then beheld him near the wall, Though tottering, still upon his feet, And creeping toward me down the hall.

No wish had he to sulk or blame, Nor did he need to understand, But simply loved me just the same,— In silence licking face and hand.

In silence? What could this portend? Such muteness he had never shown; Was he so very near the end? Ah, Leo, had I only known!

For his grand eyes, so large and bright, Though turned, through sound, my form to find, Were totally devoid of sight; He faced me in the darkness ... blind!

What could such gloom have been to him, As weeks and months had crept away, While all the outer world grew dim, Till endless night eclipsed the day!

What had it meant to him to wake And mid familiar things to grope? To hear old sounds on shore and lake, Yet wander darkly without hope!

But now, his head upon my knee, He tried in various ways to show That, though my face he could not see, He knew the voice of long ago. Yes, now it was quite plain That I had come again.

Within my arms he breathed his last, In my embrace his noble head Drooped back, and left to me ... the Past, With tender memories of the dead.

He lies beneath the stately trees, Whose ample shade he loved the best, Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest.

Yet somehow still I watch and wait For him, as he once watched for me; At every footstep near my gate I look, his bounding form to see.

Good-night? ... Good-bye! for I must leave thee, My boat is waiting on the shore; May I not hope that it will grieve thee, When thou shalt see me here no more?

Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted; "Have statues souls?" the cynic sneers; But I am happier to have doubted, And loved thee thus these many years.

Behind the form is the ideal, Forever high, forever true; Behind the false exists the real, Known only to the favored few.

Not all can hear the music stealing From out that lightly-lifted flute; To those devoid of kindred feeling Its melody is always mute.

But thou to me hast been a token Of classic legend, wrought in stone; In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, Made all the storied past mine own.

And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, The old-time Genius of the Place, Aware of those who still adore thee, Unchanged by time, or creed, or race.

Through thee came also inspiration For many a rare, poetic thought; And oh, how much of resignation Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught!

Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, Thou still canst smile at every morrow, For Nature lives, though Pan is dead.

Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing When altars crumbled far and near, When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing, And worship lessened year by year.

Above thee still rose lofty mountains, Before thee lay the lake divine, Around thee sang the crystal fountains,— With all these treasures, why repine?

Religions changed, and shrines were banished, Years slipped away, men came and went, But thou, whatever pleasures vanished, With what thou hadst wast still content.

Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, As cherished fancies fade away; For thee the simple soul of gladness,— The careless rapture of to-day!

Farewell! within my heart abiding I hear thy music, gentle Faun,— The wounds of disillusion hiding, The prelude to a happier dawn.



WAKEFULNESS

Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streams Meet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams, Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep! Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way, Striving, ever striving to forget the day, Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep! Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink, Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link, Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call, And the welcome darkness that envelops all, If no more to waken, then no more to weep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!



VILLA PLINIANA

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Slope swiftly to the deep, And silvery streams from ledge to ledge In foaming splendor leap,— A broad expanse of saffron walls, A wilderness of mouldering halls.

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight On every darkened room, And oozing mosses drip decay Through corridors of gloom, While Ruin lays a subtle snare On many a yielding rail and stair.

There seats, which beauty once enthroned, In tattered damask stand; In gray neglect a faun extends A mutilated hand; And silence makes the festal board Mute as the stringless harpsichord.

The boldest hesitate to tread Those gruesome courts at night; 'Tis whispered that a spectral form Then haunts the lonely height; For he who built this home apart Had stabbed his rival to the heart.

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought Amid those scenes sublime; Forever lurked within his breast The nemesis of crime; Not all that flood of limpid spray Could wash the fatal stain away.

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt Within that haunted pile; Among them she, whose portrait still, With enigmatic smile, Lights up the mansion, like a gem Set in a tarnished diadem;—

The princess, at whose thrilling call Unnumbered patriots rose To drive from fettered Lombardy Her immemorial foes,— A woman, loved from sea to sea, As Liberty's divinity.

But now the old, historic site Lives only in the past; Neglected and untenanted, Its life is ebbing fast; Each crumbling step, each mossy stone Is marked by Ruin for her own.

Yet one mysterious charm abides,— The spring, whose ebb and flow Were praised in Pliny's classic prose Two thousand years ago,— A fountain, whose perennial grace Millenniums could not efface.

Thrice daily in their polished cup Its crystal waters sink; Thrice daily do they rise again And overflow the brink,— Since Pliny's day no more, no less, Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, Cascade, and storied spring, Ye are the same as when he loved Your varied charms to sing; 'Tis man alone who sadly goes! The lake remains, the fountain flows.

Like drops in its exhaustless flood, Our little lives emerge, Swirl for an instant, and are gone, Sunk by another surge! Whence come they? Whither do they go? O Roman poet, dost thou know?



POINT BALBIANELLO

From Lake Como's depths ascending, With embankments steep Stands a wooded headland, bending With majestic sweep Till its rugged shores, expanding, Join two charming bays, Now, as formerly, commanding Universal praise.

Years ago a papal Primate Built a hospice here, Which, from its delightful climate, Mild throughout the year, Soon became for convalescence A renowned retreat, Where pure air and strict quiescence Made all cures complete.

"Villa Balbi",—appellation Of the Primate's seat—, Gave its name to this location In a form more sweet,— Soft, sonorous "Balbianello", Spoken, as if sung In the speech, so smooth and mellow, Of the Latin tongue.

Balbianello, Balbianello! Point of liquid name, With thy walls of golden yellow And thy flowers of flame, When thy varied charms enthrall me Under summer skies, Tenderly I love to call thee Como's Paradise.

From thy base, where in profusion Countless roses bloom, To thy crest, where sweet seclusion Reigns in leafy gloom, All is beauty, uncontested By a rival claim, All is symmetry invested With a storied fame.

Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, Which thy slopes ascend; Grand the loggia, old and faded, Where those pathways end;— Noble arches, well recalling Mighty works of old, Columns which, when night is falling, Turn to shafts of gold.

In that loggia, fringed with roses, All my soul expands; Every arch a view discloses Of historic lands; Southward lies fair Comacina, Famed in classic lore, Northward Pliny's Tremezzina And Bellagio's shore.

Miles of liquid opalescence Stretch on either hand, Curving into lovely crescents, Each with sylvan strand; While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping Realms of stainless snow, Whence the milk-white streams come leaping To the lake below.

Many a far-off promontory Melts in silvery haze, Many a scene of song and story Tells of Roman days; Real and unreal, past and present, Make the vision seem Like the rapture evanescent Of a happy dream.

Yet this point, so well selected,— Peerless in its day—, Now, abandoned and neglected, Sinks to slow decay; Sculptured saints, with broken fingers, Line the ancient walls, Like a loyal guard that lingers Till the rampart falls;

Vases, o'er the portal standing, Crumble into lime; Steps, ascending from the landing, Show the touch of time; And its one lone gardener, weeping As he tells his fears, Faithful watch has here been keeping Many, many years!

Even he must leave it lonely, When the night grows late; Then the mouldering statues only Guard its rusty gate; Then no eye its charm discovers, And its moonlit bowers Wait in vain for happy lovers Through the silent hours.

Will no champion protect thee, Fairest spot on earth? Doth a busy world neglect thee, Careless of thy worth? Even so, thy site elysian Still remains supreme,— Acme of the painter's vision And the poet's dream.



AT LENNO

By Lake Como's sylvan shore, Where the wavelets evermore Seem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of yore, Cease, O boatman, now to row! While the Alpine summits glow, Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.

Where the Tremezzina ends, And the bay of Lenno bends Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave descends, On this strand of silver foam Stood the Younger Pliny's home, When the world at last lay subject to the dominance of Rome.

Here he passed his sweetest hours 'Mid his statues, books, and flowers With a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours, For the city's rush and roar Never reached this tranquil shore, And his writings prove completely that he yearned for them no more.

Here, as scholar, poet, sage, He filled many a pliant page With the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his age, And his letters to his peers Through a life of smiles and tears Make me often quite forgetful of the intervening years;

For the beauty of the bay And the magical display Of its coronet of mountains have not altered since his day, And the lake of which he wrote At that epoch so remote With the same caressing murmur laps my undulating boat.

Hence the subtle, tender spell Of the place he loved so well Holds me captive and enchanted, as these waters gently swell, And a vague and nameless pain Makes me long for,—though in vain—, That delightful classic era, which will never come again.

Since the Goths' invading tide Wrecked Rome's potency and pride, Something wonderful has vanished, something exquisite has died; And in spite of modern fame And the lustre of its name, Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the same.

So beside its sylvan shore, Where the wavelets evermore Seem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of yore, Cease, O boatman, now to row! For, while Alpine summits glow, I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.



PERSONALLY ADDRESSED

LINES

written for a Golden Wedding, 1883

Just fifty years ago to-night, When earth was mantled deep with snow, The stars beheld with tender light The fairest scene this world can show.

Two graceful forms stood side by side, Two trembling hands were clasped as one, Two hearts exchanged perpetual faith, And love's sweet poem was begun.

For suns may rise and suns may set, And tides may ebb and tides may flow, Love is man's greatest blessing yet, And honest wedlock makes it so.

"Father" and "Mother",—sweetest words That human lips can ever frame, We gather here as children now To find your loving hearts the same.

Unchanged, unchangeable by time, Your love is boundless as the sea; The same as when our childish griefs Were hushed beside our mother's knee.

Years may have given us separate homes, Friends, children, happiness and fame, But oh! to-night our greatest wealth Is that we call you still by name.

God bless you both! for fifty years You've journeyed onward side by side; And still, for years to come, God grant Your paths may nevermore divide;

But, just as sunset's golden glow Makes Alpine snows divinely fair, So may the setting sun of life Rest lightly on your silvered hair!

Yes, suns may rise and suns may set, And tides may ebb and tides may flow, We are your loving children yet, And time will ever prove us so.



TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND

To my hand thou com'st at last, Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,— Often carried in the past By a hand that now lies cold In his grave beyond the sea, Many thousand miles from me.

Faithful staff! for many years Thou didst travel far and wide Through a life of smiles and tears,— Rarely absent from his side, As the light of day for him Grew pathetically dim.

When with thee he walked abroad, Every crossing, every stair By thy touch was first explored, Ere his feet were planted there, With a sort of rhythmic beat On the pavement of the street.

Hence, when brought to face the gloom Of a way, to all unknown, Called to leave his sunlit room For death's darkness, quite alone, He instinctively again Called to mind his faithful cane.

To whose grasp should it descend, Since with him it could not go? Surely no one save a friend Would receive and prize it so! Thus to me wast thou bequeathed, To console a heart bereaved.

Friendship's gift, belovd wand! Thou shalt likewise go with me To the shore of the Beyond, To the dark, untravelled sea; Only left upon the strand, When my bark puts forth from land.



TO C....

Behind a laughing waterfall There lies a little fount of tears, Deep, dark, and rarely seen at all By those the sparkling torrent cheers.

Beneath a suit of armor bright, Shaft-proof and burnished, hard and cold, There beats, concealed from common sight, A tender woman's heart of gold!



To Mr. and Mrs. A.H.S., Brussels

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Two homeless birds, fatigued by flight, Have rested on the Belgian shore; And now, at the approach of night, Must spread their wings, and fly once more.

Two others, when they saw them come From out the dark and stormy west, Conveyed them to their pleasant home, And fed and warmed them, breast to breast.

Dear Birds of Brussels, do not crave The long, long route by which we came; More safe than any restless wave The sheltered nest of Auderghem.

Henceforth, however far we roam, 'Neath clouds that chill, or suns that burn, The memory of your lovely home Will make us certain to return.

For, stronger than the subtle spell That homeward draws the carrier-dove, Are the sweet bonds that clearly tell Of Friendship welded into Love.



TO M.C. OF ATHENS

Son of the race that gave the world its best, Of ancient Greece a noble type thou art,— An Attic spirit transferred to the West, The blood of Hellas pulsing at thy heart; In homage to thyself and to thy land, Accept, I pray, these simple lines of mine; To one I offer both my heart and hand, Before the other kneel, as at a shrine.



TO J.B.

Within an Old World, classic vase She blossomed like a flower, And made Italian summer days Seem fleeting as an hour; Then left the antique vase in gloom,— Yet o'er its edges climb Some petals, with a sweet perfume That triumphs over time.



TO M.P.

The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss, And rails at Evil's stride, But Love still holds aloft the Cross, And shows the Crucified.

One, safe in a secure retreat, Disdains the maddened throng; The other braves the seething street, And strives to right the wrong.

Self shudders at the angry waves, And dreams of what should be, But Love the sinking sinner saves, And stills the stormy sea.



TO MISS MARY C. LOW

A thousand eyes, by thee made bright, Have read thy cheering lines; A thousand hearts have felt the light That through thy poetry shines; Thou dost not know them all, 'tis true, But they all wait for thee, As wait the rosebuds for the dew, Queen of the Christmas Tree!



IN MEMORIAM. G.M.M.

His letter lies before me here, Scarce written ere the hand grew cold That traced the lines so fine and clear, Which still of love and friendship told.

This fragile film of black and white,— A traveller over land and sea—, Is all the bond I have to-night Between the friend I loved and me.

I know not where his form may rest, Yet well I know Death cannot take His memory from the Central West And its proud city by the lake.

But where are now his loyal soul, His loving heart and gifted mind; Do they survive—a conscious whole— The dwelling they have left behind?

Beyond this tiny orb we tread Who can the spirit's pathway trace, Or find a haven for our dead In seas of interstellar space?

O silent stars, that flash and burn Across the bridgeless vault of blue, Ye may receive, but ne'er return, The dead we sadly yield to you.

In vain we urge the old request; In vain the darkness we explore; Light lie the turf above thy breast, O friend, whom I shall see no more!



TO C.M.D.

If it be true, as some have dreamed, That all have lived and loved before, I cannot wonder it hath seemed That on some other shore, In former ages long ago, Our souls had met and learned to know The truths that now upon the sea Establish our affinity.

Heart leaps to heart and mind to mind: A look, a word, a smile, a phrase,— And we at once a kinship find, A relic of those days, When we both watched the sunset kiss The storied Bay of Salamis, Or paced beside the classic stream That borders Plato's Academe.—

Perhaps our spirits met again, When Virgil wrote his deathless lines, And Horace praised, in lighter vein, His farm amid the Apennines; Or else we walked this old, old Earth When Grecian learning found new birth, And arm in arm watched Giotto's tower Rise heavenward, like a peerless flower.

Enough that we have surely met, No matter in what land or age; For, if such trifles we forget, We share a common heritage: And though in this brief life stern Fate Shall bid us once more separate, O brother poet, it must be That kindred spirits such as we Shall sail another ocean blue, Still you with me and I with you.



Sent with a Copy of "Red Letter Days Abroad" To J.C.Y.

Book of my youth, I send thee to a friend Met, comprehended, loved, alas! too late,— Too near the sad, inevitable end Decreed by life's inexorable fate; Yet though an ocean's billows roll between, And two great continents our paths divide, The unseen subtly triumphs o'er the seen, We walk in spirit, ever side by side; He on the stately Mississippi's shore, I 'mid the snow and roses of Tyrol, But in my heart he dwells forevermore,— Beloved friend, and double of my soul.



To HON. JESSE HOLDOM OF CHICAGO,

on receipt of his picture and that of his baby in his arms.

Far from the great lake's pride, Over the ocean vast, Two faces picture, side by side, The future and the past.

On one is the flush of dawn And the light of the morning star; On the other a shade, from knowledge drawn And the dusk of the sunset bar.

One brow has the spotless sweep Of a page that is white and fair; The other forehead is graven deep With lines of thought and care.

The eyes of the child look out On a world all pure and sweet; But those of the man are sad from doubt And a knowledge of men's deceit.

To the baby's dainty ears Only love's accents flow; Through the man's alas! have surged for years Stories of crime and woe.

Held in the infant's grasp Is a tiny, lifeless toy; In the father's firm yet tender clasp Is his last great hope,—his boy!

Wisely the parent peers Through the future's unknown skies, For knowledge of life has awakened fears Of the storms that may arise

When his darling boy no more Can cling to his father's breast, But when on the strand of the silent shore That father shall be at rest.

Ah me! could the wisdom won Through the father's fateful years Be but transmitted to the son, There were little need for fears.

But each must tread alone The wine-press of his life; Into each cup by Fate is thrown The bitter drops of strife.

Forth from that fond embrace Must the little stranger go; For the rising sun must mount through space. And the waning sun sink low.



TRANSLATIONS

THE KISS TO THE FLAG

Ta ra! Boom boom! A regiment is coming down the street; From every side an eager throng is hurrying to greet From overflowing sidewalk and densely crowded square, A brilliant, uniformed cortege whose music fills the air; For such a gorgeous spectacle is not seen every day; It gives the town a festival to view the fine array; All hearts are filled with happiness, and no one seems to lag, When he has thus a chance to see the soldiers ... and the flag. The old retired officers, their hats like helmets worn, Have thrust them gaily on one side at sound of drum and horn; The eldest, whose brave heart is stirred by that familiar strain, Surmounts, with stifled sigh, his chair, a better view to gain; Cafes, salons, mansards alike their windows open throw, And pretty girls wear radiant smiles to greet the passing show. Ah, here they are! Yes, here they come! preceded by the boys, Who imitate in fashion droll, yet with no actual noise, But merely by the gesturing of finger or of hand, The cymbals, flute, and (best of all) the trombones of the band. The babies even laugh and crow, upheld in nurses' arms, And have no fear of trumpets loud, or the bass-drum's alarms. The pavement of the boulevard is struck in perfect time; Six hundred echoes blend in one, and make the scene sublime; Six hundred hearts are throbbing there, imbued with martial pride; Twelve hundred feet with rhythmic beat make but a single stride. United, too, are all the hearts of those whose eyes pursue With admiration every line now passing in review. But when a gallant regiment appears thus on parade, A little vain of its fine looks, and conscious of its grade, Each soldier, (since a time of peace allows him to be gay), Aspires to be attentive to the ladies on the way, And stares at every pretty face, with no wish to be rude, But, then, you know, a regiment is never quite ... a prude! And this explains why Captain Short has said to Captain Tall, Despite the order which enjoins strict silence upon all,

"A lovely girl!" "Is that so? Where?" "Beside the window there." "By Jove! I'd like to know her. She is divinely fair!" Then both a little thoughtfully move on with some regret, And now the entire regiment the lovely girl has met;

Across the broad, resplendent ranks she looks now left, now right, Now straight before her, but as yet no smiles her features light; More than one mounted officer, with flashing sabre, wheels His well-groomed horse, and calls to him the sergeant at his heels; And makes excuse of some detail, endeavoring the while, Perhaps half consciously, to win the favor of a smile. In vain; the glance he hopes to gain, as hero of her heart, Comes not; but rank forbids delay, he must at once depart. The Colonel even has remarked this charming thoughtful girl, And gives to his fine gray moustache the customary twirl; A handsome man, with uniform whose gilded lustre shines From clanking spur to epaulette with stars and golden lines; He knows how potent is the spell such ornaments impart To make of soldiers demi-gods in woman's gentle heart. "The Flag! The Flag!" The crowd is thrilled to see it now advance! Hail, Colors of the Fatherland! Hail, Banner of Fair France! Hail, wounded emblem of the brave; blood-red, and heaven's blue, And purest white,—the noble Flag, now waving in our view!

Standard sublime, that moves all hearts, as now thy form unrolls, Our dead seem shrouded in thy folds, stirred by the breath of souls! The color-bearer, young as Hope, and still a charming boy, In rhythm to the beating hearts and symphony of joy, Sways gently, as he bears it on, the emblem of a land Whose sons will in united ranks all enemies withstand. The young lieutenant, on whose face the standard's shadow falls, Knows well it makes him pass admired between those human walls, And that its presence lifts him high above the rank and file, And gains for him a sentiment worth many a pretty smile. "That girl has smiled", the Colonel thinks, "but on whom'? Who can tell?" "It is the bearer of the flag, on whom her favor fell", Exclaims the Captain, who then adds, "Great Heavens! worse than this, She has not only smiled, but now she really throws a kiss!"

The Colonel, somewhat bent with years, sits up and swells his chest; "A charming girl" a sergeant cries, and tries to look his best; Each soldier, if a comrade laughs, a rival seems to fear; The chief of a battalion looks, and makes his charger rear. While several soldiers thus assume an air of martial pride, The color-bearer, whom the band has quite electrified, Caresses with a trembling hand the down upon his lip, In doing which he rashly lets the tattered banner dip. But she has seen within its folds, thus torn with shell and shot, The soul of one she dearly loved, who, dead at Gravelotte, Returned no more, but sleeps to-day within an unknown grave ... The maiden's kiss was for the Flag, the death-shroud of the brave.

(Translated from the poem by Jean Aicard, entitled "Le Baiser au Drapeau".)



EMILY'S GRAVE

Idly one day in a foreign town In a churchyard's shade I sat me down By the side of a little cross of stone On which was a woman's name alone. A cypress whispered in my ear That all was now neglected here; "Emily's Grave" was all I read; Nothing more on the cross was said; Neither a name, nor Bible verse, Nor date relieved the inscription terse,— "Emily's Grave". So strange this seemed, my blood turned cold At thought of a tragedy never told. The flowers, the grass, and the humming bees Were blithe and gay in the sun and breeze, Yet no kind hand had ever strewn Sweet flowers, where only weeds had grown, And nothing brightened the lonely mound Whose edge was lost in the trodden ground. At length to the churchyard gate I went, And asked of a woman old and bent, "Who was the girl, whose cross of stone Bears nothing save these words alone,— 'Emily's Grave'?" "Alas!" she answered, "many a year Hath passed since I beheld her bier; She was young, and came from a humble nest, And credulous too, like all the rest; So a stranger met her here one day And caught her in his net straightway. He said he was rich, and she should shine Like a queen in his castle by the Rhine, And, winning her love, he took her hence To where she found it was all pretence. He had basely lied to the simple maid, And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed, Abandoned her; then home once more She came, to sink at her mother's door. Of shame and grief she was quickly dead, For here she could no more lift her head; And her mother, wishing to efface All memory of her child's disgrace, Reared that small cross, to which she gave The title only,—'Emily's Grave'".

(From the German.)



SERENADE TO NINON

Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading? Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day; How dost thou live, still deaf to Love's sweet pleading? To-night's fair rose to-morrow fades away. To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost! What! Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be lost? Canst travel without book? In silence march to strife? What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk of life? I for a little love would give my latest breath; And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death! What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn, If from another's life our own heart's life be drawn? O youthful flowers, unfold! If blown o'er Death's cold stream, This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream; And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above, You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love!

(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)



THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "In part because I rest On Ortler's lordly crest; There share I with the snow The sunset's crimson glow."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "From drinking of the wine Of Etschland's peerless vine; Its juice so redly shines, That it incarnadines."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "My plumage hath been dyed In blood my foes supplied; Oft on my breast hath lain That deeply purple stain."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red? "From suns that fiercely shine, From draughts of ruddy wine, From blood my foes have shed,— From these am I so red."

(From the German of Senn.)



ANDREAS HOFER

In Mantua in fetters The faithful Hofer lay, Condemned by hostile soldiers To die at break of day; Now bled his comrades' hearts in vain; All Germany felt shame and pain, As did his land, Tyrol.

When through his dungeon grating In Mantua's fortress grim He saw his loyal comrades Stretch out their hands to him, He cried: "God give to you his aid, And to the German realm betrayed, And to the land Tyrol!"

With step serene and steadfast, His hands behind him chained, Went forth the valiant Hofer To death which he disdained,— That death, which by his valor foiled Had oft from Iselberg recoiled, In his loved land, Tyrol.

The noisy drum-beat slackened, And silenced was its roar When Andreas the dauntless, Stepped through the prison door; The "Sandwirt", fettered still, yet free, Stood on the wall with unbent knee,— The hero of Tyrol.

When told to kneel, he answered: "That will I never do; I'll die, as I am standing, Die, as I fought with you; Here I resist your last advance, Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz, And with him his Tyrol!"

The soldier takes the kerchief Which Hofer will not wear; Once more the hero murmurs To God a farewell prayer; Then cries: "Take aim! Hit well this spot! Now fire! ... How badly you have shot! Adieu, my land Tyrol"!

(From the German.)



STREAM AND SEA

A river flowed through a desert land On its way to find the sea, And saw naught else than glaring sand And scarcely a shady tree.

The distant stars looked down by night, And the burning sun by day, On the crystal stream, so pure and bright; But the sea was far away.

Sometimes at night the little stream Would sigh for the sea's embrace, And oft would see, as in a dream, The longed-for ocean's face.

At last one day it felt a thrill It had never known before, As it reached the brow of a lofty hill, And saw the wave-lapped shore.

And it flung itself with a mighty leap From the crest of the hill above, Till its waters mingled with the deep;— And the name of the sea was Love.



* * * * *

RACHEL

'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light Still lingered on the city's walls, and crowned Mount Olivet with splendor, while below, Among the trees of dark Gethsemane And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay, As if but waiting for the death of day To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud. To one who watched it in that golden light, Across the gulf between the sunlit hills, The city seemed transfigured, lifted high Above the gloom and misery of earth,— A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings. The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt, And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold, Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque, But bore it as a captive bears his chains, Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft By thrilling memories of a noble past. The rays of dying day yet half illumed A dreary spot outside the city walls Where sat, apart, an old man and his child.

Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stone Which once had graced the Temple's sacred court; It was the "Day of Wailing", and the Jews,— A poor scant remnant of their outcast race—, Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont, To read of all the glories they have lost, And count their endless list of shattered hopes. Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot, Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair, Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall, And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as if The historic stones held sentient sympathy. Their lamentations ended, all had gone To their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one, Save these two lingering mourners, who still sat With downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears. At length the old man raised his head, and spoke;—

"Our Fathers' God! whose all-protecting hand Led us, Thy people, to this chosen land, Through the cleft waters of a distant sea, That we might rear a temple here to Thee; Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine, And in Thy majesty and power divine Wast daily by our suppliant race adored As sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord; Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and die In foreign countries' harsh captivity? Our race is scattered now the wide world o'er; Our wailings rise to Thee from every shore; Baited or banished by the Christian Powers, Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers, Like pariah dogs, an execrated race, We crouch to-day within our 'Wailing Place', Begging, and paying dearly for, the right To bathe with tears this consecrated site. How long, O Israel's God, shall this endure? Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure? Oh, speed the day when once again Thy name Shall here be worshipped, and the sacred flame Of pure, atoning offerings shall rise, And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice!"

Tears choked his utterance, and the old man wept, His meagre frame convulsed with mighty sobs,— Pathetic tokens of a broken heart. His daughter crept beside him, drew his head,— Adorned with thin, white hair,—upon her breast, And soothed him as a mother might her child; Then, when his grief abated, took his hands,— So worn and white,—within her own soft palms, And chafed them gently with a loving care; Then pressed them to her lips, and lightly lay Her warm cheek next his own, while murmuring words Of tender, filial love in that old tongue Which once had rung in triumph on this spot, When poets of her race in glowing words Had sung their glorious, prophetic strains.

"Father," she whispered, "shall we now despair, When we at last inhale the sacred air Of our ancestral glory, and have come, Despite long years of waiting, to our home? Didst thou not say, when far beyond the sea, In our dark days of want and misery, That thou hadst but one prayer,—to go to die Upon the hill where Zion's ruins lie? Now this is granted, and thou hast attained Thy dearest wish, with ample wealth retained To keep us here from want, till on the breast Of Olivet's gray slope in death we rest."

She paused, and faintly smiled, while at her voice Her father turned his tear-dimmed eyes to hers, As one who hears soft music with delight. The sunset glow fell full upon her face,— A rich, dark oval, crowned with raven hair; Her lustrous eyes were shrines of tenderness, Large, dark, profound, and tremulously bright, And fringed by lashes of the deepest hue, Which swept the downy smoothness of her cheek; While her full lips, inimitably arched And exquisitely mobile, told her thoughts, Ere their soft motion framed them into speech; Divinely there had Beauty set her seal; As who should say,—"Behold a perfect type Of southern loveliness, in whose warm veins The blood of good, ancestral stock runs pure, Maintained through centuries of Spanish suns." The old man fondly took her hands in his, And, bending forward, kissed her broad, fair brow; Then in a faint and weary voice replied;—

"Rachel, my well-belov'd, I have in thee The only blessing left on earth to me, The one sweet solace in my dreary life Of fourscore years of racial hate and strife; Dear Comforter, 'tis true, our feet now stand Within the limits of our people's land; Behind us are the obloquy and pain Endured in cruel, persecuting Spain, Yet feel I still more keenly here than there The degradation which our people share; Each object here speaks sadly to the Jew Of all the grandeur which his race once knew. But let that pass; there is another pain Which hurts me sorely, Rachel, and in vain I seek a remedy; it is that thou Hast now new lines of sorrow on thy brow. 'Tis true, thou art a Jewess, and must know The shame which constitutes thy people's woe; But I detect the signs of some new grief For which the lapse of time brings no relief; Thy cheek hath paled since our arrival here, And often on its pallor gleams a tear."

At first she spoke not; but at length her lips Moved, quivering as in pain, while o'er her face An ashen paleness came, which whiter seemed From startling contrast with her ebon hair; "Father", she murmured, "speak of that no more! I shared thy coming to this Syrian shore, And here shall die, for nothing more I crave Than on these lonely hills to find a grave. My life, though like a flower deprived of light, Hath yet known moments so divinely bright, So full of rapture, that I then forgave The insults we endured, and still could brave Existence in Seville, if thou wouldst stay; But in thy absence how could I betray My dying mother's trust and farewell prayer That I henceforth thy lonely life should share?"

She paused, and from her lips a stifled moan Revealed the torture that her soul had known. Her father noted it, and with a sigh Of self-reproach attempted a reply;— "Dear child, thy love for me hath cost thee much; For young Emanuel,—shrink not from my touch!— Was dear to thee; I knew it, and confess That I, to consummate thy happiness, Had given thee to him with full consent, (Who with Emanuel would not be content?) Had not my vow and purpose of long years Compelled me to depart despite thy tears. I knew the struggle, Rachel, in thy heart, I felt the anguish of thy soul to part From one for whom thy love was so intense; In truth, for weeks I suffered in suspense, Lest thy impetuous temperament might lead Even thee to leave me, in my hour of need, Infirm with years, to sail alone from Spain, Go unattended on the stormy main, And lay my poor, worn body in a grave Unknown, uncared for, by a foreign wave. God bless thee, Rachel, that thy noble soul Could make this filial choice, and thus control A love which, though supreme, could not efface Thy duty, as a daughter of thy race; Thy ancestors were princes on this hill! Within thy veins their blood runs nobly still!"

Rachel sat motionless, with outstretched hands, And fingers interlocked; her steadfast eyes Had hopeless sorrow in their stony gaze, As though they read Fate's sentence of despair. At length she turned her face; the light had fled From her young features, just as in the west The glow had faded from the sky, and left A wintry coldness in the unlit clouds. She seemed about to speak, when, sweet and clear, From out the shadow of the ancient wall Soft vocal music stirred the evening air, With plaintive passion thrilled,—a proof that love Inspired the words that floated into song,—

Light of the glorious, setting sun, Gilding the Syrian shore, Ere the bright, lingering day be done, Guide me to her whose heart, well won, Holds me forevermore.

Moon, that hath spanned the silvered plain, Olivet's brow to kiss, Lead her by memory's golden chain Back to the olive groves of Spain; Back to our days of bliss!

Star of the evening's darkening sky, Gemming the lonely hill, Whisper to her that I am nigh, Waiting in hope for her reply; Tell her I love her still!

The song had ended; Rachel stood erect, Her pale lips parted breathlessly, her head Bent forward to receive the words, which came Like grateful raindrops to a drooping flower; Her slender form was quivering with delight And sudden rush of feeling; she scarce knew If this were all a dream, or if in truth She heard Emanuel's welcome accents there; Her heart for that brief moment wanted naught To supplement its rapture; 'twas enough To stand thus in expectancy, and know The idol of her soul was drawing near. At length her father touched her hand, and spoke;—

"'Tis he, my Rachel; thy sweet power hath drawn Thy lover o'er the sea! Again the dawn Of love and hope is kindled in thy face; The concentrated beauty of thy race Illumes thy features; now alas! I know That thy self-sacrifice hath cost thee woe Intenser than I thought; I too rejoice To hear the music of Emanuel's voice, Although I tremble lest his purpose be To lure thee, Rachel, far away from me."

His daughter, even in the thrill of bliss Which filled her throbbing heart, yet saw the pain That marked his closing words; and, turning, twined Her arms about the old man's drooping neck; "Dear Father, fear not that," she gently said; "Though it be true that ardent love hath led Emanuel to this distant Syrian shore, Thy lot shall still be mine forevermore; Doubt not thy faithful child, for none the less 'Twill be thy Rachel's greatest happiness At thy dear side to minister to thee; For only death can come 'twixt thee and me!"

She paused, and hid her face upon his breast; Her father clasped her fondly in his arms, And bent his cheek to hers, his whitened locks On her dark tresses glistening like the snow. 'Twas thus Emanuel found them; silently He stood before them in a dread suspense; His very soul seemed poised upon the word Which left at last his trembling lips,—"Rachel!" She raised her head, and their bright, ardent eyes Exchanged the voiceless language of the soul; A joy ineffable diffused its flush O'er both their faces; yet she did not speak, But only clung the closer to her sire, As if in fear to lose her self-control. At length Emanuel spoke in tones so charged With deep emotion that the very air Seemed tremulous with thoughts transcending speech;—

"Rachel, my more than life! Canst thou forgive The momentary thought that I could live Without thee? See, our separation ends! Henceforth I know no country, home or friends Save thine, my love! I gladly leave them all, Obedient to a higher, nobler call,— The cry of my whole being to be near Thee, thee, my Rachel, now so wholly dear, That life without thee is but lingering death! Already with thee a diviner breath Of inspiration lifts my soul to gain The purest, loftiest heights I can attain! Not to entice thee from thy father's care, Have I come hither, but to seek a share In that dear filial duty, and to give Love, loyalty and homage, while I live, To him, the honored hero of our race, Beside whom here I also crave a place. Not only do I plead my love anew, But also thus lay open to thy view The dearest wishes of my soul, and wait To learn thy answer. Do I come too late?"

In doubt, 'twixt hope and fear, she raised her eyes To read her fate in her lov'd father's face; Who, taking her fair hands within his own, Advanced with her to where Emanuel stood, And laid them in her lover's eager grasp. With softened radiance, from their lonely paths, The far-off stars beheld their kneeling forms, While, with his hands in benediction raised, The old man stood absorbed in silent prayer.

* * * * *

The old, old story, ever new Alike in Gentile and in Jew; For Love remains man's sovereign yet In Eden and on Olivet.

THE END