Through the open casement poured Bright floods of sunny light; the air was soft, Clear, delicate as though a summer storm Had passed away; and those there standing saw, Afar upon the plain, Death fleeing thence, And at the doorway, weary, well-nigh spent, Alcides, flushed with victory.



TANNHAUSER.

To my mother. May, 1870.

The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his "Ave Mary," as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. "Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!" He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. "Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,—even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?" He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,—now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,—then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: "The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!" Then tenderly: "Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face." He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,— Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. "Dear knight," she murmured low, "For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,— To grace my weary home in banishment?" His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,—crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each.

All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,— The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. "But I reign, I reign!" She would shrill forth, triumphant; "yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives." Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: "Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,— In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!" As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived.

But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, "My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!" Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: "Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool." But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, "Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air.

Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock. The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top. He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears. No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer. He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted glass. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised! With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of God Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,—not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: "Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world. He that believes and is baptized, is saved. He that believeth not, is damned in hell!" He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of hell, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom. He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth. As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash. But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound. Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, "Be blest who cometh in God's name." Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose. "Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with God." "The Lord hath mercy on the penitent. 'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you." Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand. But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet. "Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal. The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,—hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul." He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak. "O father, is there help for such a one," In tones of deep abasement he began, "Who hath rebelled against the laws of God, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?" "My son, There is atonement for all sins,—or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime. Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men." "My hands are white,—my crime hath found no name, This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt. I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness. What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,—the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind! That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life. What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind! The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world. Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart. Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry, 'O large and noble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes. Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth. Is she to claim the worship of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?' Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court. Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs. O God! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds. There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring hell, Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord. O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of God and man?" Ill-omened silence followed his appeal. Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest. "Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself." "I cannot answer," said the timid priest, "I have not understood." "Just God! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them! Father," in gentler accents he resumed, "Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend. More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,—this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now. Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?" "My son," the priest replied, "your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,—your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him. Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,—a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin."

Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched Shimmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coarse rope that ate into his flesh, Muffled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course. He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult. But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt. And tumbling showers scoured along the plain. Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head. At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with massive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed! How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense! The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles. "God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness." He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting buttress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn. The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch. No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town. He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still.

To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him. The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement. The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears. But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind. This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment. But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: "Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compassion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers." "Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a space of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious lust; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope." "Is there no hope on earth?" the pilgrim sighed. "None through thy penance," said the saintly man. "Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,— The Cardinal Filippo,—he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,—through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness."

How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,— "ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE." Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content.

Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light. The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees. The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom. Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns. For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops. At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand. Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,—the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes. The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's. Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past. But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life. Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. 'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. "Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first," he cried, "before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field." Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,—"Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm." The stranger deftly poised The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. "Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak." The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. "That was not in my thought," the knight replied. "Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear." More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: "How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it." "I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare." Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame. Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering passed as though it had not been. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughts That went and came,—then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: "And where now is your lyre?" The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, "Lost! lost! forever lost!" Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. "Ah, child, you bring me back Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace. 'T is not for me to tarry by the way. Farewell!" The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing." Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, "At this moment would to God That I were worthy!" Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, "Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!" and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome. The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop. Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight passed forth.

He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills. A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes. Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea. Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred. When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real. The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past. Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,— All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it. Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng. Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death. Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired. Where was the noble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart? These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place. Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum. He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, And crumbled battlements, and topless columns— But by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king. He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon Shining o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving God. Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Passed daily forth,—his Eminency slept,— Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets. "Good God!" he muttered, "Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word." Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all. No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope.

Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope. In a great hall with airy galleries, Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars. Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds. Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,—white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,—while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet. The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Passed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peacock fans Waved constantly by pages, either side. Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees. Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth. Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry "Peccavi," and crook suppliant knees. His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, "I am Tannhauser. For seven years I lived apart from men, Within the Venusberg." A horror seized The assembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, "From the presence cast him forth!" But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,—"I have not spoken To be condemned," he said, "by such as these. Thou, spiritual Father, answer me. Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ. Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?" "Insolent man!" Thundered the outraged Pope, "is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin? Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth! Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine. Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee." And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone. The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out "Anathema!" and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: "ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!" Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without. Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, "'T is false! I am no longer thine!" And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men.

By church nor palace paused he, till he passed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat. He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung. "O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements. Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavens— Spirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God! Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith." Long time he lay upon the scorching grass, With his face buried in the tangled weeds. Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse? When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared. Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,—now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon. His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank grass, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air. Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain. "Ah, fool!" he mused, "to look for help from men. Had they the will to aid, they lack the power. In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned. Our saviours are not saints and ministers, But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair. These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark. Make me not proud in spirit, O my God! Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love. Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content. As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pass away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the God within. Patience and patience!" Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light. He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock. The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal. Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat. A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank. From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face. But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. "My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir," he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, "Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not. Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever." But the knight: "Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more." "Then you have suffered much," sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. "You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all. A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, His health and fame, to give himself to God,— Yours is a life indeed to be desired! If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed." By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence. There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest. His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace.



Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. God is merciful.



Note.—In spite of my unwillingness to imply any possible belief of mine that the preceding unrhymed narratives can enter into competition with the elaborate poems of the author of "The Earthly Paradise," yet the similarity of subjects, and the imputation of plagiarism already made in private circles, induce me to remark that "Admetus" was completed before the publication of the "Love of Alcestis," and "Tannhauser" before the "Hill of Venus."

Emma Lazarus.



LINKS.

The little and the great are joined in one By God's great force. The wondrous golden sun Is linked unto the glow-worm's tiny spark; The eagle soars to heaven in his flight; And in those realms of space, all bathed in light, Soar none except the eagle and the lark.



MATINS.

Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky: Through vapors hurrying by, Larger than wont, on high Floats the horned, yellow moon. Chill airs are faintly stirred, And far away is heard, Of some fresh-awakened bird, The querulous, shrill tune.

The dark mist hides the face Of the dim land: no trace Of rock or river's place In the thick air is drawn; But dripping grass smells sweet, And rustling branches meet, And sounding water greet The slow, sure, sacred dawn.

Past is the long black night, With its keen lightnings white, Thunder and floods: new light The glimmering low east streaks. The dense clouds part: between Their jagged rents are seen Pale reaches blue and green, As the mirk curtain breaks.

Above the shadowy world, Still more and more unfurled, The gathered mists upcurled Like phantoms melt and pass. In clear-obscure revealed, Brown wood, gray stream, dark field: Fresh, healthy odors yield Wet furrows, flowers, and grass.

The sudden, splendid gleam Of one thin, golden beam Shoots from the feathered rim Of yon hill crowned with woods. Down its embowered side, As living waters slide, So the great morning tide Follows in sunny floods.

From bush and hedge and tree Joy, unrestrained and free, Breaks forth in melody, Twitter and chirp and song: Alive the festal air With gauze-winged creatures fair, That flicker everywhere, Dart, poise, and flash along.

The shining mists are gone, Slight films of gold swift-blown Before the strong, bright sun Or the deep-colored sky: A world of life and glow Sparkles and basks below, Where the soft meads a-row, Hoary with dew-fall, lie.

Does not the morn break thus, Swift, bright, victorious, With new skies cleared for us, Over the soul storm-tost? Her night was long and deep, Strange visions vexed her sleep, Strange sorrows bade her weep: Her faith in dawn was lost.

No halt, no rest for her, The immortal wanderer From sphere to higher sphere, Toward the pure source of day. The new light shames her fears, Her faithlessness, her tears, As the new sun appears To light her godlike way.



SAINT ROMUALDO.

I give God thanks that I, a lean old man, Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains By austere penance and continuous toil, Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace Which passeth understanding." Th' end draws nigh, Though the beginning is yesterday, And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that— A favored life, though outwardly the butt Of ignominy, malice, and affront, Yet lighted from within by the clear star Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged To see at last its utmost goal attained. I speak not of mine Order and my House, Here founded by my hands and filled with saints— A white society of snowy souls, Swayed by my voice, by mine example led; For this is but the natural harvest reaped From labors such as mine when blessed by God. Though I rejoice to think my spirit still Will work my purposes, through worthy hands, After my bones are shriveled into dust, Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit Of holy satisfaction, sure and real, Though subtler than the tissue of the air— The power completely to detach the soul From her companion through this life, the flesh; So that in blessed privacy of peace, Communing with high angels, she can hold, Serenely rapt, her solitary course.

Ye know, O saints of heaven, what I have borne Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs; Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones, And the last skin, one woof of pain and sores, Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung; Exposure to the fever and the frost, When 'mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked From persecution of misguided folk, Accustoming my spirit to ignore The burden of the cross, while picturing The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace Of holiness, the lives of sainted men, And entertaining all exalted thoughts, That nowise touched the trouble of the hour, Until the grief and pain seemed far less real Than the creations of my brain inspired. The vision, the beatitude, were true: The agony was but an evil dream. I speak not now as one who hath not learned The purport of those lightly-bandied words, Evil and Fate, but rather one who knows The thunders of the terrors of the world. No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock, Can move or reach my soul, securely throned On heights of contemplation and calm prayer, Happy, serene, no less actual joy Of present peace than faith in joys to come.

This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky! How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine, Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light! Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes Find the same sense of exquisite delight, My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy In scenes like this, as when my pulse danced high, And youth coursed through my veins! This the one link That binds the wan old man that now I am To the wild lad who followed up the hounds Among Ravenna's pine-woods by the sea. For there how oft would I lose all delight In the pursuit, the triumph, or the game, To stray alone among the shadowy glades, And gaze, as one who is not satisfied With gazing, at the large, bright, breathing sea, The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees, On gold-green turf, sweet-brier, and wild pink rose! How rich that buoyant air with changing scent Of pungent pine, fresh flowers, and salt cool seas! And when all echoes of the chase had died, Of horn and halloo, bells and baying hounds, How mine ears drank the ripple of the tide On the fair shore, the chirp of unseen birds, The rustling of the tangled undergrowth, And the deep lyric murmur of the pines, When through their high tops swept the sudden breeze! There was my world, there would my heart dilate, And my aspiring soul dissolve in prayer Unto that Spirit of Love whose energies Were active round me, yet whose presence, sphered In the unsearchable, unbodied air, Made itself felt, but reigned invisible. This ere the day that made me what I am. Still can I see the hot, bright sky, the sea Illimitably sparkling, as they showed That morning. Though I deemed I took no note Of heaven or earth or waters, yet my mind Retains to-day the vivid portraiture Of every line and feature of the scene. Light-hearted 'midst the dewy lanes I fared Unto the sea, whose jocund gleam I caught Between the slim boles, when I heard the clink Of naked weapons, then a sudden thrust Sickening to hear, and then a stifled groan; And pressing forward I beheld the sight That seared itself for ever on my brain— My kinsman, Ser Ranieri, on the turf, Fallen upon his side, his bright young head Among the pine-spurs, and his cheek pressed close Unto the moist, chill sod: his fingers clutched A handful of loose weeds and grass and earth, Uprooted in his anguish as he fell, And slowly from his heart the thick stream flowed, Fouling the green, leaving the fair, sweet face Ghastly, transparent, with blue, stony eyes Staring in blankness on that other one Who triumphed over him. With hot desire Of instant vengeance I unsheathed my sword To rush upon the slayer, when he turned In his first terror of blood-guiltiness.

. . . . . . .

Within my heart a something snapped and brake. What was it but the chord of rapturous joy For ever stilled? I tottered and would fall, Had I not leaned against the friendly pine; For all realities of life, unmoored From their firm anchorage, appeared to float Like hollow phantoms past my dizzy brain. The strange delusion wrought upon my soul That this had been enacted ages since. This very horror curdled at my heart, This net of trees spread round, these iron heavens, Were closing over me when I had stood, Unnumbered cycles back, and fronted HIM, My father; and he felt mine eyes as now, Yet saw me not; and then, as now, that form, The one thing real, lay stretched between us both. The fancy passed, and I stood sane and strong To grasp the truth. Then I remembered all— A few fierce words between them yester eve Concerning some poor plot of pasturage, Soon silenced into courteous, frigid calm: This was the end. I could not meet him now, To curse him, to accuse him, or to save, And draw him from the red entanglement Coiled by his own hands round his ruined life. God pardon me! My heart that moment held No drop of pity toward this wretched soul; And cowering down, as though his guilt were mine, I fled amidst the savage silences Of that grim wood, resolved to nurse alone My boundless desolation, shame, and grief.

There, in that thick-leaved twilight of high noon, The quiet of the still, suspended air, Once more my wandering thoughts were calmly ranged, Shepherded by my will. I wept, I prayed A solemn prayer, conceived in agony, Blessed with response instant, miraculous; For in that hour my spirit was at one With Him who knows and satisfies her needs. The supplication and the blessing sprang From the same source, inspired divinely both. I prayed for light, self-knowledge, guidance, truth, And these like heavenly manna were rained down To feed my hungered soul. His guilt was mine. What angel had been sent to stay mine arm Until the fateful moment passed away That would have ushered an eternity Of withering remorse? I found the germs In mine own heart of every human sin, That waited but occasion's tempting breath To overgrow with poisoned bloom my life. What God thus far had saved me from myself? Here was the lofty truth revealed, that each Must feel himself in all, must know where'er The great soul acts or suffers or enjoys, His proper soul in kinship there is bound. Then my life-purpose dawned upon my mind, Encouraging as morning. As I lay, Crushed by the weight of universal love, Which mine own thoughts had heaped upon myself, I heard the clear chime of a slow, sweet bell. I knew it—whence it came and what it sang. From the gray convent nigh the wood it pealed, And called the monks to prayer. Vigil and prayer, Clean lives, white days of strict austerity: Such were the offerings of these holy saints. How far might such not tend to expiate A riotous world's indulgence? Here my life, Doubly austere and doubly sanctified, Might even for that other one atone, So bound to mine, till both should be forgiven.

They sheltered me, not questioning the need That led me to their cloistered solitude. How rich, how freighted with pure influence, With dear security of perfect peace, Was the first day I passed within those walls! The holy habit of perpetual prayer, The gentle greetings, the rare temperate speech, The chastening discipline, the atmosphere Of settled and profound tranquillity, Were even as living waters unto one Who perisheth of thirst. Was this the world That yesterday seemed one huge battlefield For brutish passions? Could the soul of man Withdraw so easily, and erect apart Her own fair temple for her own high ends? But this serene contentment slowly waned As I discerned the broad disparity Betwixt the form and spirit of the laws That bound the order in strait brotherhood. Yet when I sought to gain a larger love, More rigid discipline, severer truth, And more complete surrender of the soul Unto her God, this was to my reproach, And scoffs and gibes beset me on all sides. In mine own cell I mortified my flesh, I held aloof from all my brethren's feasts To wrestle with my viewless enemies, Till they should leave their blessing on my head; For nightly was I haunted by that face, White, bloodless, as I saw it 'midst the ferns, Now staring out of darkness, and it held Mine eyes from slumber and my brain from rest And drove me from my straw to weep and pray. Rebellious thoughts such subtle torture wrought Upon my spirit that I lay day-long In dumb despair, until the blessed hope Of mercy dawned again upon my soul, As gradual as the slow gold moon that mounts The airy steps of heaven. My faith arose With sure perception that disaster, wrong, And every shadow of man's destiny Are merely circumstance, and cannot touch The soul's fine essence: they exist or die Only as she affirms them or denies.

This faith sustain me even to the end: It floods my heart with peace as surely now As on that day the friars drove me forth, Urging that my asceticism, too harsh, Endured through pride, would bring into reproach Their customs and their order. Then began My exile in the mountains, where I bode A hunted man. The elements conspired Against me, and I was the seasons' sport, Drenched, parched, and scorched and frozen alternately, Burned with shrewd frosts, prostrated by fierce heats, Shivering 'neath chilling dews and gusty rains, And buffeted by all the winds of heaven. Yet was this period my time of joy: My daily thoughts perpetual converse held With angels ministrant; mine ears were charmed With sweet accordance of celestial sounds, Song, harp and choir, clear ringing through the air. And visions were revealed unto mine eyes By night and day of Heaven's very courts, In shadowless, undimmed magnificence. I gave God thanks, not that He sheltered me, And fed me as He feeds the fowls of air— For had I perished, this too had been well— But for the revelation of His truth, The glory, the beatitude vouchsafed To exalt, to heal, to quicken, to inspire; So that the pinched, lean excommunicate Was crowned with joy more solid, more secure, Than all the comfort of the vales could bring. Then the good Lord touched certain fervid hearts, Aspiring toward His love, to come to me, Timid and few at first; but as they heard From mine own lips the precious oracles, That soothed the trouble of their souls, appeased Their spiritual hunger, and disclosed All of the God within them to themselves, They flocked about me, and they hailed me saint, And sware to follow and to serve the good Which my word published and my life declared. Thus the lone hermit of the mountain-top Descended leader of a band of saints, And midway 'twixt the summit and the vale I perched my convent. Yet I bated not One whit of strict restraint and abstinence. And they who love me and who serve the truth Have learned to suffer with me, and have won The supreme joy that is not of the flesh, Foretasting the delights of Paradise. This faith, to them imparted, will endure After my tongue hath ceased to utter it, And the great peace hath settled on my soul.



AFTERNOON.

Small, shapeless drifts of cloud Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky, With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright, By the late sun caressed; slight hazes shroud All things afar; shineth each leaf anigh With its own warmth and light.

O'erblown by Southland airs, The summer landscape basks in utter peace: In lazy streams the lazy clouds are seen; Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut squares Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze, With shifting shade and sheen.

Hark! and you may not hear A sound less soothing than the rustle cool Of swaying leaves, the steady wiry drone Of unseen crickets, sudden chirpings clear Of happy birds, the tinkle of the pool, Chafed by a single stone.

What vague, delicious dreams, Born of this golden hour of afternoon, And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss, Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams, Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them, spun Of gilded nothingness!

All things are well with her. 'T is good to be alive, to see the light That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes stir Among the garden roses, red and white, With whiffs of fragrancy.

There is no troublous thought, No painful memory, no grave regret, To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour: The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without, Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget The morning's transient shower.



PHANTASIES.

(After Robert Schumann).

I. Evening.

Rest, beauty, stillness: not a waif of a cloud From gray-blue east sheer to the yellow west— No film of mist the utmost slopes to shroud.

The earth lies grace, by quiet airs caressed, And shepherdeth her shadows, but each stream, Free to the sky, is by that glow possessed, And traileth with the splendors of a dream Athwart the dusky land. Uplift thine eyes! Unbroken by a vapor or a gleam,

The vast clear reach of mild, wan twilight skies. But look again, and lo, the evening star! Against the pale tints black the slim elms rise,

The earth exhales sweet odors nigh and far, And from the heavens fine influences fall. Familiar things stand not for what they are:

What they suggest, foreshadow, or recall The spirit is alert to apprehend, Imparting somewhat of herself to all.

Labor and thought and care are at an end: The soul is filled with gracious reveries, And with her mood soft sounds and colors blend;

For simplest sounds ring forth like melodies In this weird-lighted air—the monotone Of some far bell, the distant farmyard cries,

A barking dog, the thin, persistent drone Of crickets, and the lessening call of birds. The apparition of yon star alone

Breaks on the sense like music. Beyond word The peace that floods the soul, for night is here, And Beauty still is guide and harbinger.



II. Aspiration.

Dark lies the earth, and bright with worlds the sky: That soft, large, lustrous star, that first outshone, Still holds us spelled with potent sorcery.

Dilating, shrinking, lightening, it hath won Our spirit with its strange strong influence, And sways it as the tides beneath the moon.

What impulse this, o'ermastering heart and sense? Exalted, thrilled, the freed soul fain would soar Unto that point of shining prominence,

Craving new fields and some unheard-of shore, Yea, all the heavens, for her activity, To mount with daring flight, to hover o'er

Low hills of earth, flat meadows, level sea, And earthly joy and trouble. In this hour Of waning light and sound, of mystery,

Of shadowed love and beauty-veiled power, She feels her wings: she yearns to grasp her own, Knowing the utmost good to be her dower.

A dream! a dream! for at a touch 't is gone. O mocking spirit! thy mere fools are we, Unto the depths from heights celestial thrown.

From these blind gropings toward reality, This thirst for truth, this most pathetic need Of something to uplift, to justify,

To help and comfort while we faint and bleed, May we not draw, wrung from the last despair, Some argument of hope, some blessed creed,

That we can trust the faith which whispers prayer, The vanishings, the ecstasy, the gleam, The nameless aspiration, and the dream?



III. Wherefore?

Deep languor overcometh mind and frame: A listless, drowsy, utter weariness, A trance wherein no thought finds speech or name,

The overstrained spirit doth possess. She sinks with drooping wing—poor unfledged bird, That fain had flown!—in fluttering breathlessness.

To what end those high hopes that wildly stirred The beating heart with aspirations vain? Why proffer prayers unanswered and unheard

To blank, deaf heavens that will not heed her pain? Where lead these lofty, soaring tendencies, That leap and fly and poise, to fall again,

Yet seem to link her with the utmost skies? What mean these clinging loves that bind to earth, And claim her with beseeching, wistful eyes?

This little resting-place 'twixt death and birth, Why is it fretted with the ceaseless flow Of flood and ebb, with overgrowth and dearth,

And vext with dreams, and clouded with strange woe? Ah! she is tired of thought, she yearns for peace, Seeing all things one equal end must know.

Wherefore this tangle of perplexities, The trouble or the joy? the weary maze Of narrow fears and hopes that may not cease?

A chill falls on her from the skyey ways, Black with the night-tide, where is none to hear The ancient cry, the Wherefore of our days.



IV. Fancies.

The ceaseless whirr of crickets fills the ear From underneath each hedge and bush and tree, Deep in the dew-drenched grasses everywhere.

The simple sound dispels the fantasy Of gloom and terror gathering round the mind. It seems a pleasant thing to breathe, to be,

To hear the many-voiced, soft summer wind Lisp through the dark thick leafage overhead— To see the rosy half-moon soar behind

The black slim-branching elms. Sad thoughts have fled, Trouble and doubt, and now strange reveries And odd caprices fill us in their stead.

From yonder broken disk the redness dies, Like gold fruit through the leaves the half-sphere gleams, Then over the hoar tree-tops climbs the skies,

Blanched ever more and more, until it beams Whiter than crystal. Like a scroll unfurled, And shadowy as a landscape seen in dreams,

Reveals itself the sleeping, quiet world, Painted in tender grays and whites subdued— The speckled stream with flakes of light impearled,

The wide, soft meadow and the massive wood. Naught is too wild for our credulity In this weird hour: our finest dreams hold good.

Quaint elves and frolic flower-sprites we see, And fairies weaving rings of gossamer, And angels floating through the filmy air.



V. In the Night.

Let us go in: the air is dank and chill With dewy midnight, and the moon rides high O'er ghostly fields, pale stream, and spectral hill.

This hour the dawn seems farthest from the sky So weary long the space that lies between That sacred joy and this dark mystery

Of earth and heaven: no glimmering is seen, In the star-sprinkled east, of coming day, Nor, westward, of the splendor that hath been.

Strange fears beset us, nameless terrors sway The brooding soul, that hungers for her rest, Out worn with changing moods, vain hopes' delay,

With conscious thought o'erburdened and oppressed. The mystery and the shadow wax too deep; She longs to merge both sense and thought in sleep.



VI. Faerie.

From the oped lattice glance once more abroad While the ethereal moontide bathes with light Hill, stream, and garden, and white-winding road.

All gracious myths born of the shadowy night Recur, and hover in fantastic guise, Airy and vague, before the drowsy sight.

On yonder soft gray hill Endymion lies In rosy slumber, and the moonlit air Breathes kisses on his cheeks and lips and eyes.

'Twixt bush and bush gleam flower-white limbs, left bare, Of huntress-nymphs, and flying raiment thin, Vanishing faces, and bright floating hair.

The quaint midsummer fairies and their kin, Gnomes, elves, and trolls, on blossom, branch, and grass Gambol and dance, and winding out and in

Leave circles of spun dew where'er they pass. Through the blue ether the freed Ariel flies; Enchantment holds the air; a swarming mass

Of myriad dusky, gold-winged dreams arise, Throng toward the gates of sense, and so possess The soul, and lull it to forgetfulness.



VII. Confused Dreams.

O strange, dim other-world revealed to us, Beginning there where ends reality, Lying 'twixt life and death, and populous

With souls from either sphere! now enter we Thy twisted paths. Barred is the silver gate, But the wild-carven doors of ivory

Spring noiselessly apart: between them straight Flies forth a cloud of nameless shadowy things, With harpies, imps, and monsters, small and great,

Blurring the thick air with darkening wings. All humors of the blood and brain take shape, And fright us with our own imaginings.

A trouble weighs upon us: no escape From this unnatural region can there be. Fixed eyes stare on us, wide mouths grin and gape,

Familiar faces out of reach we see. Fain would we scream, to shatter with a cry The tangled woof of hideous fantasy,

When, lo! the air grows clear, a soft fair sky Shines over head: sharp pain dissolves in peace; Beneath the silver archway quietly

We float away: all troublous visions cease. By a strange sense of joy we are possessed, Body and spirit soothed in perfect rest.



VIII. The End of the Song.

What dainty note of long-drawn melody Athwart our dreamless sleep rings sweet and clear, Till all the fumes of slumber are brushed by,

And with awakened consciousness we hear The pipe of birds? Look forth! The sane, white day Blesses the hilltops, and the sun is near.

All misty phantoms slowly roll away With the night's vapors toward the western sky. The Real enchants us, the fresh breath of hay

Blows toward us; soft the meadow-grasses lie, Bearded with dew; the air is a caress; The sudden sun o'ertops the boundary

Of eastern hills, the morning joyousness Thrills tingling through the frame; life's pulse beats strong; Night's fancies melt like dew. So ends the song!



ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND TO LORD BYRON.

The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green Above the spent heart, the Olympian head, The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen, Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled; Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower, His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour; Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew On the low, laureled brow misunderstood, That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued By the last foe who crowned while he o'erthrew.

Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when first Men heard he had not wakened to its light: The end had come, and time had done its worst, For the black cloud had fallen of endless night. Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek, 'T was not the wonted festal words to speak, "Christ is arisen," but "Our chief is gone," With such wan aspect and grief-smitten head As when the awful cry of "Pan is dead!" Filled echoing hill and valley with its moan.

"I am more fit for death than the world deems," So spake he as life's light was growing dim, And turned to sleep as unto soothing dreams. What terrors could its darkness hold for him, Familiar with all anguish, but with fear Still unacquainted? On his martial bier They laid a sword, a helmet, and a crown— Meed of the warrior, but not these among His voiceless lyre, whose silent chords unstrung Shall wait—how long?—for touches like his own.

An alien country mourned him as her son, And hailed him hero: his sole, fitting tomb Were Theseus' temple or the Parthenon, Fondly she deemed. His brethren bare him home, Their exiled glory, past the guarded gate Where England's Abbey shelters England's great. Afar he rests whose very name hath shed New lustre on her with the song he sings. So Shakespeare rests who scorned to lie with kings, Sleeping at peace midst the unhonored dead.

And fifty years suffice to overgrow With gentle memories the foul weeds of hate That shamed his grave. The world begins to know Her loss, and view with other eyes his fate. Even as the cunning workman brings to pass The sculptor's thought from out the unwieldy mass Of shapeless marble, so Time lops away The stony crust of falsehood that concealed His just proportions, and, at last revealed, The statue issues to the light of day,

Most beautiful, most human. Let them fling The first stone who are tempted even as he, And have not swerved. When did that rare soul sing The victim's shame, the tyrant's eulogy, The great belittle, or exalt the small, Or grudge his gift, his blood, to disenthrall The slaves of tyranny or ignorance? Stung by fierce tongues himself, whose rightful fame Hath he reviled? Upon what noble name Did the winged arrows of the barbed wit glance?

The years' thick, clinging curtains backward pull, And show him as he is, crowned with bright beams, "Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful As he hath been or might be; Sorrow seems Half of his immortality."* He needs No monument whose name and song and deeds Are graven in all foreign hearts; but she His mother, England, slow and last to wake, Needs raise the votive shaft for her fame's sake: Hers is the shame if such forgotten be! May, 1875.

*"Cain," Act I. Scene 1.



ARABESQUE.

On a background of pale gold I would trace with quaint design, Penciled fine, Brilliant-colored, Moorish scenes, Mosques and crescents, pages, queens, Line on line, That the prose-world of to-day Might the gorgeous Past's array Once behold.

On the magic painted shield Rich Granada's Vega green Should be seen; Crystal fountains, coolness flinging, Hanging gardens' skyward springing Emerald sheen; Ruddy when the daylight falls, Crowned Alhambra's beetling walls Stand revealed;

Balconies that overbrow Field and city, vale and stream. In a dream Lulled the drowsy landscape basks; Mark the gleam Silvery of each white-swathed peak! Mountain-airs caress the cheek, Fresh from the snow.

Here in Lindaraxa's bower The immortal roses bloom; In the room Lion-guarded, marble-paven, Still the fountain leaps to heaven. But the doom Of the banned and stricken race Overshadows every place, Every hour.

Where fair Lindaraxa dwelt Flits the bat on velvet wings; Mute the strings Of the broken mandoline; The Pavilion of the Queen Widely flings Vacant windows to the night; Moonbeams kiss the floor with light Where she knelt.

Through these halls that people stepped Who through darkling centuries Held the keys Of all wisdom, truth, and art, In a Paradise apart, Lapped in ease, Sagely pondering deathless themes, While, befooled with monkish dreams, Europe slept.

Where shall they be found today? Yonder hill that frets the sky "The last Sigh Of the Moor" is named still. There the ill-starred Boabdil Bade good-by To Granada and to Spain, Where the Crescent ne'er again Holdeth sway.

Vanished like the wind that blows, Whither shall we seek their trace On earth's face? The gigantic wheel of fate, Crushing all things soon or late, Now a race, Now a single life o'erruns, Now a universe of suns, Now a rose.



AGAMEMNON'S TOMB.

Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death, And let the sun shine on him as it did How many thousand years agone! Beneath This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid, Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed, Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died; Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day, Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold, With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold, Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.

We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs, Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yet Their ancient majesty; these sightless rims Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met; The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tell Of earth's morning-tide when gods did dwell Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race, Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who won The secret soul of Beauty for their own, While all our art but crudely apes their grace.

We gather all the precious relics up, The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft, The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup, The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft. Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from these Unnumbered long-forgotten histories, The deeds heroic of this mighty man, On whom once more the living daylight beams, To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams, And the abyss of centuries to span.

Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose, How might we meet his searching questionings, Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes, Since his great day whom men call King of Kings, Victorious Agamemnon? How might we Those large, clear eyes confront, which scornfully Would view us as a poor, degenerate race, Base-souled and mean-proportioned? What reply Give to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry, Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?

What should he find within a world grown cold, Save doubt and trouble? To his sunny creed A thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed. How of the Prince of Peace might he be told, When over half the world the war-cloud lowers? How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours, Who knows the secret now of death and fate! Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame, And mutely we accept the mortal shame, Of men degraded from a high estate.



SIC SEMPER LIBERATORIBUS!

March 13, 1881.

As one who feels the breathless nightmare grip His heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares, Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip, Now on a tottering pinnacle that dare The front of heaven, while always unawares Weird monsters start above, around, beneath, Each glaring from some uglier mask of death,